The Arcanum (2 page)

The elusive philosopher's stone had been the holy grail of alchemists since the birth of the art in the ancient civilizations
of Mesopotamia, India, China and Egypt. It had subsequently flourished in ancient Greece and in the Arabic-speaking world;
Arabic texts were in turn translated into Latin, and by the Middle Ages belief in alchemy had pervaded the whole of Europe.

By the late seventeenth century, despite the dawning age of enlightenment and the huge advances being made in scientific discovery,
the theory of the philosopher's stone remained by and large undimmed. Far from being seen as a remnant of medieval superstition,
it was still viewed seriously even by the fathers of modern scientific theory: Robert Boyle, the first chemist to collect
gases and formulate a law governing their pressure and mass, and Sir Isaac Newton, the founder of modern physics, were both
fascinated by alchemy.

The theory was rooted in the way early thinkers believed that the world functioned. According to Aristotle, on whose theories
much European alchemy was based, all earthly matter was composed of four elements—air, water, fire and earth. Arabic alchemists,
whose word
alkimia
christened the art, thought that metals were composed of various combinations of sulfur and mercury. The yellower the metal
the more sulfur it must contain; hence, they reasoned, gold must be laden with sulfur, while silver would contain mainly mercury.

Mysticism and religion were also intertwined with this vision of the physical world. Astrology provided the link between the
universe and man's existence and it was logical that it too should hold sway over alchemical study; all metals were thus linked
to a heavenly body: gold was associated with the sun, silver with the moon, copper with Venus and so on. It was also believed
that everything in the universe was alive, and depended on God, or the power of planetary influence, in order to function.
Rocks and metals, like plants and animals, were believed to grow spontaneously. While an animal grew in the womb of its mother
or a plant blossomed from the soil, minerals were born from seeds of metal deep within the earth and grew with the assistance
of natural forces into large nuggets and seams.

Of all the minerals that the earth was able to produce spontaneously, gold to these early experimenters was the most sought
after. The philosopher's stone,
lapis philosophorum
or red tincture, was, they believed, a substance contained in the earth through which metal traveled in order to transmute
into gold. Thus, by finding or fabricating this compound, harnessing nature with the help of planetary or divine assistance,
and speeding up the usual growth process in their laboratory, any metal might be transmuted into gold.

This goal was a secret to which the baffling writings of ancient philosophers were believed to hold the key. Hence it was
not only with mixing potions but also with attempting to decipher and understand ancient teachings that most alchemists occupied
themselves. They in turn mirrored the cryptic texts they interpreted by recording their own experimental processes in terms
that were shrouded in mystery. Their spidery scripts and mysterious diagrams spoke of ruby lions, of black ravens, of lily
virgins and golden mantles. Their ingredients, mixtures of horse dung, children's urine, saltpeter, sulfur, mercury, arsenic
and lead, were given deliberately obscure symbolic names and their findings recorded in equally esoteric language.

Concealment and camouflage were paramount to ensure that any successful experiment remain safe from avaricious outsiders who
failed to fully understand the significance of their quest. For it was not the wealth gold represented that motivated the
true alchemists but its unique perfection and resistance to decay—for therein lay the key to immortality itself.

Unfortunately, as Johann Böttger had already found to his cost, his intrinsically noble ambition was more often than not lost
on those wealthy enough to sponsor such gold-making experiments. All Augustus and his royal counterparts elsewhere in Europe
were really interested in was their own pecuniary gain. But in this quest they encouraged alchemists in scientific research
that extended the understanding of the world around them, in order to improve technology, boost trade and add to their wealth
and prestige. So alchemists developed laboratory equipment, experimental techniques and manufacturing processes such as glassmaking
and the fabrication of imitation gems, and thus laid the foundation for the development of modern industrial chemistry.

Augustus was only too aware that sponsoring the search for the arcanum was not without its attendant dangers. Credulous monarchs
were easy game for the numerous charlatans and tricksters who toured the courts of Europe trying to dupe them into parting
with real gold by means of little more than a promise that they would repay such investments thousandfold. The cost to those
found guilty of such sharp practices was high; the penalty was likely to involve inquisition, torture and ignominious death—usually
on a gallows decorated with gold tinsel. But there were many who thought the risk worth taking.

Was Böttger a fraudster? Clearly until now the king had thought not, for over the period that he had held Böttger captive
he had lavished considerable sums of money on equipping a laboratory, as well as providing him with assistants and all the
materials he could need. This escape attempt, however, could not fail to make him think twice.

This sobering thought must have preoccupied the fugitive alchemist as he fled through the night, stopping only when he needed
to rest his horse. For four days he journeyed southward. Crossing the border into Austria and heading for Prague he rested
on his way in the town of Enns. Here, in the anonymity of the bustling streets, he could temporarily cover his tracks before
continuing his journey.

But the tentacles of Augustus's power were not so easily evaded. His soldiers refused to give up the chase. On June 26, 1703,
their tenacity finally paid off when they traced Böttger to an inconspicuous inn where he had taken lodgings. He was summarily
arrested and brought back to Dresden under close guard. The soldiers, recognizing his depression, did not let their vigilance
slip and there were no more chances of escape. There was, however, plenty of time to wonder how the king would punish him
for his audacity.

Back in Dresden, Augustus, now forced to consider what action to take in the light of Böttger's waywardness, called for the
advice of the two men he had appointed as his prisoner's supervisors: Pabst von Ohain, manager of the royal silver mine at
Freiberg, and Michael Nehmitz, royal privy secretary.

