The Prodigal Son--Mademoiselle Houdin--I go to Paris--My
Marriage--Comte--Studies of the Public--A skillful
Manager--Rose-colored Tickets--A Musky Style--The King of
Hearts--Ventriloquism--The Mystifiers Mystified--Father
Roujol--Jules de Rovère--Origin of the word _prestidigitateur_.
How my heart beat when I returned to my native town! I felt as if I had
been absent an age, and yet it was only six months. The tears stood in
my eyes as I embraced father and mother: I was stifled with emotion. I
have since made long journeys in foreign countries; I have always
returned to my family safely, but never, I can declare, have I been so
profoundly affected as on this occasion. Perhaps it is the same with
this impression as with so many others, habit at last renders it flat.
I found my father very quiet on my account, for I had employed a trick
to ease his mind. A watchmaker of my acquaintance had sent him my
letters, as if from Angers, and he had also forwarded me the replies.
Still, I must furnish some reason for my return, and I hesitated about
describing my stay with Torrini. At length, however, urged by that
desire, common to all travellers, of narrating their travelling
impressions, I gave an account of my adventures, even to their minutest
details.
My mother, frightened, and thinking I was still brain-struck, did not
await the end of my narrative to send for a physician, who reassured
her by stating, what my face indeed confirmed, that I was in a state of
perfect health.
It may be thought, perhaps, that I have dwelt too long on the events
that followed my poisoning; but I was compelled to do so, for the
experience I acquired from Torrini, his history, and our conversations,
had a considerable influence on my future life. Before that period my
inclination for conjuring was very vague: from that time it gained a
complete mastery over me.
Still, I was bound to wrestle against this feeling with all my energy,
for it was not presumable that my father, who had unwillingly yielded to
my passion for watchmaking, would be so weak as to let me try a novel
and most singular profession. I could, certainly, take advantage of my
being of age, and my own master; but, besides my unwillingness to grieve
my father, I reflected, too, that as my fortune was very small, I ought
not to risk it without his consent. These reasons induced me to defer,
if not renounce, my plans.
Besides, my success at Aubusson had not altered my decided opinion about
conjuring, that a man who wishes to be thought capable of performing
incomprehensible things should have attained an age which leaves it to
be supposed that his superiority is the result of lengthened study. The
public may permit a man of forty to deceive them, but they will not bear
it from a young man.
After a few days devoted to killing the fatted calf, I entered the shop
of a Blois watchmaker, who set me to work cleaning and brushing. As I
have already said, this mechanical and wearisome task reduces the
journeyman watchmaker to the level of an automaton. Each day was spent
in the same monotonous round, here a spring to repair, there a pin to
replace (for cylinder watches were rare at that period,) a chain to
refasten; lastly, after a cursory examination of the works, a turn of
the brush to make all bright again. I am far from wishing to run down
the trade of a repairing watchmaker, and I can always honor the skill
employed in repairing a watch by doing as little as possible.
Sometimes, it may be remarked, a watch comes back from the mender’s in
as bad a state as when it went. It is true, but with whom is the fault?
In my belief, with the public. In the country, more especially, it is
impossible to perform repairs conscientiously, for the public bargain
about their watch or clock as they would do in buying vegetables. The
consequence is, the watchmaker is forced to compound with his
conscience, and the customer loses his money.
One thing is certain: I did not like the trade, and I was growing
atrociously idle. But if I were cold and indolent as regarded watch
repairing, I felt a devouring need for activity in some other
department. To satisfy this, I gave myself up entirely to an amusement
which delighted me--I became an amateur actor.
No one, I fancy, can blame me for this; for, among those who read my
confessions, I am sure there is hardly one who has not performed in some
shape. From the boy who recites a speech at the school distribution of
prizes, up to the old gentleman who often accepts the part of “heavy
father” at one of those agreeable parties arranged on long winter
evenings, not one but enjoys the sweet satisfaction of being applauded.
I, too, had this weakness; and, urged on by my travelling recollections,
I wished to appear once more before the public, who had already treated
me so kindly.
Some young friends joined me in forming a light comedy company, and I
had the pleasure of performing all Perlet’s parts in the most
fashionable pieces of the day. Our performance was gratis: hence, I need
not say we had crowded audiences. Of course, too, we were all wonderful
actors--at least, people told us so--and our gratified self-love found
no cause for refusing their praise.
Unfortunately for our brilliant success, rivalry and wounded feelings,
as so frequently happens, produced discord among us, and at last only
the hair-dresser and candle-snuffer were left of our goodly company.
