The Arcanum (3 page)

Kunckel was interested in alchemy in its broadest sense, and his research had led to the development of a ruby-glassmaking
industry. He became deeply impressed by the young apprentice's flair for chemistry. Encouraged by this statesmanlike figure,
Böttger carefully studied Kunckel's influential scientific treatise,
The Complete Art of Glassmaking,
which contained a wealth of detailed information on the manufacture of glass, enamel and ceramics. Kunckel became something
of a mentor to the young Böttger, inviting him to stay at his country estate and stimulating his growing fascination with
analytical experimentation. Scientific discovery, said Kunckel, was founded on practical experimentation, and this was the
path that Böttger should follow.

But as Böttger's grasp of chemistry expanded, he became increasingly captivated by the idea of finding the arcanum for the
philosophers stone. His conviction that such a discovery was possible was probably fueled by his acquaintance with a mystical
Greek monk by the name of Laskaris, who, it was said, knew the secret of transmutation. Böttger nurtured his relationship
with Laskaris and eventually persuaded him to part with a quantity of a mystery powder that Laskaris led him to believe was
the philosopher's stone.

With this mysterious substance and a few vague instructions on how to make more of it Böttger felt confident that he was now
close to a breakthrough and began performing his own experiments in transmutation. At first the surreptitious trials took
place in Zorn's laboratory by night, when the rest of the apprentices were asleep or out enjoying themselves. But when Zorn
discovered what Böttger was doing he warned him in no uncertain terms of the perils of pursuing such a route, and forbade
him to continue. Alchemists had searched for the philosophers stone for centuries without success; those who pretended to
hold powers they did not possess ran the risk of severe punishment. Böttger was wasting his time; he would do better to concentrate
on the preparation of the curatives that would provide him with a sound means to prosper in the future.

Böttger, considering the prospect of grinding pills a poor substitute for the excitements of alchemy, found this chastisement
difficult to accept. Egged on by various sponsors and friends, including a local grocer by the name of Röber who financed
some of his research, he continued to experiment in various secret locations and absconded several times from his lodgings
in his master's house, sometimes disappearing for weeks on end. After each of these truancies he would return hungry, penniless
and repentant, asking to be taken back. And each time, despite his assurances to the contrary, he would continue to experiment
clandestinely.

In 1701, after serving five years of apprenticeship with Zorn, the nineteen-year-old Böttger began to hold occasional secret
demonstrations for his immediate circle of friends, during which he convinced them that he could transmute various metals
into small amounts of gold. All who were invited to witness these experiments were first required to pledge their secrecy,
but once they had observed Böttger in action they were so impressed that few of them found it possible to remain silent. The
rumors enabled Böttger to raise money for increasingly impressive experiments with little more than the assurance that he
would repay any advances many times over with the large quantities of gold he would soon be able to make.

By now he had even convinced himself that he knew the secret arcanum and he sent his mother coins assuring her that she would
never go hungry again. In the light of this great breakthrough he implored her to come to Berlin and persuade Zorn to release
him from his apprenticeship. Frau Tiemann seems to have believed her son and her intervention convinced Zorn that he was ready
to become a journeyman. (A qualified tradesman; halfway between an apprentice and a master, a journeyman was able to earn
wages but not to employ others.) Despite his pupils obstinacy and his continuing infatuation with alchemy, and despite Böttger's
dislike of criticism, the two seem to have retained a peculiar trust in one another. It was not to last much longer.

A few weeks after he had qualified as a journeyman, on October 1, 1701, Böttger decided he was ready to prove beyond doubt
that transmutation was possible by inviting Zorn and his wife to witness and assist in a most important experiment. It would
take place after dinner. Zorn, though still incredulous, agreed to attend, and two friends who were staying in the house were
invited to help.

