Authors: Janet Gleeson
The ingenious inventor who had been deprived of his liberty and forced to devote virtually his entire working career to a
discovery that was poised to bring Augustus gold and prestige beyond his wildest expectations was found, in the final reckoning,
to be penniless.
We do not know how Augustus responded when he heard the news of Böttger's death, but to judge from letters and reports it
seems certain that over the years of frustration and achievement he had developed a genuine if sporadic affection for his
brilliant arcanist.
As the king came slowly to terms with Böttger's loss and brooded over the problem of who would carry the factory forward into
the future, he was also troubled by the worrying news from Meissen. Key staff were being lured to Vienna, where the events
that would solve his most pressing problem—finding a successor to Böttger—were already unfolding in the Austrian capital.
Like Dresden, Vienna was a city rapidly expanding in response to its Hapsburg ruler's military and political successes. Since
Austria had emerged triumphant from the Turkish Wars the city had been transformed from a dingy, unremarkable metropolis into
one boasting ravishing Baroque palaces, glorious music, sophisticated theater and opera—and a society with an increasing appetite
for luxury of every type. Thomas Nugent, an eighteenth-century British traveler, wrote glowingly of its charms: “There is
no place in the world where people live more luxuriously than at Vienna. Their chief diversion is feasting and carousing,
on which occasions they are extremely well served with wine and eatables. People of fortune will have eighteen or twenty sorts
of wines at their tables, and a note is laid on every plate mentioning every sort of wine that may be called for. Especially
on court days one sees the greatest profusion and extravagance in this kind of pageantry, the servants being ready to sink
under the weight of their liveries, bedawbed all over with gold and silver.”
This was the city in which Claudius Innocentius du Paquier, a court official of Dutch origin, decided to try his luck at porcelain-making.
Du Paquier's French name, volatile Latin temperament and entrepreneurial and creative inclinations may reflect Huguenot origins,
but though little is known of his family's background he was certainly a man of intellect, unbridled enthusiasm, steely determination
and a keen eye for opportunity.
In common with Augustus the Strong and most other central European rulers, Emperor Charles VI of Austria espoused a mercantile
policy modeled on that of France. New commercial ventures were offered advantageous terms for setting up in the Austrian capital,
and doubtless part of the reason for du Paquier's interest in porcelain was his hope that such an enterprise would attract
royal patronage. In such refined, moneyed surroundings there was clearly, he must have reasoned, a ready market for new luxury
products. As a court official he was
au fait
with all the significant commercial developments of central Europe, and having remarked the announcement of Meissen's discovery
of porcelain a decade earlier he decided that here was a golden opportunity. Porcelain was the white gold for which all of
Europe cried out, which only Meissen had, as yet, discovered. If he could found a porcelain factory in Vienna, there was no
reason why it could not quickly outstrip the faltering progress of Meissen. Such a feat would not only make all concerned
incredibly rich, it would also reinforce Austrian superiority in Europe. But it all depended on discovering the arcanum.
Du Paquier began his attempts at porcelain-making by following the observations of Père François Xavier d'Entrecolles, a Jesuit
missionary who had visited central China in 1698. D'Entrecolles had written two letters explaining the processes involved
in making Oriental porcelain as he understood them. The first of these accounts, published in Paris in 1717, was by far the
most detailed and accurate description of Oriental porcelain manufacture to be available in the West at the time.
Du Paquier hoped that locally available clay had the same white-burning properties as the clay d'Entrecolles had described
being used to make porcelain in China. But even after careful scrutiny of d'Entrecolles's descriptions and numerous painstaking
trials, all his early attempts to make porcelain were dismally unsuccessful.
It became obvious to du Paquier that he would need experienced technical help of the sort which only Meissen could provide.
As a first step he probably made a reconnaissance trip to Meissen to see what information he could glean. Perhaps daunted
by Augustus's impressive security arrangements, and not short of contacts in high places, he then approached Count von Virmont,
Austria's ambassador at the court of Dresden, to ask him to help find someone who might be willing to assist in his new venture.
Von Virmont's attentions focused on Konrad Hunger, a skilled gold-worker who had trained as an apprentice goldsmith and arrived
in Dresden from Paris in 1717.
