The Chemistry of Alchemy Read online

  With the influence of his new friends, in 1527 Paracelsus was made a professor of medicine. Buoyed by his success, he became bellicose in his criticisms of established medicine. Allowed to lecture to medical students, he spoke in German instead of Latin and invited barber surgeons, which may have been one of his father's sidelines, to attend his lectures. He railed against Galenic medicine and the ancient authorities, and the legend persists he publically burned a copy of the medical cannon of Avicenna, which inevitably leads to comparisons with Martin Luther. However, as Partington points out,2 this act would have been tantamount to consigning a fortune to the flames, so the event was probably a symbolic burning, if it occurred at all. Paracelsus had no inherited funds and, as we shall see, often had to resort to creative enterprises for sustenance.

  In Strasbourg he did have one minor publication printed, but then Froben, his printer patron, died. The established medical community began to murmur against his methods. The next time Paracelsus performed a successful minimalist treatment, the patient complained. True, he got better, but since Paracelsus had done nothing but give him laudanum pills, he refused to pay the fee Paracelsus demanded. Paracelsus, not sensing the way the wind blew, sued the patient and lost—then verbally abused the judge who ruled against him. He finally realized he had aroused sufficient animosity and had better leave town—which meant leaving behind property he had accumulated—and from there things went downhill. In fact, he never received another commissioned appointment.

  He wandered and tried to set up practices, find a printer, or find a patron, but he continually found himself embroiled in controversies and therefore moving on. He even tried different occupations, but after a stint as a lay preacher, he went back to medicine—apparently having learned, at last, something about presentation. Now he gave names to his cures, methods, and medicines. He adopted new therapies he could explain to the patient and anxious family—weapons salve, the doctrine of signatures, and similars—all of which he applied with vigor and lengthy discourse—and hope—because they did the same thing…nothing. Nothing but allow nature to take its course.

  With weapons salve, he treated the weapon that made the wound, not the wound. Medicines were applied to the knife or whatever caused the injury, and the offending weapon would be tightly bound. In fact, Paracelsus would not even allow the actual wound to be wrapped but insisted it be exposed to the air. How did he get away with this? People recovered. Ergo, treating the weapon worked.

  In the doctrine of signatures, an herb or a chemical that looked like the organ to be treated would be used for the treatment. Plant galls could be used to treat skin eruptions. Yellow pigment could treat the yellow skin of jaundice. Purple violets were used to treat testicular disease, and dragon's blood was used to stop bleeding—but this last one worked. Paracelsus was familiar with dragon's blood, the herb, which is a blood coagulant.3 It didn't take much to establish credibility in Renaissance Europe. Something that looked like blood stopped bleeding. One example established another, and Paracelsus knew at least the others would do no harm.

  In addition, Galenic medicine applied the doctrine of contraries, that is, the idea that conditions are cured by substances that are contrary to them in nature. Paracelsus proposed the opposite (perhaps to be contrary): he proposed that conditions are cured by medicines that are similar to the condition. For instance, burning sensation in the chest, heartburn, might be cured by taking acid. Sounds bad until we remember who we're dealing with. Paracelsus insisted that his similar medicines be repeatedly purified and “washed” with lots of water before being given dropwise in wine. Essentially doing nothing but making the patient feel better.

  Which brings up another possibility: the placebo effect—which works, as confirmed by numerous controlled, rigorously monitored, and peer-reviewed studies.4 In fact, these studies have shown the placebo effect works best when delivered by a confident, assertive practitioner. That was Paracelsus all over. Some of Paracelsus's patients may have gotten better because he talked them into it.

  And Paracelsus was lucky. He criticized the medical establishment for using mercury as an internal medicine for syphilis, a relatively new disease of the day. Mercury, he knew from his work in the mines, was a poison and would kill the patient even if it cured the disease. Perhaps as another effort designed to do no harm, Paracelsus suggested applying mercury externally, to the lesions, instead. The patients would still get to use mercury (which would help them feel better), but at least they wouldn't be eating it. Lo and behold, as an antibacterial, mercury helped. We now know it did not stop the progress of the disease, but it relieved some symptoms. This success opened the door for acceptance of other mineral remedies, as long as, said Paracelsus, they were pure and washed with lots of water. When he stated his famous maxim, “The dose makes the poison,”5 Paracelsus essentially gave away his secret.