When his guests arrived at the appointed time and place, Böttger began the proceedings dramatically by taking an empty crucible
and placing it on the fire. The flames were fed and the bellows worked until the crucible glowed incandescent. One witness
took a handful of fifteen silver coins, which he was instructed to drop into the pot, allowing them to melt in the by now
searing vessel. Meanwhile a wrapped paper containing a mystery powder was handed by Böttger to the other witness, who was
told to add it to the molten metal. Then the crucible was covered and the substances were allowed to mingle, fuse and, if
Böttger were to be believed, transmute. As the tension in the dingy room mounted and smoke billowed from the crucible, Böttger
removed it from the heat and poured the still white-hot contents into a mold for the audience to examine.

Before their very eyes, the river of silvery white liquid that had flowed out of the blackened pot cooled to a brilliant gold.

The next day, when the molten metal had hardened to an ingot, it was subjected to rigorous examination and testing. Against
everyone's expectations—except Böttger's—the resulting metal turned out to be gold of the very purest quality.

In order to accomplish such an illusion Böttger must at some stage have substituted gold for the silver coins or the hardened
metal that was tested. But exactly how the trick was done, and where he had acquired the necessary gold to do it, remains
a mystery. What is quite clear, however, is that all the witnesses, including the skeptical Zorn, were completely taken in.

Incorrigible show-off though he was, Böttger was not an out-and-out charlatan, and he genuinely believed that transmutation
was possible. He also knew how dangerous games such as this could be. As soon as he had staged his demonstration the foolhardiness
of such an escapade must have dawned on him and he begged Zorn and his friends never to speak of what they had seen. But,
like his earlier witnesses, they were so bewitched by Böttger's manifest skill that they could not prevent themselves from
mentioning it to one or two select colleagues and acquaintances, and thus, inevitably, the news spread.

Zorn was so impressed that he wrote to a colleague in Leipzig to tell him what he had witnessed. “This is to inform [you]
that my former apprentice made the finest gold weighing 3 loth in my presence.…The gold stood up to all tests.” Interestingly,
this letter ended up in the secret files of Augustus the Strong. The story of the experiment also reached the ears of the
famously respected philosopher and mathematician Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. A little more than a month after it took place
he wrote to the wife of the Prince Elector of Hanover: “They say that the philosopher's stone has suddenly appeared here.…I
am reluctant to believe just anything but I dare not refute so many witnesses.” Before long even foreign newspapers were referring
to the incredible transmutation that had happened in Berlin.

Meanwhile the news had also traveled the few streets from the apothecary's shop to the Prussian court. Newly accorded the
title of King of Prussia, Frederick I was every bit as avaricious and ambitious as his Saxon counterpart Augustus II and,
like him, desperate for gold to finance an extravagant lifestyle. A man who could make gold would neatly solve his financial
problems and make him the envy of all Germany. As soon as he heard of these developments he summoned the apothecary Zorn,
ordering him to bring with him the gold Böttger had manufactured. Frederick questioned Zorn closely about the experiment he
had witnessed and, evidently impressed by this firsthand account, instructed him to return the next day with his pupil. In
the meantime he would take charge of the gold.

When Böttger learned that the king wanted to see him he realized that luck and time had run out. Frederick was renowned for
his ruthlessness if crossed, and since Böttger knew that his experiment would be impossible to repeat in circumstances that
he could not control, he had every reason to expect that he would be tortured and put to death as soon as his sham was exposed.
With no wish to precipitate such an unpleasant end Böttger decided on a characteristically dramatic and audacious plan. Instead
of preparing himself to meet his king (and his maker), he waited for nightfall and crept from his lodgings. For the next two
days he found sanctuary nearby in the secluded house of his grocer friend Röber, while he sent word to Kunckel begging for
assistance.

At the Prussian court, meanwhile, Frederick had quickly realized that something was amiss and sent out search parties of soldiers
to look for the alchemist who had failed to present himself as ordered. Throughout the city proclamations were read aloud
and bills posted stating that the king was prepared to pay a reward of 1,000 thalers for Böttger's capture alive. Böttger
knew that, with such a price on his head, if he stayed in Berlin his chances of avoiding arrest would be minimal, and presumably
Röber must also have been keen to get rid of such a dangerous house-guest. Escape from the country was the only solution.
On the third night of hiding, Böttger persuaded a sympathetic relative of Röber's to allow him to hide in his covered wagon
while it was driven out of Prussia. For this dangerous assistance he paid two ducats with the usual promise of a sack of gold
in addition—as soon as he had time to make it.