Aside from his lack of technical expertise, money, or rather the lack of it, was du Paquier's chief problem. Unlike the Meissen
factory, where, however begrudgingly, cash was sporadically provided from the royal exchequer to pay wages and installation
costs, du Paquier received nothing at all from Charles VI apart from a vague promise that he would patronize the factory generously—as
soon as it could provide something for him to buy. As if to underline his determination not to get financially involved, in
May 1718 the Austrian emperor signed a special privilege granting du Paquier a twenty-five-year monopoly on the production
of porcelain in Austria and her territories, but also stipulating that the enterprise should not expect to obtain money from
the emperor's purse or from the treasury coffers.
Forced therefore to look elsewhere for the wherewithal to start his business, du Paquier found Martin Becker, a Viennese merchant
who seems to have been thoroughly beguiled by du Paquier's infectious enthusiasm for porcelain-making. Becker agreed to give
du Paquier a generous advance to cover the cost of the initial experiments and early production. In return he would be given
a share of the business. The other partners were Peter Heinrich Zerder, a government minister, who probably helped secure
the monopoly, and Hunger, the so-called arcanist.
Thus, with none of the pomp and ceremony that had marked the inauguration of Meissen, the Vienna factory was founded before
it had been able to produce a single piece of porcelain.
The factory in its early days was set up in a modest house in a suburb known as Rossau, in what is now the Liechtensteinstrasse.
There was just one faulty kiln and a workforce of ten. As soon as Hunger joined du Paquier, experiments continued using clay
from Passau, near the Austrian frontier with Bavaria. Hunger, with little true knowledge of compounding, seems to have gone
along with du Paquier's belief that the local clay had similar white-burning properties to that successfully used at Meissen.
But, perhaps because of the inadequate firing temperature of the kiln, the Passau clay proved unworkable and Hunger's repeated
attempts to glaze and fire porcelain constantly failed.
Eventually realizing that he could not indefinitely pass off his inability to fulfill the promises he had made to du Paquier,
Hunger began to complain that the clay was at fault and not suited for use with the underglaze blue he claimed to have developed.
After more than a year of costly experiments and endlessly disappointing results, and with no visible progress whatsoever
being made, du Paquier was forced to acknowledge that his investment in Hunger had been, to say the least, ill advised. So
far the Meissen “arcanist” had produced nothing but a pile of useless shards.
In the meantime costs were mounting and no money was being made. Unless true technical expertise could be found du Paquier's
factory would be doomed to failure before it had even begun.
Meissen's skilled workforce once again became the target for du Paquier's attentions. The key person, du Paquier knew, was
obviously Böttger, the inventor of porcelain, but by that time Böttger was already in the throes of serious illness and in
any case his longstanding allegiance to the king would clearly make a move to Vienna out of the question. Du Paquier next
began to consider Böttger's family. Steinbrück, the factory inspector and Böttger's brother-in-law, had a reputation as a
staunchly incorruptible man, but Böttger's disreputable stepbrother, Tiemann, was far less fastidious. Tiemann had come to
Dresden with his mother and sister after his father's death, and had a post as a lieutenant in the guards. He was always getting
into trouble for his violent behavior and caused Böttger endless worry.
Tiemann harbored a bitter resentment of his successful stepbrother, who enjoyed such favor with the king. There is no evidence
to suggest he had worked with Böttger, but his family connection had given him the chance to acquire some rudimentary knowledge
of the firing processes and he had met people in Böttger's immediate circle of friends—including the unscrupulous Mehlhorn.
When du Paquier got in touch with him he did not hesitate. In an unbelievably callous act of betrayal of his by now desperately
ill stepbrother, Tiemann, with Mehlhorn's help, made plans and a papier-mâché model of a Meissen kiln and sent them to Vienna.
Modifications in the kiln designs were duly made, but even with this help du Paquier's factory was still unable to fire porcelain
successfully.
As the months passed and the costs continued to mount, the full realization of the complexities of porcelain manufacture began
finally to strike home. Unless du Paquier could find a genuine expert to help him he would never stand a chance of success.
