The Chemistry of Alchemy Read online

  But without benefit of atomic and molecular theory, and without understanding the nature of light (which would only begin with Newton in the next century), this reaction would appear wondrous to Libavius's eyes.

  PEARLS

  Have we just performed two alchemical demonstrations that don't require waiting? Don't worry. All is well. The next demonstration takes hours.

  This time-consuming (but worthwhile!) reaction was one reported by Oswald Croll, the alchemical mystic who believed Paracelsus knew the secret to the elixir of life. Partington describes the reaction as given by Croll in his book Basilica Chymica (Cathedral of Alchemy),10 and it is surprisingly straightforward. For this reaction, you will need vinegar, a beaker, a plastic spoon, and pure-white seashells (as described in “Stores and Ores”).

  Soak a handful of seashells in a quarter cup (about 60 milliliters) of vinegar until the fizzing stops. This may take an hour or more. Swirl the beaker gently to make certain the reaction is complete and then use a plastic spoon to remove the undissolved seashells.

  Pour the solution into a clean beaker and allow it to evaporate slowly at room temperature (this is the part that takes hours, even overnight). If you wish, you can speed up the process a little by setting the beaker in your cast-iron skillet on the lowest burner setting, just don't leave the burner on overnight.

  As the solution evaporates, it will deposit “pearls” on the side of the beaker. The pearls are quite hard, but if you move them to a moist environment (such as a steamy bathroom or near a pot of boiling water) or mist the pearls with a spray bottle, they should develop a shiny, pearly appearance.

  The chemistry of the situation is as follows: the vinegar, or acetic acid, reacts with the seashell, which is mostly calcium carbonate, to form calcium acetate (the white powder), carbon dioxide (a gas), and water, a reaction very similar to the baking-soda-and-vinegar reaction.

  Calcium acetate likes to absorb water to it, such as the loosely held waters that caused the white-to-blue transition of copper(II) sulfate observed by Zieglerin in demonstration 9. When the dry calcium acetate is misted with water, it gains a shiny, pearl-like appearance. Croll believed that these “pearls” were cures for sixteen different diseases. Actually, as a source of calcium, they could be helpful in treating osteoporosis, but it is doubtful that this long-range effect would have been recognized by the alchemists.

  Lovely pearls, nonetheless.

  At the beginning of this demonstration, we mentioned that it was surprisingly straightforward. Now we can tell you why. The recipe that follows it in Partington reads,

  A panchymagogon contains twelve ingredients. Mumia is made from the corpse of a red-headed man twenty-four years old who has suffered a violent death, cut into bits, sprinkled with myrrh and aloes, soaked in alcohol, dried, and extracted with alcohol “secundum artem”. The dry part is extracted with olive oil for a month, and the extract mixed with the tincture to form a theriac. The zenexton of Paracelsus is stamped into trosichs by a stamp engraved with characters, and the substance is made from dried toads, arsenic, pearls, gems, musk, etc.11

  We won't try reproducing that one.

  However, we have more excellent demonstrations coming up—including some shady ones—as we sneak around next with the charlatans and thieves.

  I knew once how to fix mercury and now I am fixed myself.

  sign hung on gallows reserved for alchemists

  by order of Frederick of Wurzburg, ca. 1500*

  We've plowed through polemics of Paracelsians, plodded through history of the philosophers’ stone, delved into theoretica and practica—now it's time for some fun. Let's walk dark alleys and peek into the back rooms of alchemical cozeners—the shady charlatans who seduced the gullible and traded off human greed. We may not respect their values, but we have to respect their skills. With clever hands, crafty words, and excellent alchemical expertise, they convinced the credulous they could make gold, and—at least for a while—they did: they pulled gold from the pockets of scholars and saints, sinners and fools.

  The chicanery commenced as soon as Alexandrian metalworkers realized they could make fake gold that could “fool even the artisan.” In the budding Islamic empire, erudite authors discussed the viability of a true transmutation, while others passed off their transmutations as true. More than one alchemical conniver slid through the streets of Fez with one hand—the other having been removed as a reminder of the offense.