These two faithful followers, finding themselves thus abandoned, held a
council, and, after mature deliberation, decided that they would accept
each other’s resignation, as they could not perform alone. In order to
explain the heroic persistency of these two artistes, I may as well
state they were the only persons paid for their services.
My father regretted to see me leave work for pleasure, and, in order to
bring me back to healthy ideas, he formed a plan which must have the
double advantage of improving my conduct, and tying me down to his side:
in short, he meant to establish me in business, and make me marry.
I do not know--or, rather, I will not say--why I declined the latter
proposal, under the pretext that I felt no inclination for marriage. As
for my beginning business, I easily made my father understand that I was
too young even to dream of it. But I had hardly intimated my refusal,
when a very simple circumstance entirely changed my views, and made me
forget all my oaths of fidelity to a certain party.
The success my acting had met with procured me admission to certain
salons, where I often spent an agreeable evening; for acting went on
here, too, in the shape of charades.
One evening, we were requested, as usual, to enliven the visitors by one
of our proverbs. I do not remember the word proposed; I only know I was
chosen to fill the part of a bachelor gourmet. I sat down to table, and
while indulging in a meal like those usually served up at a theatre, I
improvised a warm defence of celibacy. This apology was all the more
easy to me, as I needed only to repeat the fine arguments I had employed
to my father about his double proposition. Now, it happened that, among
the persons listening to this description of the blessings of celibacy,
was a young lady of seventeen, who inclined a serious ear to my
arguments against marriage. It was the first time I had met her; so I
could not ascribe any other reason for her fixed attention than her
desire to detect the word.
A man is always delighted to find an attentive listener, more especially
when it is a pretty young girl: hence, I thought it my bounden duty to
make some polite remarks to her during the course of the evening. A
conversation ensued, and became so interesting, that we had a great deal
still to say to each other when the hour came for separation, and I
believe the regret at parting was not felt by myself alone.
This simple event was, however, the cause of my marriage with
Mademoiselle Houdin, and this marriage took me to Paris. The reader will
now understand why my name is Robert-Houdin; but I have also to add that
this double name, which I at first assumed to distinguish me from my
numerous homonymes, eventually became my patronymic, by a decision of
the council of state. I may be pardoned for remarking that this favor,
always so difficult to obtain, was granted me in consideration of the
popularity my long and laborious toil had gained me while using that
name.
My father in-law, M. Houdin, a celebrated watchmaker, was a native of
Blois, and had gone to Paris, as a better field for his talents. He was
now engaged in the wholesale clock trade, while making, with his own
hands, astronomical clocks, chronometers, and regulators. It was agreed
that we should live together, and that I should help him in his
business.
M. Houdin was quite as fond as myself of everything appertaining to
mechanism, and was thoroughly versed in the subject. Hence, we had long
and interesting conversations on the topic, and at the end of one of
these I confided to him my scheme of setting up a room for the display
of mechanical toys and sleight-of-hand tricks. M. Houdin understood me,
adopted my plans, and urged me to carry on my studies in the path I had
chosen. Proud of the approbation of a man with whose extreme prudence I
was acquainted, I gave myself up seriously, during my leisure hours, to
my favorite exercises, and began by contriving some instruments for my
future cabinet.
My first care, on arriving at Paris, was to attend a performance of
Comte’s, who had long lorded it in his theatre at the Gallery Choiseul.
This celebrated professor was now resting on his laurels, and only
performed once a week. The other evenings were devoted to the
performances of his young actors, who were perfect prodigies.
Many of my readers will remember his bills, with their singular
announcement of the principal parts performed by M. ARTHUR, aged 5;
MADEMOISELLE ADELINA, aged 4½; MADEMOISELLE VICTORINE, aged 7; little
VICTOR, aged 6. These baby actors attracted the whole of Paris.
Comte might have left the stage entirely, and contented himself with
being manager and dry-nurse to these children of Thalia, for he
possessed a very comfortable fortune; but he made it a point to appear
at least once a week, from a double motive: his performances, owing to
their rarity, always exercised a beneficial effect on the receipts; and,
on the other hand, by continuing to act he prevented other professors of
conjuring setting up in opposition to him.
Comte’s tricks were all drawn from the same repertory I knew by heart;
hence they had no great interest for me; still I derived some profit
from attending his performances, for I was enabled to study the
audience.
