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.
Chapter Eight
White gold
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
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.
Chapter Eight
White gold
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
Similar Books