A highly trained scientist with a particular interest in mineralogy, von Ohain had been an appropriate choice of overseer,
and had helped Böttger in his experiment by providing the necessary raw materials. Nehmitz, by contrast, had taken an instant
dislike to the brash, overconfident alchemist and made his feelings clear from the start; he probably would not have cared
less if the recaptured prisoner had been put to death.

Fortunately, however, von Ohain was still impressed by his troublesome charge. He put in a strong plea for clemency, begging
the king to spare the alchemist's life. Böttger was not a charlatan, of that the supervisor felt sure; “something out of the
ordinary and strange lay concealed within him.” Böttger, realizing the danger he was in, also implored Augustus to spare him
and gave a written undertaking never to try to escape again. From now on, he vowed, he would do nothing but pursue his gold-making
for the king.

Augustus considered his options. He had already invested about 40,000 thalers, a great deal of money even by
his
extravagant standards, in equipping Böttger's laboratory and paying for his assistant.
^*
Böttger seemed as confident as ever of his ability to find the arcanum, as well as suitably repentant. Von Ohain, whom the
king held in great respect, believed in him. Despite his escape attempt Augustus still trusted him; his knowledge of science
was formidable, his brilliance undeniable. After protracted discussions with his advisors the king at last decided to spare
Böttger's neck, but ordered that he be kept under closer guard than before. Sooner or later Böttger would find a way of making
gold, Augustus remained utterly convinced of it.

If I had known then what I know now I would not have let the boy go. I would have manacled him to a heavy iron chain and not
released him until he had changed the whole chain to gold.

F
REDERICK
Z
ORN TO
H
EINRICH
L
INCK,
December 28, 1701

I
n the colorful life of Johann Frederick Böttger, such daredevil escapades form a recurring theme and this breakout was far
from being his first. He had been born on February 4, 1682, in the central German city of Schleiz. Both his parents were natives
of Magdeburg, and both sides of the family had traditionally been employed with gold in one way or another. Böttger's paternal
grandfather was a master goldsmith; his father, Johann Adam, was a mint worker who, some say, also dabbled in gold-making,
and his mother, Ursula, was the daughter of Christoph Pflug, the master of the Magdeburg mint. Johann Frederick Böttger was
Johann Adam and Ursula's third child, born two years after his father had taken up work in the city of Schleiz as head of
a newly founded mint.

Johann Adams career in Schleiz was sadly short-lived. Somewhat ironically, bearing in mind his son's later pursuits, the coins
produced by the mint contained less pure gold and silver than was standard and the public refused to accept them. The mint
was forced to close before the baby's first birthday and Böttger's father lost his job. The family had little option but to
return to their native city of Magdeburg, where Johann Adam fell suddenly ill. He died later the same year, a few weeks before
the birth of his fourth child.

To Böttger's mother, Ursula, suddenly finding herself a young widow with four small children to care for and no means of financial
support, the prospect must have looked extremely bleak. Remarriage would give her the only realistic chance of enjoying a
reasonably comfortable life in the future, but finding a husband who was prepared to take on such a burden would not be easy.

Magdeburg had been devastated in the Thirty Years' War (1618–1648) and its population had fallen from thirty thousand to a
mere five thousand or so. The impoverished city had, however, recently amalgamated with Prussian territory, and at the time
of the Böttger family's return the city thronged with Prussian officials, many of whom were engaged in the work of reconstruction.
Among them was Johann Frederick Tiemann, a fortifications expert in charge of rebuilding the ramparts. A widower, Tiemann
had been left with a son and a daughter to look after, and remarriage was therefore a necessity for him too. Fortunately,
Ursula, still comely despite all she had endured, caught his eye. Educated in both architecture and engineering and with a
stable career, to her he must have seemed an extremely eligible suitor. He was sympathetic to her plight and, having children
of his own, kindly disposed toward her young infants. His proposal of marriage, made a year after her husband's death, gave
Ursula the chance of renewed security for her family, and she accepted with alacrity. In 1683 the widow Ursula Böttger and
the widower Johann Frederick Tiemann were married.

Böttger's new stepfather took an active role in the upbringing of his wife's young son, who coincidentally shared his Christian
names. As the child matured his natural intelligence became increasingly apparent. By the age of eight he could read and write
fluently and his stepfather encouraged his education, assisting him in the study of Latin, which he quickly mastered, as well
as geometry and mathematics. But, though he was interested in all these subjects, from an early age Böttger showed a marked
preference for the study of chemistry. One of his great childhood friends was Johann Christoph Schräder, the son of the local
apothecary, and as he learned more of the subject from his friend his interest and skill became increasingly apparent. It
was obvious to his parents that this would be his preferred career, and Tiemann, ever keen to nurture Böttger's talents, managed
to apprentice the boy, now aged fourteen, to a leading apothecary in Berlin named Frederick Zorn.

Industrious and intuitively gifted, Böttger settled down to learn all he could from his master. He studied zealously in the
pharmacist's shop in Neumarkt, working hard in the day and poring over books late into the night. His unusual dedication to
his studies was ridiculed by the other apprentices in Zorn's shop, but their teasing did nothing to lessen his hunger for
knowledge. Through his passion for chemistry he met and was befriended by leading scientists working in Berlin at the time,
among them a famous elderly chemist named Johann Kunckel. Kunckel had worked as alchemist at the court of Saxony in the 1670s
but had so convinced the elector that he knew how to transmute metals into gold that his employer had refused to pay him a
salary, saying that he surely did not need money if he could make it himself. To escape imminent arrest by greedy courtiers
who were keen to extract the secret from him, he had been forced to move to the University of Wittenberg. From there he was
lured to Prussia by Frederick William, the Great Elector of Brandenburg, with the promise of a proper salary and the title
of court chemist.