I listened attentively to all said around me, and often heard very
judicious remarks. These being generally made by persons not apparently
gifted with great penetration, led me to the conclusion that the
conjurer ought to distrust plain mother wit, and I worked out the
problem to my own satisfaction: “that it is easier to dupe a clever man
than an ignorant one.”
This seems to be a paradox; but I will explain it.
The ordinary man only sees in conjuring tricks a challenge offered to
his intelligence, and hence representations of sleight-of-hand become to
him a combat in which he determines on conquering. Ever on his guard
against the honeyed words by means of which the illusion is produced, he
hears nothing, and shuts himself up in this inflexible reasoning:
“The conjurer,” he says, “holds in his hand an object, which he pretends
he makes disappear. Well, whatever he may say to distract my attention,
my eyes shall not leave his hand, and the trick cannot be done without
my finding out how he manages it.”
It follows that the conjurer, whose artifices are principally directed
to the mind, must double his address to delude this obstinate
resistance.
The clever man, on the contrary, when he visits a conjuring performance,
only goes to enjoy the illusions, and, far from offering the performer
the slightest obstacle, he is the first to aid him. The more he is
deceived the more he is pleased, for that is what he paid for. He knows,
too, that these amusing deceptions cannot injure his reputation as an
intelligent man, and hence he yields to the professor’s arguments,
follows them through all their developments, and allows himself to be
easily put off the right scent.
Is not my problem proved?
Comte was also an object of interesting study to me, both as manager and
as artist. As manager, Comte could have challenged the most skillful to
a comparison, and he was a famous hand at bringing grist to his mill.
The little schemes a manager employs to attract the public and increase
his receipts are tolerably well known; but Comte, for a long time, did
not require to have recourse to them, as his room was always crowded. At
length the day arrived when the benches allowed some elbow room; then he
invented his “family tickets,” his “medals,” his “reserved boxes for the
prize-holders at schools and colleges,” &c., &c.
The family tickets gave admission to four persons at half price. Though
all Paris was inundated with them, every one into whose hands one of
these tickets came believed himself specially favored by Comte, and none
failed to respond to his appeal. What the manager lost in quality he
amply regained in quantity.
But Comte did not stop here; he also wished that his _rose-colored
tickets_ (the name he gave his family tickets) should bring him a small
pecuniary profit, as compensation for reduced prices. He therefore
offered each person who presented one of these tickets a copper medal,
on which his name was engraved, and asked in exchange the sum of one
penny. Suppose the ticket-holder declined, he was not admitted, and when
matters came to that pass, people always paid.
It may be said that a penny was a trifle; but with this trifle Comte
paid for his lights; at least he said so, and he may be believed.
During the holidays the pink tickets disappeared, and made room for
those reserved for the school prize boys, which were far more productive
than the others, for what parents could deny their sons the acceptance
of M. Comte’s invitation, when they could promise themselves the extreme
pleasure of seeing their beloved boys in a box exclusively occupied by
_crowned heads_? The parents, consequently, accompanied their children,
and for a gratis ticket the manager netted six or seven fold the value
of his graceful liberality.
I could mention many other ways Comte augmented his receipts by, but I
will only allude to one more.
If you arrived a little late, and the length of the _queue_ made you
fear the places would be all taken, you had only to enter a small café
adjoining the theatre, and opening into the Rue Ventadour. You paid a
trifle more for your cup of coffee or your glass of liqueur, but you
were quite sure that before the public were admitted the waiter would
open a secret door, allowing you to reach the paying-place in comfort
and choose your seat. In fact, Comte’s café was a true box-office,
except that the spectator received something in return for the sum
usually charged for reserving seats.
As artist, Comte possessed the double talent of ventriloquism and
sleight-of-hand. His tricks were performed skillfully and with a good
share of dash, while his performances generally pleased, for the ladies
were treated most gallantly. My readers may judge for themselves from
the following trick, which I believe was his own invention, and which
always pleased me when I saw it.
This experiment was called “The Birth of the Flowers,” and it began with
a short address in the shape of agreeable pleasantry.
“Ladies,” the professor said, “I propose on the present occasion to make
twelve of you disappear from the pit, twenty from the first circle, and
seventy-two from the second.”
After the burst of laughter this pleasantry always produced, Comte
added: “Reassure yourselves, gentlemen; in order not to deprive you of
the most graceful ornament of this room, I will not perform this
experiment till the end of the evening.” This compliment, spoken very
modestly, was always excellently received.
