The Arcanum (11 page)

Augustus was a great admirer of his new factory's imitations of exotic Chinese stoneware—he already had a vast collection.
He was even more delighted when Böttger presented him with “a very fine red vessel, which in every way equals the so-called
red porcelain of the East Indies, surpassing marble and porphyry in its hardness and beauty.” And as with so many luxuries,
his appetite for red porcelain grew voraciously. While output steadily increased, alarming quantities were appropriated by
the king. Augustus, ever a lover of ostentation, ordered Böttger to make extra large pieces for his palaces; vases sixty centimeters
high and dishes half a meter in diameter were produced as royal commissions. In all some eight hundred pieces were acquired
for Augustus's own collection and in addition large quantities were given away to visiting princes and dignitaries by the
king—ever eager to show off the peerless products of his new factory.

As patron of the factory Augustus could buy porcelain and stoneware at vastly discounted prices. Despite this advantage he
rarely troubled to pay anything for his acquisitions, regarding them as one of the justifiable perks of his investment. The
outstanding sums compounded Böttger's financial problems even further. Increases in production had still not helped the factory
to make a profit. A year and a half after the opening of the Meissen factory, even though nearly thirteen thousand pieces
of stoneware were stored in the stockroom ready for sale and a showroom had opened for visitors to come and buy the products,
Steinbrück calculated that outgoings were 50 percent higher than earnings.

The chief reason for the losses, which Böttger, locked in Dresden, failed to perceive, was the corruption with which the factory
was riddled from top to bottom. At the top of the tree, Michael Nehmitz, head of the commission, was almost certainly the
worst culprit. He was prone to keeping for himself the money given by Augustus to help with the factory running costs, and
was also not above selling prize pieces of stoneware at Leipzig and stealing the proceeds. The factory's accountant, Mathis,
was similarly corrupt and he too was caught selling Meissen stoneware at Leipzig and pocketing the cash. Of the top directorate
only Steinbrück the supervisor and Bartholmäi the physician were immune from such chicanery. Further down the chain of command
there were similar tales of theft and double-dealing, some of which would have dire repercussions for the future of the factory.

The ingenuity of Böttger's inventions, so flamboyantly announced by the king, had aroused extraordinary jealousies in rivals
throughout Europe. Even before porcelain was widely available there were numerous attempts to steal the secret formulas for
both stoneware and porcelain. Dresden and the town of Meissen constantly thronged with spies loitering purposefully in the
bustling market squares and inns in the hope of overhearing conversations between factory workers that would allow them to
glean enough knowledge to unravel the secrets of the formulas.

Augustus, alert to these dangers, inculcated the workmen with the fear that if they were discovered to have discussed what
they knew with any outsiders they would suffer the severest punishments. Talking about porcelain-making was in Augustus's
eyes tantamount to treason. As an added safeguard, following Böttger's original suggestion, each worker was deliberately kept
ignorant of the processes carried out by others in the factory.

But these precautions were not enough to keep the secret safe. The first to capitalize on the value of his knowledge was Samuel
Kempe, a kiln master and compounder at the Neustadt factory. Kempe had already been caught once with his hand in the till
and been punished with two years' imprisonment. Midway through his sentence he had written an emotive letter to Böttger, imploring
him to take pity on his plight. Feeling sorry for the man, whose predicament he could all too easily sympathize with, and
mistakenly believing that Kempe had learned his lesson from the severity of the prison conditions he had experienced and would
never try anything similar again, Böttger backed Kempe's application for a pardon. After his early release Böttger helped
further by giving him back his job in the factory and letting him assist in the laboratory.

In this position of privilege Kempe was able to witness Böttger's experiments at first hand and gain crucial knowledge of
his formula for the red stoneware. A few months later, without any apparent qualms of conscience, Kempe repaid Böttger's trust
by not turning up for work one day. Immediately fearing the worst, Böttger dispatched a messenger to Kempe's lodgings. When
it was found that he had disappeared without a trace, a quick search of the Dresden factory was carried out and revealed that
he had taken with him a large lump of the red stoneware paste. Kempe, it emerged, had been lured to Prussia, as the old rivalry
between Saxony and Prussia once again reared its head. The dishonest technician had been bribed with an offer of lucrative
employment by a Prussian government official, privy councillor Görne, whom he helped set up a rival establishment making stoneware
at Plaue in 1713.

In fact the Plaue products were never as good as those of Meissen. The paste was always coarser and the designs rather oddly
proportioned. But the breach of security was enough to terrify the king and his administrators. The episode had proved beyond
a doubt that the secret porcelain arcanum was in even greater jeopardy than they had feared.

Ay; these look like the workmanship of Heaven,
This is the porcelain clay of human kind,
And therefore cast into these noble
moulds.

J
OHN
D
RYDEN,
Don Sebastian,
I.i., 1689

I
n the tender spring sunshine of 1713 visitors to the celebrated Leipzig Easter Fair could not fail to pause as they strolled
past the outstanding display put on by the King of Poland's famous Meissen factory. Modishly clad aristocrats, well-to-do
merchants, ladies in velvet-trimmed cloaks that billowed over their silken dresses greeted one another, exchanged pleasantries
and marveled aloud at the eye-catching spectacle.

Accustomed though it was to striking arrangements of luxury items—always a hallmark of the Leipzig fair—this fashion-conscious
audience's attention was nonetheless riveted by Meissen's extraordinary array. For here was something completely unprecedented:
a dazzling hoard of dainty beakers, fragile tea bowls, delicate saucers, finely cast dishes, tea caddies and pipes, all made
from glittering white porcelain the like of which had never before been produced in Europe.