  Moreover, Paracelsus had learned not to be completely reckless. If it didn't work, he could blame the patient. He professed a belief in faith healing—for Christians. (Jews, pagans, and Muslims needed medicine.) So if the patient died, it was lack of faith—but at least not the writhing pain of Galenic treatment.

  Whether Paracelsus's success was because his treatments were easier to endure or because he actually achieved a better response, we do not know. Medical statistics were not routinely kept in those days and, given the hyperbole of a typical chronicler, could not have been believed anyway. But for a time he commanded high fees and even managed to have a book published on the treatment of wounds. He won patrons on occasion and occasionally sold his advice or a medicine.

  More occasionally, unfortunately, he got drunk.

  His personal assistant, Oporinus, described his drinking.6 He reported Paracelsus dictated his books while drunk and fell into bed in dirty clothes without undressing. Obese, bald, and beardless, Paracelsus completely shunned women, according to Oporinus, and some sources say he may have been a eunuch. William Newman, however, reported another possibility.

  We have not examined the original paper, but Newman explained that a team of forensic specialists inspected Paracelsus's grave and found some interesting results. They found the body they believed to be Paracelsus to be five feet three inches tall (a little over a meter and a half), and they concluded mercury poisoning probably caused the loss of some teeth and he suffered from inner ear infection, which may have contributed to his death. Further examination, though, brought more unusual conclusions. Based primarily on the physical appearance of the pelvis, and accounts that Paracelsus appeared to be castrated, they concluded that Paracelsus may have been described as hermaphroditic.7

  Of course, if he had the height of a female, the hips of a female, and the roundness of a female, one wonders if he might be better compared with Joan of Arc than Martin Luther, but then there was the pattern baldness. Hair loss is a symptom of mercury poisoning, and pattern balding is not unknown in females—though not necessarily the pattern shown in his portraits—but portraiture for commission is not necessarily accurate. An enigma.

  If however there is some truth to his gender ambiguity, we are tempted to identify this physical condition with personality formation, but that may be a more modern perspective. In fact, Galen's one-sex model of gender role was prevalent in western Europe in the times of Paracelsus—that men and women have the same basic genitalia, just to a lesser or greater extent and degree of heat—and the alchemists were certainly aware and accepting of the hermaphroditic condition, so we probably should not overemphasize this influence in Paracelsus's life.8 We do not live in a yin/yang, hot/cold, wet/dry world, and neither did the Renaissance western Europeans. If anything they may have been more respectful of human diversity. However, Paracelsus was not standard issue on many fronts. Writing more than seventy years ago, before any disturbance of Paracelsus's grave, historian Lynn Thorndike wrote insightfully that Paracelsus had, “so to speak, to move in a fourth dimension and continually watch his step at that.”9

  Paracelsus's views o
n alchemy were also off the beaten path—even for alchemy. Paracelsus loved making up names for alchemical concepts and materials, perhaps to make himself sound more educated (his command of Latin was poor) or as just another private joke on the world. Most have been forgotten—pagoyus, undimia, aniadus, libus, azoth—but he invented the name spagyria for alchemy, and gave alchemy a new definition. “Nature yields nothing perfected, but man must perfect it. This perfecting is called alchemy. For the baker is an alchemist when he bakes bread, the vine-grower when he makes wine, the weaver when he makes cloth.”10 The point of alchemy in his eyes was to separate the pure from the impure, and for this purpose he proposed a new goal for the alchemists and promoted it to the status of finding the philosophers’ stone: finding the alkahest, the universal solvent (though the conundrum of how to contain the universal solvent was not immediately addressed). Paracelsus also advanced the idea of three principles instead of two—salt, sulfur, and mercury—making a new tria prima.