Comte proceeded to perform the trick in this way:
After sowing seeds in some earth contained in a small cup, he spread
over this earth some burning liquid and covered it with a bell, which,
as he said, was intended to concentrate the heat and stimulate
vegetation. In fact, a few seconds later, a boquet of varied flowers
appeared in the cup. Comte distributed them among the ladies who graced
the boxes, and during this distribution contrived to “plant” the
following graceful remarks: “Madam, I keep a pansy (_pensée_) for
you.--It will be my care, gentlemen, that you find no cares (_soucis_)
here.--Mademoiselle, here is a rose which you have forced to blush with
jealousy.”
Before long the little bouquet was exhausted, but suddenly the
conjurer’s hands were liberally filled with flowers. Then with an air
of triumph, he exclaimed, displaying the flowers which had come as if by
enchantment:
“I promised to metamorphose all these ladies: could I choose a form more
graceful and pleasing? In metamorphosing you all into roses, I am only
offering a copy for the original. Tell me, gentlemen, have I not
succeeded?”
These gallant words were always greeted by a salvo of applause.
On another occasion, Comte, while offering a rose and a pansy to a lady,
said: “I find you here, madam, exactly depicted. The rose represents
your freshness and beauty; the pansy your wit and talent.”
He also said, in allusion to the ace of hearts, which he had “passed” on
one of the most beautiful women in the room: “Will you be kind enough,
madam, to lay your hand on your heart? You have only one heart I
presume? Pardon my indiscreet question, but it was necessary; for,
though you have only one heart, you might possess them all.”
Comte was equally gallant towards sovereigns.
At the end of a performance he gave at the Tuilleries, before Louis
XVIII., he invited his majesty to select a card from the pack. It may be
that chance led the king to draw his majesty of hearts; it may be,
though, that the conjurer’s address produced this result. During this
time, a servant placed on an isolated table a vase filled with flowers.
Comte next took a pistol loaded with powder, in which he inserted the
king of hearts as a wad; then, turning to his august spectator, he
begged him to fix his eye on the vase, as the card would appear just
over it. The pistol was fired, and the bust of Louis XVIII. appeared
among the flowers.
The King, not knowing how to explain this unexpected result, asked
Comte the meaning of this strange apparition, adding, in a slightly
sarcastic tone,
“I fancy, sir, that your trick has not ended as you stated.”
“I beg your majesty’s pardon,” Comte replied, assuming the manner of a
courtier; “I have quite kept my promise. I pledged myself that the king
of hearts should appear on that vase, and I appeal to all Frenchmen
whether that bust does not represent the King of all hearts?”
It may be easily supposed that this trick was heartily applauded by the
audience. In fact, the _Royal Journal_ of the 20th December, 1814, thus
describes the end of the performance:
“The whole audience exclaimed, in reply M. Comte, ‘We recognise him--it
is he--the king of all hearts! the beloved of the French--of the whole
universe--Louis XVIII., the august grandson of Henri Quatre!’
“The King, much affected by these warm acclamations, complimented M.
Comte on his skill.
“‘It would be a pity,’ he said to him, ‘to order such a talented
sorcerer to be burnt alive. You have caused us too much pleasure for us
to cause you pain. Live many years for yourself, in the first place, and
then for us.’”
But though Comte was so amiable to the ladies, he was pitiless to
gentlemen. It would be a long story were I to describe all the spiteful
allusions and mystifications to which his masculine spectators were
exposed. For instance, there was his ace of heart’s trick, which he
ended by producing aces from every part of his victim’s body, who knew
not what saint to implore in order to stop this avalanche of cards.
Then, again, there was the ball-headed gentleman who had politely lent
his hat, and received a volley of compliments of the following nature:
“This article must belong to you,” said Comte, drawing a wig from the
hat. “Aha, sir! it appears you are a family man. Here are socks--then a
bib--a chemise--a charming little frock,” and as the public laughed
heartily, “on my faith, a goody-two-shoes!” he added producing a pair of
shoes. “Nothing is wanting for the dress--not even the stays and their
laces. I suppose, sir, you thought you could stay my tongue when you
placed that article in your hat.”
Ventriloquism added a great charm to Comte’s performances, as it gave
rise to numerous little scenes that produced a striking effect. This
faculty too often suggested to him curious mystifications, the best of
them (if such a thing can ever be good) being reserved for his travels,
when they served as a puff of his performances, and helped to attract
crowds.