Cowering in the bottom of the wagon, Böttger was spirited across the Prussian border to the comparative safety of the medieval
Saxon town of Wittenberg. Once settled there he lay low and enrolled at the university medical school as a student. Kunckel
still had contacts within the university from his time as head of the College of Chemical Experimentation, and Böttger had
faithfully promised that he would pursue his studies there diligently.

But somehow news of the successful getaway reached the royal court, where Frederick, unaccustomed to such a blatant flouting
of his royal will, was more determined than ever to capture the fugitive. He summoned one of his most trusted men, a Lieutenant
Mentzel, and dispatched him, together with a detachment of a dozen troops, to find Böttger and bring him back at all costs.

It was not hard for Mentzel to trace his quarry. Saxony, whose border lay a mere thirty miles to the southwest, was the obvious
escape route. However, the diplomatic relationship between Prussia and Saxony, although currently peaceful, was always sensitive,
and once Böttger had been located by the Prussian lieutenant, protocol demanded that the permission of the king's representative
in Wittenberg be obtained before he could make an arrest. Leaving his soldiers camped outside the town walls the lieutenant
requested an audience with Johann von Ryssell, the local court official, from whom he begged formal permission to apprehend,
“for certain important reasons,” a fugitive from Prussian justice.

Such requests were clearly not run-of-the-mill, and von Ryssell was immediately suspicious. Why should a common fugitive warrant
a detachment of a dozen Prussian soldiers? The matter clearly needed investigating further before he could comply with such
a demand.

Placing Böttger under a precautionary Saxon guard, von Ryssell made a few more inquiries. Unfortunately for Böttger, the magistrate
somehow managed to come across Röber, who happened to be visiting Wittenberg at the time. Terrified for his own safety, Röber
did not need much persuasion to reveal the real reason the Prussians wanted to recapture the fugitive: he knew the arcanum
for making gold.

On hearing this account of events von Ryssell realized the potential sensitivity of such a matter, and word was sent immediately
to the king in Dresden. Meanwhile, aware that the net was closing around him, and deciding that his chances of survival with
Augustus of Saxony were probably marginally better than with Frederick, Böttger also sent a letter to the king begging for
royal protection from the Prussians. The king was not, however, in Dresden but in Poland, and a messenger was duly sent to
Warsaw, a journey of several more days.

While days and then weeks passed, Frederick of Prussia and Lieutenant Mentzel grew increasingly impatient. There was nothing
mysterious about the prisoner, Mentzel assured von Ryssell; he was a straightforward murderer, a man with a long criminal
record, a dangerous prisoner. From Berlin, Frederick threatened military intervention if von Ryssell did not comply; full-scale
war would be the result of this petty obstinacy. Von Ryssell; however, remained unperturbed by these blusterings and stood
his ground. Prussia would have to wait patiently for the response of the ruler of Saxony. Until it was received no further
action would be authorized.

At the time, Augustus was caught up in a lengthy and costly war with Sweden, in which he was losing all the major battles.
Gold was urgently needed to replenish his coffers, and when he heard that a man who could make it had appeared on the scene
it must have seemed like a gift from God. The drawback was that he had no desire to embroil himself in a dispute with Prussia;
if he was not careful the situation could easily escalate into a major diplomatic incident. He decided, therefore, to play
for time. Almost two months after Böttger had first arrived in Wittenberg, instructions were at last sent to von Ryssell and
the Prussian envoy decreeing that any requests for the extradition of the fugitive were to be sent directly to the king, who
would organize his own inquiry before giving the matter his personal consideration. The fate of the nineteen-year-old fugitive,
whose only crime had been to stage an entertaining illusion or two, had now become a matter of international significance.