  Though definitely not a stay-by-the-fires-day-and-night alchemist, from his writings it appears Paracelsus was familiar with standard methods. He knew how to make the gold-appearing brass of our first demonstration and about the use of sulfur water to color silver to white gold, as Geber knew, too. Paracelsus may have done his own purifications of medicines, but others of his alchemical recipes appear to have been copied. Some omissions in Paracelsus's procedures his biographer takes as evidence of secrecy, yet they may have been copy errors. The same biographer mentions much of Paracelsus's alchemy “had been anticipated” by fourteenth-century alchemists, and some recipes raised questions of plagiarism by later alchemists.11

  Figure 8.1. Paracelsus. (Image courtesy of the California State University, Los Angeles, John F. Kennedy Memorial Library, Special Collections.)

  However, this criticism may not be entirely fair. An important difference existed between Renaissance and later publishing: the Renaissance printer did not have to reference sources. The playing field was rough, and printers printed what they knew would sell—even if it had been printed before. Protests arose in the courts, but the defense for science books was mainly successful: How could one herbal not be like another? They listed the same herbs.12 The word plagiarism didn't exist in English until the early 1600s, and sometimes entire books, intact, were reprinted. Authors learned it was more profitable to sell their books outright than on commission. Yet if their objective was to attract a patron, this was not an entirely bad situation. If a patron saw an alchemist's book and was intrigued enough to offer support, the alchemist probably didn't care how the book was obtained.

  And Paracelsus needed patrons. But in his efforts to get published, to support himself by the sale of books, as we will see in the second part of the demonstration with this chapter, his ramblings became more and more bizarre. Even a sympathetic biographer was moved to say, “While [his] observations and achievements in medicine and chemistry…may be regarded as steppingstones to modern science, it must be realized that they are selected from the larger body of Paracelsus’ writings, which, in their totality, evoke a world of [magic] far removed from the modern spirit of independent inquiry.”13

  So far we have painted a picture of an inebriated, unemployed, belligerent, unkempt, mostly unpublished writer of no fixed residence who practiced a few fortune-teller-type tricks to simulate medical practice. How does this warrant recognition by a spellchecker?

  There's more to it than that. Paracelsus recognized—possibly for the first time in Western tradition—the true nature of disease.

  In the Galenic tradition, there was essentially a different disease for each patient because every disease was a different imbalance of four humors. If it wasn't an imbalance of humors, then it was supernatural in origin. But Paracelsus, once more, went his own way. A few years before his death, Paracelsus published a book on the treatment of syphilis and another book that was the first western-European treatise on miners’ diseases. These books established a new concept: categories of disease—specific, recognizable diagnoses that could be treated with specific, targeted treatments. He compiled a major text, the Grosse Wundartzney (Great Surgery Book), which went into a second edition while he still lived. In this work he addressed the treatment of ulcers and lacerations and a new variety of medical problem: wounds caused by gunpowder. His star was on the rise again, but he didn't live to bask in its light. He resided in an almshouse in his late forties and reportedly died drunk on a tavern floor.

  Later students of his work found his writings confusing but sorted the wheat from the chaff. They sensed he was onto something, and they wanted to try it for themselves. In fact, less than thirty years after his death, many healers and alchemists were identifying themselves as progressive Paracelsians, and that is the world we explore anon.

  But first, let's sojourn with Paracelsus and wander with him awhile.

  DEMONSTRATION 8. DIANA AND THE HOMUNCULUS

  In this section, we offer two demonstrations: one bizarre; one sublime. We start with the sublime: the Tree of Diana.

  Interestingly, the origins of the appellation “the Tree of Diana” have to do with Paul, the early-Christian missionary we encountered in our discussion of Rupescissa and the Antichrist. In his travels, Paul journeyed to Ephesus, an ancient Greek settlement in what is now Turkey and the site of a pagan temple to the mother-goddess Artemis.