  Transition to western Europe didn't help the situation. Remember Capocchio? His all-consuming passion for gold consumed him and the stake that tethered him.

  In the early 1300s, reports surfaced of mendicant friars providing for their needs by hoodwinking citizens with their counterfeiting skills.1 Chaucer, active in the late 1300s, painted so accurate a picture of an alchemical swindle that it is hard to believe he wasn't touched by one himself. In “The Canon's Yeoman's Tale,” he tells of a huckster who borrows money from a priest—and then returns it—therein earning the priest's trust. The con man then shows his skills in transmutation—in confidence, of course. He mixes powders in a crucible, buries it in coals, and then slips a silver-containing coal on top. When the silver has melted into the crucible, the charlatan has the priest discover the silver for himself. After a few other similar ruses, the priest begs him to sell the recipe for transmutation, which the swindler reluctantly does—for enough money to cover his sacrificial silver and more for his trouble—and then leaves town.2

  Equally entertaining are the real-life Renaissance miscreants, such as the Italian alchemical deceiver, Mamugna, who traveled with two black dogs he called his familiars. He ended up executed, along with the innocent dogs. George Honnauer (fl. 1590) hid a small boy in the laboratory, so when the audience wasn't looking, the child threw gold into the crucible. When Honnauer was discovered, he was hanged.3 History does not record what happened to the boy.

  Alchemical swindlers tended to be indiscriminant as well as amoral, and their victims included peasants (though rarely these hardened folk), men of the cloth (when tithing ran a little low), and royalty, the favorite target by far, where there was more money and perhaps the attraction of tweaking the tiger's tail.

  Most interesting, however, may be the alchemists who victimized alchemists, which happened from time to time. Case in point is the convoluted account of John Dee and Edward Kelly: two alchemists, one spiritual and one spiritualist, and the many adventures they had.

  JOHN DEE AND EDWARD KELLY

  Born in England, circa 1555, Edward Kelly used at least one other name, Edward Talbot, in his career.4 We don't have much in the way of a physical description, but he would have been recognizable from the cropped ear he received for debasing the coinage. Ear cropping was a standard punishment, probably because it made an impression on acquaintances as well as the offender, and it fit the crime, which often involved clipping the edges of silver and gold coins. Yet such were the conversational talents of Edward Kelly that his forced disfigurement didn't seem to be off-putting—at least not for John Dee, accomplished mathematician, alchemist, astronomer, astrologer, and navigational consultant to Queen Elizabeth I.

  Figure 11.1. John Dee. (Image used by permission of Edgar Fahs Smith History of Chemistry Collection. Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of Pennsylvania.)

  John Dee, Kelly's victim, was born in 1527 in London and was the son of a dealer in fine textiles. Dee found his fascination in the new Arabic arithmetic that was being introduced to Europe by the humanists of his time.5 As a mathematician, he had an accompanying fascination for the occult. While this may seem a bit bipolar from our modern perspective, it was quite in keeping with the Renaissance mentality. Mathematics can seem magical with its power, and the new learning was regarded with suspicion, as new learning will be. Censors, self-appointed or otherwise, equated the new math with conjuring, and some books on mathematics were burned in Tudor England for skirting too close to the occult. Perhaps then it was natural when Dee decided to consult with
angels.6

  In 1581 Dee began shopping for a medium to help him contact angels. When he considered Kelly for the job, he checked his references and found Kelly was a liar, a fraud, and a cheat but, astonishingly, hired him anyway. What makes this so difficult to understand is that Dee had to know the nature of the man. In his excellent history of Dee and Kelly, author Benjamin Woolley points out that Kelly was just one of many confidence men and self-styled spiritualists, known as skryers, who wandered the roads of England at this time.7 Economic refugees, these displaced men had earned the appellation “cunning man” because they would tell a fortune, summon a spirit, or spin a yarn for food and comfort. But this common knowledge, for some reason, didn't dissuade Dee.

  Apparently Edward Kelly knew how to talk, and not just to angels. Kelly stayed in Dee's employ for the next seven years.

