The Arcanum (24 page)

As Kaendler became more and more engrossed in his work new ideas poured out. Nothing was too difficult or too bizarre to be
made from porcelain. He shattered the conventions governing the design of tableware and decorative objects, replacing them
with a repertoire of incredible novelty. On a visit to the factory showroom you might have seen teapots modeled in the form
of monkeys or exotically plumed birds; sugar sifters cast as women astride cockerels; chandeliers like branched trees festooned
with exotic birds as richly colored as tropical fruits. Alongside these eye-catching showpiece items there was an abundance
of smaller standard objects made for less affluent buyers. A customer wanting a small trinket might purchase a key ring, an
eye bath, a walking stick handle, a snuff box, a thimble, a needle case. One could even, if one so desired, buy a Meissen
chamber pot.

While Kaendler and his talented team reinvented porcelain, Herold, as he had always feared, was increasingly relegated to
the inferior job of ordering his decorators to produce run-of-the-mill items, endless services painted with blue and white
patterns, flowers or classical landscapes, or to “color in” Kaendler's magnificently sculpted creations. Painting was no longer
at the cutting edge of fashion—it was being replaced by sculpted form, just as Kaendler was replacing Herold as the factory's
inspirational figurehead.

The rivalry between the two camps came to a head when Count Brühl ordered a massive dinner service to be designed by Kaendler.
The so-called Swan Service he created took nearly four years to complete and is one of the largest ever made. It contained
some 2,200 pieces, all of them in some way reflecting the theme of water. The idea perhaps partly stemmed from the incredible
grotto called the Bath of the Nymphs created by the sculptor Permoser at the Zwinger. Permoser's grotto is studded with figures
of goddesses, satyrs and fish monsters and garlanded with swags of scallops, cockles, oysters and seaweed. Many of these same
ornaments were now refashioned by Kaendler to form dishes for the great table of Count Brühl. Dinner plates were based on
a printed design and ribbed with the striations of scallop shells and molded with nesting swans; tureens were crowned with
nymphs, writhing dolphins, mermaids and infant tritons. Even the great dome-shaped meat covers suggest a beach at low tide,
strewn with jewel-like shells and coral.

Herold's contribution to this massive and prestigious commission was to instruct his painters to do no more than paint the
Brühl arms on each piece, to color in the sculpted figures, lightly sprinkle a few flowers here and there and finely gild
the borders. For the most part, Kaendler had decreed, his design was so perfect that it needed virtually no paint to enhance
it—the surface should be left pure white. Sculpture had won the day.

Feelings between the factory's two factions became even more tense when Kaendler and his supporters decided to make a formal
complaint to the commission, pointing out the inefficiencies of Herold's supervision and the patently unfair discrepancies
in pay. Modelers received far less than painters, even though their job was now far more important, but Herold had always
argued that this was because painters' eyesight was damaged by the detailed work they did and their working careers were shorter.
The factory inspector, Reinhardt, tired of hearing the endless complaints about the arbitrary and unfair way in which Herold
ran the factory, sided with Kaendler. Together they produced a list of grievances—presumably in the hope that such massive
dissatisfaction would carry weight with the commission and Herold would lose his job. Herold, they said, squandered money
and failed to organize the painters properly, and the lack of adequate artistic training was reflected in shoddy work. He
was so envious of Kaendler that he had told his workers to run a sponge over the plates from the Swan Service so as to blur
their crisply defined details. Even the old story of how Köhler's formulas had been stolen was resurrected as proof of Herold's
corruption.

Herold retaliated by accusing Reinhardt of fraud and ordering his immediate arrest. Even though there was no evidence to support
his allegations, Reinhardt was left to languish in prison for the next four years. The diversionary tactic had the desired
effect: Reinhardt's reliability was called into question; the complaints against Herold were deemed too insubstantial for
any concrete action to be taken against him; and Kaendler was reprimanded for his involvement in the whole affair.

But even if Herold's administrative domination was not yet over, artistically, he realized only too well, he had been roundly
beaten. No one wanted to return to the old painted chinoiseries. Kaendler's designs offered too many far more exciting ideas.
As long as his rival's imaginative genius eclipsed his own talent, the defeat continued to haunt Herold and he would continue
to do everything in his power to retaliate.

By slumbering and sluggarding, over their money-tills and flesh-pots; trying to take evil for good, and to say, “it will do,”
when it will not do, respectable Nations come at last to be governed by Brühls.
…
The gods are wiser!
—
It is now the
13
th; Old Dessauer [Prince Leopold I] tramping forward, hour by hour, towards Dresden and some field of Fate.

T
HOMAS
C
ARLYLE,
The History of Frederick the Great,
1865

O
n the morning of July 20, 1736, as the Albrechtsburg's sentinel sounded the morning post, the duty guards stationed on the
castle's gate were bewildered to hear the sound of marching footsteps drawing close. Minutes later the large courtyard in
front of the factory was filled by a body of soldiers in full regalia led by a Lieutenant Pupelle. His detachment, he explained
self-importantly, had been drafted in to relieve the contingent of guards who had provided security for the castle for the
past decades. The old guards were largely made up of invalided soldiers and had become, in the eyes of the commission, something
of a token deterrent. In contrast, Pupelle's men, a highly trained regiment accustomed to active service, presented a far
more intimidating appearance. They would, it was hoped, make anyone contemplating a breach of the factory's security measures
think twice.

Over the weeks that followed Pupelle emerged as a far from sympathetic character who clearly enjoyed exploiting his authority
to the full. Under his direction the new guardsmen quickly introduced a baffling list of regulations and enforced them so
stringently that an atmosphere of fear and resentment descended on all those who worked at the factory.