  The temple has been identified as one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. It housed splendid statues, a relic that was probably a meteorite, and objects of silver associated with worship of Artemis. When Paul preached a renunciation of pagan identity, the silversmiths feared for their livelihood and stirred up a protest among the citizens sufficient to temporarily suspend Paul's preaching.

  Artemis, the mother-goddess of the temple, eventually became identified with the Roman goddess Diana, though their mythologies differed: Artemis was a goddess of fertility, whereas Diana was the virgin moon goddess of the hunt. Yet in the biblical story, and in the minds of the alchemists, the identities merged, and “Diana” became a symbol for silver.14 The alchemists in the Renaissance were fascinated by the lovely, silver Tree of Diana, and we share their wonder still.

  DISPOSAL

  When your trees are grown, screw the cap tightly on your sample bottles, or if you use a test tube, cork the test tubes or cover them with a small amount of plastic wrap or a plastic bag secured with a rubber band. Find a suitable place to display or store your trees so they remain upright and won't be disturbed. Once again, silver is not disposable down the drain because it is a heavy metal, though you may find someone in your area willing to accept silver metal for recycling!

  The remains of the second demonstration, the homunculus, can be buried or thrown in the bushes, whichever you wish.

  TREE OF DIANA

  To grow a Tree of Diana, you need the commercial silver-nitrate solution we suggested for purchase in “Stores and Ores.” Find your copper wire, one sample bottle or one 10-milliliter test tube, and safety glasses. Put on your safety glasses.

  Cut about a 2-inch (5-centimeter) length of bare copper wire or strip the insulation from the same length of insulated wire. If you have to strip off the insulation, use gloves, a wire stripper or a sharp knife, and cut away from your body, like whittling a stick.

  Twist the bare wire gently around a pencil until it forms a corkscrew shape narrow enough to fit in your sample bottle/test tube. Remove the pencil and clean the copper-wire coil with a quick vinegar/salt bath. Make certain you rinse it well with water.

  Make sure you have on a pair of surgical gloves before the next step, which involves handling the commercial silver solution. As we mentioned in demonstration 7, silver salts can darken in sunlight, and if you get silver solution on your hands, you may end up with brown spots that only come off with time. If this happens, don't worry. The brown spots will eventually come off and they are not particularly dangerous. They are tiny spots of silver metal and, as long as you don't ingest great quantities, you'
ll be fine. In fact, the dark spots of silver nitrate were once considered a chemist's badge of honor! But you don't need badges or brown spots, so please wear surgical gloves when handling silver or any other solution.

  Fit the clean copper coil into the bottle/tube and fill it about one-third of the way with distilled water. Add the commercial silver solution until the entire contents take up half the container. Set your bottle or test tube in a beaker so you can watch your tree grow without worrying about spillage. It should take only a few minutes for the tree to start growing and form a splendid display of silvery foliage. The solution around the silver tree should gain a lovely blue color that accentuates the shine of the silver metal. A photograph of the Tree of Diana we created is shown in plate 4 in the photo insert.

  Imagine the sense of awe the alchemists must have felt to experience such beauty in the midst of their smoke, soot, and fire. It was reactions such as the Tree of Diana that led alchemists to believe that metals—such as gold—had a life of their own and might be made to grow.

  Of course, now, perhaps less romantically, we understand the chemistry of the Tree of Diana has to do with the relative tendencies of metals to corrode and dissolve into solution. The noble metals, the coinage metals, are used for coins because they resist corrosion; in other words, they resist turning into ions and going into solution. In our parting of gold, we had to heat our gold in fairly concentrated nitric acid to get it to dissolve. Copper also resists corrosion, but not as much as silver and gold, so it has more of a tendency to form ions and dissolve in solution. When the copper metal of our Tree of Diana was put into a solution of silver ions, the situation was the reverse of the natural tendencies of the metals, so they spontaneously switched positions. The copper ionized, turning the solution blue, and the silver became metal, growing on the copper like branches on a tree.