  The manner in which they worked was impressive. Kelly looked into a sort of crystal ball, a show stone, while Dee asked him questions. Kelly passed the questions to the angels, and the angels answered—but only to Kelly. He would convey the answer to Dee, and Dee would dutifully write it down in his notes. Remarkably, this ruse was as transparent as the crystal ball, but Dee believed.

  Kelly's confidence game was standard issue, and he must have been very good at it. He had an answer for everything. He was intelligent and kept up on current politics and events. He was astute enough to predict Mary, Queen of Scots, would be beheaded before the ax fell and that there would be a Spanish sea attack on England before the armada was launched. But these were just two of the predictions that filled Dee's notebooks, and Kelly took the precaution of introducing evil spirits that would try to trick him with false predictions. If the information was right, it came from an angel. If it was wrong, it was obviously an evil spirit.

  And Dee believed—but then it's only a small leap from belief in angels to acceptance of evil spirits—and Dee was looking for answers. He had an extensive library with hundreds of alchemical books and manuscripts and a workroom in his home where he performed alchemical experiments. Kelly started out as just another tool in Dee's search for knowledge, but turned out to be an obsession. Kelly moved in with Dee, and the occupation began.

  Such was the power of Kelly over Dee that when there were rumors that Kelly was going to be arrested in England for swindling and debasing money, instead of prompting Dee to divest himself of the man, this information inspired Dee to leave with Kelly, and their families and servants, for the European continent, at night, in small boats.

  No doubt the move involved the advice of angelic spirits because the conversations continued on the continent. Kelly gave Dee reports gleaned from the stone, including news of his extended family, the political situation, and the prediction his library was going to be raided. And it was raided. True portent? Lucky guess?

  Or setup?

  Given his record for remarkable prognostications, Kelly either had connections to the spirit world—or England. We're leaning toward England.

  As we mentioned in our chapter on Paracelsian women, Lady Margaret Clifford traveled in high-level alchemical circles, and, through these connections, she may have had access to the books she needed to have “The Margaret Manuscript” compiled. Through these connections, we also said, she flirted with the dangerous world of alchemical fraud. Now we can clarify: the fraud we had in mind was Edward Kelly.

  Penny Bayer, Clifford's biographer, made a link between Clifford and Dee by pointing out that “The Margaret Manuscript” contained a good deal of information found in books like those in Dee's library. Moreover, Bayer posited a meeting between Clifford and Dee, though she found no hard evidence.8 If a raid on Dee's library was planned by someone in communication with Kelly, it could explain his “prediction.” It would also explain how the raiders knew the coast was clear. But any connection between Kelly and Clifford is, for now, a well-kept secret.

  In any case, the raid was unhappy news for Dee because some treasured gifts, such as two globes of Earth and of a planetary system,9 were also taken. They were monetary as well as intellectual treasures at a time when western Europe was just beginning to grasp the meaning of Earth's shape and position in the universe. And at this point, Dee really could not afford further losses of any kind. He and his dependent, Kelly, were in financial straits.

  Rudolf II, the Holy Roman emperor, was suggested to Dee as a possible patron. We mentioned Rudolf II last chapter, in connection with Libavius and his patronage of the sciences of the day, including alchemy. We will have cause to return to his court in future chapters, too. He was a highly influential—and intriguing—Renaissance patron. Rudolf welcomed many and varied scholars to his court (except Libavius), so Dee's application was a reasonable one.

  In 1584, on their arrival in the empire, an alchemical adviser to Rudolf II took them in, and by September of the same year they had an invitation to court. Dee went, but Kelly, suffering from a hangover, stayed away. Or perhaps he worried, when he doffed his cap, the emperor would see the cropped ears. Nonetheless, after the audience, the spirits told Kelly to tell Dee to tell Rudolf II that he, Dee, knew how to make the philosophers’ stone. But it didn't matter because Dee did not speak personally to the emperor after that. His interviewing skills may not have been as refined as those of Kelly.