At Tours, for instance, he induced the people to break in four doors, in
order to rescue an unhappy man supposed to be dying of hunger. At Nevers
he renewed the miracle of Balaam’s ass, by causing a donkey that was
weary of its master’s weight, to lift up its voice in complaint. One
night, too, he caused a profound consternation in a diligence, for a
dozen brigands were heard at the doors shouting, “Money, or your life!”
The terrified passengers hastened to hand their purses and watches to
Comte, who offered to treat with the robbers, and they retired
apparently satisfied with their spoil. The passengers were glad to have
escaped so cheaply, and the next morning, to their still greater
satisfaction, the ventriloquist returned them the tribute they had paid
to their fears, and explained to them the talent by which they had been
duped.
Another time, at Mâcon fair, he saw a country-woman driving a pig
before her, which could hardly move, so laden was it with fat.
“What’s the price of your pig, my good woman?”
“A hundred francs, my good looking gentleman, at your service, if you
wish to buy.”
“Of course I wish to buy; but it is a great deal too much: I can offer
you ten crowns.”
“I want one hundred francs, no more and no less: take it or leave it.”
“Stay,” Comte said, approaching the animal; “I am sure your pig is more
reasonable than you. Tell me on your conscience, my fine fellow, are you
worth one hundred francs?”
“You are a long way out,” the pig replied, in a hoarse and hollow voice;
“I’m not worth one hundred pence. I am meazled, and my mistress is
trying to take you in.”
The crowd that had assembled round the woman and pig fell back in
terror, fancying them both bewitched, while Comte returned to his hotel,
where the story was told him with sundry additions, and he learned that
some courageous persons had gone up to the woman, begged her to be
exorcised, and thus drive the unclean spirit out of the pig.
Still, Comte did not always escape so easily; and he almost paid dearly
for a trick he played on some peasants at Fribourg, in Switzerland.
These fanatics took him for a real sorcerer, and attacked with sticks;
and they were even going to throw him into a lime-kiln, had not Comte
escaped by causing a terrible voice to issue from the kiln, which routed
them.
I will end my account of these amusing adventures with a little
anecdote, in which Comte and myself were in turn mystifier and
mystified.
The celebrated ventriloquist paid me a visit at the Palais Royal, and I
accompanied him to the foot of the stairs on his departure. Comte walked
down before me, still talking, so that the pockets of his coat were at
my mercy. The opportunity was too good to neglect the chance of playing
a trick on my talented _confrère_, so I filched his handkerchief and a
handsome gold snuff-box: and I took care to turn the pocket inside out,
as a proof that my performance had been properly executed.
I was laughing at the comic result my trick must have when I returned
Comte his property; but it was “diamond cut diamond:” for, while I was
thus violating the laws of hospitality, Comte was scheming against me. I
had scarce concealed the handkerchief and box, when I heard a strange
voice on the first floor landing.
“Monsieur Robert-Houdin, will you be kind enough to step up to the
box-office: I wish to speak to you.”
My readers will guess that the ventriloquist had played me a trick;
indeed, on reaching the office, I only found the clerk, who could not
understand what I was talking about. I perceived, too late that I was
victimised, and I heard Comte celebrating his victory by shouts of
laughter. For a moment, I confess I felt vexed at having been taken in,
but I soon regained my equanimity on thinking I might have the best of
it yet. So I went down stairs very calmly.
“What did that person want?” Comte asked, with ill-repressed delight.
“Can’t you guess?”
“I?--no.”
“It was a penitent thief, who begged me to return you the articles he
had filched from you. Here they are, my master!”
“I prefer it to end so!” Comte said, returning his pocket to its place.
“We are now quits, and I hope we shall always be good friends.”
From all the preceding remarks it may be concluded that the fundamental
principles of Comte’s performances were mystifying gentlemen (sovereigns
excepted), complimenting ladies, and jesting with everybody. Comte was
right in employing these means, as he generally gained his object; for
he delighted and raised a laugh. At this period French manners justified
such behavior, and the professor, by flattering the taste and instincts
of the public, was sure to please.
There has been a great change since, and puns are no longer held in such
esteem; banished from good society, they have sought refuge in studios,
when the pupils too often make an immoderate use of them, and though
they may be permitted now and then among intimate friends, they are not
proper in a performance of sleight-of-hand. The reason is very simple:
not only do puns raise a belief that the artist fancies himself a wit,
which may be injurious to him, but, if he succeed in raising a laugh, it
weakens the interest felt in his experiments.