Gently picking up the tiniest of tea bowls, they perhaps held them aloft to the sun's soft radiance, exclaiming in delight
as the light penetrated the wonderfully fine translucent body. They lingered over small beakers applied with a trelliswork
of naturalistic leaves and flowers, remarking admiringly to one another on their sparkling glazed surface. These pieces were
highly priced, but, as the fair's sophisticated clientele would doubtless have recognized, in every sphere of art the most
exquisite novelties command a premium. This, after all, was a historic occasion: the first time that true porcelain made in
Europe had ever been openly offered for sale.

The Leipzig fair, a magnet for the most sophisticated of eighteenth-century audiences, was the natural place for Augustus's
porcelain wares to make their debut. Its patrons—pleasure-loving royal princes, affluent aristocrats and the well-to-do—all
came to acquire the latest in furniture, glass, metalwork, ceramics, textiles and much else besides. It was, said Lady Mary
Wortley Montagu, “one of the most considerable [fairs] in Germany, and the resort of all the people of quality, as well as
the merchants.” Her visit was used to stock up on essentials such as “pages' liveries, gold stuffs for myself, 'c, all things
of that kind.”

At previous fairs these discerning customers might have glimpsed a handful of white porcelain pieces displayed alongside the
red stoneware objects. These had been no more than exhibition curiosities, a tantalizing presage of things to come, not for
sale. But now visitors could not only admire, they could also buy. They could take home with them a set of sparkling tea bowls
and daintily sip tea, content in the knowledge that these superior vessels had been made in Saxony, at the factory belonging
to the most illustrious king in Germany. The royal cachet of such objects significantly enhanced their appeal to the fashion-obsessed
visitors at the fair. Little wonder then that the elegant shoppers found themselves unable to resist such novelties and, much
to Böttger's delight, the orders and sales for his “white gold” began to flood in.

Böttger's first significant success at the Leipzig fair of 1713 had been a hard-won victory. In 1711, a little over a year
after the factory's inauguration, Meissen's dire monetary problems had forced the king to set up yet another special commission
at which Böttger was called on to explain the hopeless financial morass into which the factory had plummeted. Böttger found
himself confronted by a largely unsympathetic panel, though he took courage from the fact that among his inquisitors he recognized
the friendly faces of the scrupulously fair-minded factory supervisor, Johann Melchior Steinbrück, and Dr. Bartholmäi, also
a zealously committed supporter of the factory.

Böttger refused to be browbeaten and presented a strong case in his own defense. As far as he was concerned, the problems
stemmed mainly from the king's erratic financing of the factory, which he had endorsed so publicly and with such pomp and
ceremony only twelve months earlier. Large-scale porcelain production would never get under way unless the new kiln was built
as had been promised. More to the point, the kiln could not be built until there was money to pay for it. In addition, the
kilns could not be fired without a reliable supply of timber. At present fuel was only erratically delivered and ridiculously
expensive. Moreover, the successful manufacture of white porcelain was entirely reliant on a plentiful supply of the necessary
materials, in particular kaolin. Clay from Colditz was proving unpredictable; and Böttger urged Bartholmäi to establish a
regular contract for delivery of Hans Schnorr's clay from Aue, which was far superior in quality and purity and performed
far better in test firing. Furthermore, said Böttger, the factory could not be expected to make a profit when such vast quantities
of stoneware and faience ordered by the king were never paid for. This constant sapping of resources was bleeding the factory
to death. If the cost of staff wages and supplies of new materials could not be met, the factory would never get off the ground.

In future the king must guarantee payment for his orders, must promise that wages and supplies would always be paid for, and
must invest on a more reliable basis in the development of the factory. Finally, said Böttger unequivocally, it was vital
that he, as discoverer of the arcanum and administrator of the factory, had overall authority in its running. At present his
instructions were constantly contradicted by the meddlesome Michael Nehmitz and his allies. This was a flawed system that
would doom the factory to inevitable failure if it continued much longer.

The commission must have met such a display of impassioned bravado with incredulity. How dare an imprisoned alchemist, who
had clearly proved that he had no idea how to run an important business, criticize their administration in such a manner and
suggest such dramatic reforms? Furthermore, how could someone so disorganized and inept imagine that he would be suitable
to have sole charge of such a prestigious royal enterprise?

But unlike Nehmitz and the other officials who were primarily concerned with their own personal gain, Steinbrück and Bartholmäi
instantly sympathized with Böttger, recognizing that, in contrast to his critics, he spoke with the interests of the factory
at heart. Here was a man who had his faults, it was true—Böttger's predilection for alcoholic binges was well established
by now—but one in whom they believed nonetheless. Both therefore strongly upheld his arguments for change. Their influence
forced the commission to acknowledge that Böttger had justifiable cause for grievance and to pass on his complaints and suggested
reforms to the king.

Despite his ongoing political preoccupations, Augustus's mania for porcelain was undimmed and his pride in his unique, if
faltering, factory remained steadfast. The commission's report forced him to confront the issue of its survival. Clearly,
unless financial security were guaranteed the venture would never work. It was time, even the king admitted, for change.

Money was made available for paying wages and completing the kiln. Böttger was also paid an allowance to cover living costs
and expenses, though still under house arrest, and, in the most remarkable turnaround of all, was put in overall charge of
production and sales. Finally, in an attempt to stem the flow of funds into the pockets of the corrupt officials, a separate
intermediary wholesale company was established, which had the sole right to sell the products made by the Meissen factories.