This time, with no room for mistakes, he turned his back on the coterie of peripheral “arcanists” who pretended to have overheard
the secret from Böttger while he was in his cups. He was only interested in finding a top Meissen employee, one who really
knew what he was talking about.
Samuel Stölzel must have seemed an obvious choice. He was one of Meissen's most experienced workers, in charge of mixing the
porcelain paste and firing the kilns, and had been with Böttger from the early days in the Albrechtsburg, a total of more
than ten years. Now he was drained by the constant fights with his rival, Köhler, the poor wages he received—his salary was
a paltry 150 thalers a year—and the restrictions on his freedom.
As if all this were not enough he had become embroiled in an embarrassing romantic entanglement. Steinbrück had found out
that Stölzel had enjoyed a passionate liaison with a girl in the mining center of Freiberg. The girl involved had unfortunately
become pregnant and her family was demanding reparation. The repercussions of the ill-fated affair meant that Stölzel was
unable to marry a girl to whom he was betrothed in Meissen.
Just as this unhappy situation was becoming increasingly awkward, Stölzel received a letter from a desperate du Paquier making
him a tempting offer. If he would come to Vienna and successfully produce porcelain with Hunger, du Paquier would pay him
a salary of 1,000 thalers and provide free living accommodations and equipment. Harassed on every front, it is easy to see
why Stölzel grasped this tempting solution to his problems.
This final and most fatal desertion came just as Böttger slid into his last painful illness.
Early in 1719, as the winter's chill descended and Böttger tossed and raved on his sickbed, du Paquier arrived in Meissen
and sent word via a messenger to Stölzel at the Albrechtsburg. Somehow Stölzel was able to evade the guards at the castle
entrance and rendezvous with du Paquier at his lodgings. Amid great secrecy the deal that was to seal the fate of the Meissen
monopoly was finally agreed to.
Days later, accompanied by a musician lady friend named La France, and a billiard player named Lepin whose precise relationship
with him remains tantalizingly unclear, Stölzel escaped from the Albrechtsburg and traveled post haste to Vienna before anyone
at Meissen realized what was happening.
Böttger had lost one of his key workers, but by then he was far too ill to care.
Arriving in Vienna, Stölzel, highly experienced as he was in both mixing and firing porcelain, quickly realized that many
of Vienna's problems were due to the clay being used. He may have brought with him a sample of the paste used at Meissen,
but at all events, after trying local clays without success, he quickly suggested that the factory should try its luck with
Schnorr's clay from Aue that Meissen used so successfully. Du Paquier concurred—by this stage anything was worth a try.
The difficulty, as Stölzel well knew, was that Schnorr had been forced to promise Augustus that he would sell his clay only
to Meissen. Undaunted, Stölzel enlisted the aid of the treacherous Meerheim in Dresden, who had close contacts with Schnorr,
and asked him to arrange for the supply of a consignment of clay to Vienna in return for payment in cash. Schnorr was annoyed
with the Meissen factory's administrators, who often kept him waiting months for payment, and had few qualms about breaking
his agreement with Saxony. The promise of cash was too tempting to resist and he was easily persuaded to agree.
Officials on the Saxon border were supposed to be on the lookout for wagons laden with clay and other precious raw commodities.
But they were slipshod in their search of a straggling procession of carts crossing the border in the spring of 1719. One
or two drivers were stopped and turned back, but a considerable consignment got through and arrived in Vienna a few days later.
Stölzel now had everything he needed to make porcelain to rival that of Meissen, including replica kilns and the same raw
materials. Within a matter of weeks of the clay's arrival, Stölzel proudly handed over to du Paquier the prize he had feared
would never be his: visible proof that, unlike Hunger and all the other charlatans, he knew what he was doing.
The cherished object was a tall, two-handled chocolate cup and saucer. Decorated with incised decorations, engraved with the
words “To God alone and to none other be the honour” and dated indistinctly May 3, 1719, this landmark object is probably
the first successful piece of porcelain Stölzel made, and therefore the first piece of true European porcelain made outside
Meissen. The cup now resides in glittering resplendence in Hamburg's Art and Industry Museum.