It is a recognised fact that, in those performances where imagination
plays the chief part, “astonishment is a hundred-fold better than a
silly laugh;” for, though the mind may remember what has delighted it,
laughter leaves no trace on the memory.
Symbolical or complimentary language is also completely out of fashion,
at least the age does not err in excess of gallantry, and “musky”
compliments would be badly received in public. I have always thought,
too, that ladies visit a performance like mine in order to refresh their
minds, and not to be put in evidence themselves. They possibly prefer to
remain simple lookers-on rather than expose themselves to florid
compliments.
As for mystification, a more powerful pen than mine must undertake its
apology.
In saying this, I have no wish to cast censure on Comte. I am writing at
this moment in accordance with the spirit of my age; Comte acted in
accordance with his; we both succeeded, though differing in our
treatment, and this only proves that “all styles are good except that
which is wearisome.”
These performances of Comte’s, however, inflamed my imagination; I only
dreamed of theatres, conjuring, mechanism, automata, &c.; I was
impatient to take my place among the adepts of magic, and make myself a
name in the marvellous art. The time I required in forming a
determination seemed to me so much stolen from my future success. My
success! I did not know what trials I should undergo ere I merited it. I
had no suspicion of the toil, the care, and trouble which I should have
to pay for it.
Still, I resolved on continuing my studies of automata and instruments
suited to produce magical illusions. Though I had seen many of them
while with Torrini, I had many more to learn, for the stock of conjuring
tricks in those days was enormous. Fortunately I found an opportunity of
materially abridging my studies.
I had noticed, while passing along the Rue Richelieu, a modest little
shop, in front of which conjuring apparatus was exposed for sale. This
was a piece of good luck, so I bought some of the things, and while
paying repeated visits to the master of the shop, under pretext of
asking information, I got into his good graces, and he grew to look on
me as a friend.
Father Roujol (such was his name) was perfectly acquainted with his
trade, and he held the confidence of every conjurer of note; hence, he
could give me much valuable information, so I became more polite than
ever, and the worthy man soon initiated me into all his mysteries. But
my repeated visits to the shop had another object as well, for I wished
to meet some of the masters of the art who could increase my knowledge.
Unfortunately, my old friend’s shop was not so visited as before. The
revolution of 1830 had turned persons’ ideas to more serious matters
than “physical amusements,” and the greater number of conjurers had
wandered into strange countries. Old Roujol’s good times had, therefore,
passed away, which rendered him very gloomy.
“Things are not as they used to be,” he would say, “and it might really
be fancied the jugglers had juggled themselves away, for I don’t see a
single one. Will the time ever return,” he added, “when the Duc de
M---- did not disdain to visit my humble shop, and remain here for hours
talking to me and my numerous visitors. Ah, that was a time! when all
the first conjurers and amateurs formed a brilliant club here; for each
of these masters, desirous of proving his superiority over the others,
showed his best tricks and his utmost skill.”
I felt the old gentleman’s regret equally with himself, for I should
have revelled in such society, as I would have walked any time twenty
leagues for the sake of talking with a professor. Still, I had the luck
to form here the acquaintance of Jules de Rovère, the first to employ a
title now generally given to fashionable conjurers. Being of noble
birth, he desired a title in accordance with it; but, as he had rejected
with disdain the vulgar name of _escamoteur_, and as, too, that of
_physicien_ was frequently used by his rivals, he was compelled to
create a title for himself.
One day the pompous title of “PRESTIDIGITATEUR” was visible on an
enormous poster, which also condescended to supply the derivation of
this breath-stopping word, _presto digiti_ (activity of the fingers).
Then came the details of the performance, intermingled with Latin
quotations, which must attract the attention of the public by evidencing
the learning of the conjurer--I beg pardon, prestidigitator.
This word, as well as _prestidigitation_, due to the same author, were
soon seized upon by Jules de Rovère’s rivals, who liked a good mouthful
too. The Academy itself followed this example by sanctioning the
formation of the word, and thus handing it down to posterity. I am bound
to add, though, that this word, originally so pompous, is no longer a
distinction, for, as the most humble jugglers were at liberty to
appreciate it, it follows that conjuring and prestidigitation have
become synonymous. The conjurer who requires a title should seek it in
his own merit, and recognise the sound truth that “it is better for a
man to honor his profession than to be honored by it.” For my own part,
I never made any distinction between the two names, and I shall employ
them indiscriminately, until some new Jules de Rovère arrive to enrich
the Dictionary of the French Academy.