Anyone who infringed a rule, no matter how trivial, was now routinely arrested and might be left to languish in prison for
weeks. There was little apparent rationale behind many of the directives. Overtime, a necessity for many workers to supplement
their meager wages, was strictly banned. Those caught working extra hours could expect the guards to snuff out their candles
as they worked, and were thrown into jail. Outsiders, even good customers and royal courtiers, were treated like potential
spies. In the old days the guards had escorted visitors to the door of the rooms they were permitted to visit—usually the
main showroom on the first floor—and waited discreetly outside until they were called to escort the visitor out again. Now
they hovered malevolently over visitors even when they were in the presence of members of Meissen staff, never leaving the
room. It was all highly intrusive—and more to the point, bad for business. But, argued the commission, as the factory grew,
so too did the danger to the arcanum, and the only way to keep it safe was by taking even more rigorous precautions.

As matters turned out, however tyrannical Pupelle and his soldiers were, they were still not infallible. Those determined
enough found ways to evade their control.

Eleven weeks after the arrival of Pupelle and his men, on the morning of October 7, 1736, the lieutenant had the unpleasant
task of informing court commissioner Herold of a devastating piece of news. Adam von Löwenfinck, one of the ablest of Herold's
painters, had apparently failed to report for work. Inquiries revealed that he had disappeared from his lodgings, and a horse
belonging to a baker who lived nearby had also gone missing. The conclusion was inevitable—Löwenfinck had defected from Meissen.

Herold must immediately have realized that this was a potentially ruinous development. Adam von Löwenfinck was one of the
few painters whose talents had blossomed despite his own erratic supervision of the decorating department. The young man had
learned all he knew under Herold, having joined him as a boy of thirteen, nine years earlier. But the question that must have
been uppermost in Herold's mind when he heard the news was this: had Löwenfinck, in the process of acquiring such mastery,
also gained knowledge of the arcanum?

Adam von Löwenfinck was the eldest of three brothers whose father, a soldier, had met an untimely death in one of Augustus
the Strong's many ill-advised battles. Adam's widowed mother was forced to take work on a large estate near Meissen in order
to provide for her sons until they were of an age to find employment. A sympathetic neighbor, who happened to be chairman
of the Meissen commission, noticed the widow Löwenfinck's bright young boys and, hearing that she was looking for suitable
careers for them, suggested that the porcelain factory might serve the purpose.

With this powerful introduction, but no proven talent, Adam was the first of the Löwenfinck brothers to be employed as an
apprentice in Herold's studio. The two younger brothers later followed his lead. He was trained at first as a painter of underglaze
blue decorations and by 1734, at the age of twenty, had displayed such outstanding skill that even Herold was impressed and
let him try his hand at designing models for new porcelain wares.

Adam's skill emerged hand in hand with a hotheaded artistic temperament. As he rose through the Meissen ranks he became as
famous for his aloof and often abrasive manner as for his exquisitely painted Japanese subjects and weird imaginative beasts.
He quarreled incessantly with fellow workers and was frequently reported to Herold over matters relating to workshop discipline.
Money was a frequent bone of contention. Even after years of training Herold still paid him what Löwenfinck considered a paltry
amount considering his obvious abilities.

Perhaps because he was trying to help his mother or support his two younger brothers Löwenfinck made the fatal mistake of
borrowing money to make ends meet, believing, presumably, that it could not be long before Herold began to appreciate his
talents properly and gave him an increase in salary. Herold, however, continued to behave with his customary meanness.

By 1736 the debts had mounted alarmingly and workshop differences had become insupportable. Failure to pay debts was an offense
punishable by lengthy imprisonment, particularly now that Pupelle and his henchmen were in control, and Löwenfinck knew that
with these new guards he stood little chance of talking his way out of trouble.

On October 6, believing that arrest must be imminent, he left his Meissen lodgings under cover of darkness. Somehow managing
to evade the guards patrolling the town, he stole a horse from the stable of the unsuspecting baker and rode out of the city.
He made his way to the ceramic center of Bayreuth, where before long he found a job as a decorator of faience pottery. It
was not such prestigious work as being a decorator at Meissen, but the working conditions were more congenial.

Although hot-tempered, Löwenfinck was certainly not unprincipled. Soon after he had settled in Bayreuth he wrote a revealing
letter to the commission. In it he tried to explain the reasons for his actions and promised to repay his debts—a pledge he
worked hard to honor and eventually fulfilled. His grievances nearly all relate to the way in which Herold treated his staff:
that people with no aptitude, training or ambition were hired and promoted over those with real talent; that the limited subjects
that artists were trained to paint made work unstimulating and discouraged the development of talent; and that payment was
so arbitrary.

Hearing that the renegade Löwenfinck was daring to criticize his direction, Herold's mood of disbelief gave way to frenzied
rage. It was essential that he should be memorably punished for such an act of defiance—as a lesson to others not to try anything
similar. Officers of Pupelle's guard were speedily dispatched with orders to arrest him and bring him back to Meissen to face
trial for desertion.

It was a dramatic but futile gesture. Before the guards were able to track him down, Löwenfinck heard rumors of the approaching
danger and fled once again, this time farther south to Ansbach, where he again took up the offer to work as a decorator in
a faience factory. The rest of his life was spent constantly on the run, to remain beyond Herold's reach, and to reap the
rewards of his hard-earned expertise. Long after the guards had given up the chase and returned to the Albrechtsburg, spies
were still paid to keep a watch on his progress through the ceramic centers of central Europe. No one quite knew what the
repercussions of his defection would be, and Herold lived in constant dread that he would prove himself able to make porcelain.
For the next twelve years informants were still reporting back on his every venture.