  Fortunately there were other possible patrons who shopped Gold Alley, as it was called, the area of Prague that housed the alchemists drawn to try their luck at Rudolf's court. Finally, in 1586, three years after leaving England, Kelly gave a demonstration of his gold-making abilities. Using a red powder of projection, he made nearly one ounce of gold from an ounce and a half of mercury. In metric measure, that would be about 30 grams of gold made from 45 grams of mercury. Metric or English, the goldsmith present pronounced it pure, good gold.

  How did the scoundrel do it? True, the demonstration may have been by firelight and candlelight and the costume of the day was a robe with many folds, but his audience was not naïve and was well aware of alchemical fraud. They would have been watching closely. If the bribe was high enough, the goldsmith might have allied with Kelly and given a false report, but Kelly was not one to share confidences.

  In addition, if Dee was not an accomplice (which fits what we know of him), then Dee would have to be fooled, too. But he was familiar with optical illusions and mechanical sleight of hand, as he had incorporated these effects in a stage design back in England.10 An alchemist in his own right, Dee should have been able to recognize what Kelly was doing.11 Therefore, there can only be one conclusion: however he did it, Kelly was good.

  A year later, perhaps feeling Dee's fascination fade, Kelly stirred up the pot by announcing he was going to stop crystal-ball gazing. Dee panicked. He attempted to train his son, Arthur, to fill Kelly's place, but Arthur just couldn't seem to see the same things. As Dee's desperation heightened, Kelly relented for one more session, to show the boy how it was done—and, wonder of wonders, the spirits told Kelly that he and Dee should swap wives.12

  Such was the extent of Kelly's hold on Dee that the event occurred. Once. No one took notes this time, but the exchange did not happen again. The next day was the last séance held by Kelly with Dee.

  Dee was summoned back to England by Queen Elizabeth, some say to do alchemy, but Elizabeth I seemed more interested in the Northwest Passage than alchemy and may have had more need for his navigational skill. Dee took his family back to England by 1589.

  Kelly, however, stayed. Rudolf made him Sir Edward Kelly and honored him with a coat of arms and property.

  As Sir Edward, Kelly initially did well for himself. He continued his impressive transmutations and projections. Such was his reputation that he was summoned back to England by Queen Elizabeth—but he demurred. At one point in his letters, he even seems to be bargaining with the queen of England, hinting that money and land would ease the channel voyage.

  Yet, predictably, storm clouds gathered. Other pretenders for the emperor's attention became disgruntled. An emissary from
England arrived wanting to know what Kelly was up to. The end came when Emperor Rudolf abruptly ordered Kelly's arrest in 1591—but the all-seeing Kelly slipped out before the constable arrived.

  His family and servants were detained, and his brother may have been tortured, but Kelly was gone.

  From that point, Kelly ran, was caught, talked his way free, wrote The Stone of the Philosophers (dedicated to Rudolf II), and was caught again. Although the exact date and manner of his death is unknown, the most consistent tale is that he fell in an attempt to escape from prison and died from his injuries. Communicating with angels the hard way.

  After the documented adventures of the Renaissance miscreants, it would seem that the world would become wise, but such was not the case. Take, for instance, Krohnemann.

  KROHNEMANN

  In the late 1600s, an alchemist named Krohnemann convinced the margrave of Brandenburg of his gold-making abilities and was made director of the mint and mines.13 Eventually arrested on fraud, he managed to convince his captors to allow him to continue experimenting for five more years—in jail—but after one nearly successful escape attempt, he was put to trial. At his trial, he revealed his method for making false gold, a version of which we will use in the demonstration that accompanies this chapter. But Krohnemann also confessed to sweetening the pot with a little gold from the Margrave's coffers, which did not help his case. He survived the trial, but not for long.

  A similar fate awaited Domenico Caetano.

  DOMENICO CAETANO

  Born near Naples in the late 1600s, Domenico Manuel Caetano14 became a goldsmith's apprentice, but soon he, too, decided to take the path less trodden. He learned enough about alchemy to pass himself off as an alchemist and learned enough about spiritualism to claim he could talk to the spirits.