The Chemistry of Alchemy Read online

  Did Renaissance rulers really use vile poisons? Of course! They used every weapon in their arsenal. This was not an era when deposed rulers could expect to retire to their country estates. People thrust out of power could languish in prison, lose their heads, or be subjected to public humiliation by more gruesome execution. In fact, poison as a means of permanent parole was considered humane.

  Caterina de Medici's biographer, Leonie Frieda,2 related a story of an incident between the queen and a leader of a Protestant faction, Prince de Condé, in which a perfumed apple was created by the perfumer René as a gift to Condé. The prince's surgeon, being reasonably suspicious of a Catholic queen presenting a Protestant rival with a gift, cut off a slice and gave it to his dog, who promptly keeled over. (The Renaissance was rather hard on dogs.) Frieda was reasonably cautious about the veracity of the tale but then noted, “Whether this particular story is true or not, we can be certain that by now Catherine had resorted to some sinister…practices to dispatch her enemies.”3

  The nineteenth-century author and playwright Honore de Balzac, always less reticent to tell a tale, reported in his fictionalized history of Caterina de Medici that René was known for his elixir of inheritance,4 a method for speeding the demise of a benefactor, and his laboratory was connected to the queen's rooms by secret passage so he could dispense to her whenever necessary the required “perfume.”

  It is difficult to find records of legitimate, let alone clandestine, activities during this era, so proof of poisonings other than those planned and announced is sparse. It is possible René, maligned unfairly, was a perfumer and his job was just that: to make perfumes. Yet the technology required to create perfumes—herbal extraction—was certainly the same for making many poisons.5

  On the other hand, perfume was just one of Caterina de Medici's interests in alchemy-related enterprises. She also patronized Paracelsian medicine, and she patronized art, including the ceramics of Bernard Palissy.6

  At first, pottery may not seem a proper profession for an alchemist, but during the Renaissance porcelain was at times more precious than gold.7 Porcelain, described as a “magical substance…so eggshell fine that you could…see daylight through it, so perfect that if you tapped it a musical note would resound,”8 was made only in China with a process so ferociously guarded not a hint leaked out in all the years since first described by the thirteenth-century explorer Marco Polo. Bernard Palissy knew, as soon as he saw his first teacup, this was what he wanted to create, but he would not be the one to realize the dream.

  POTTERY AND PALISSY

  The Frenchman Bernard Palissy (ca. 1509–ca. 1589)9 was born to a working-class family.10 Designing and making stained-glass windows was his first trade, but his earnings did not meet the needs of his growing family, so he went into surveying work. He still felt the pinch and turned to ceramics to augment his income. When he had his ill-fated encounter with the teacup, he was already a skilled glass painter, so he believed he had a chance to be the one to unlock the secret of porcelain. But the fates had something else in mind.

  He wrote his own life story in De l'art de terre (The Art of Earth), and in his account, Palissy tended to wax a little melodramatic. He claimed to have learned alchemy “by the teeth,” without benefit of tutor, which may have been true, but then he adds, after years of fruitless effort, he was reduced to burning his furniture to fuel his kiln—which doesn't ring true. Trading his furniture for the equivalent value in raw wood would have yielded more heat than burning the couch, but perhaps he was attempting to increase the entertainment value and sales of his book.

  Nevertheless, he finally had a breakthrough in 1557. It wasn't porcelain, but he developed a glaze and method for creating ceramic works adorned with lizards, snakes, fish, insects, and plants so lifelike that Palissy said a dog came in his shop to investigate them. Even if doubtful, it is a nice description by which to visualize his art.

  The quality of his work, even by estimates other than his own, was such that he achieved a degree of fame and attracted patrons, one of whom was Caterina de Medici, as mentioned above. Living in art-loving Renaissance France, Palissy finally gained a share of fortune—but a bit of misfortune, too. Palissy was a Huguenot at a time when it was not good to be a Huguenot in France.

  The Huguenots were French Protestants. Their presence in France was tenuous from the beginning but came to a head in 1572 with the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre—a choreographed, simultaneous execution of key Huguenot leaders in France, with collateral damage. Caterina de Medici managed to protect her potter—Bernard Palissy was explicitly exempted from the massacre—but fame and success and even his queen could not protect him forever.

  Palissy was arrested in 1588. Although, by his account, he was visited in prison by Caterina's son and king of France Henry III (again slightly doubtful), even this royal friendship did not change the consequences of refusing to go to mass. Palissy languished in the Bastille, taunted by a jailer who told him each day he was going to be executed soon, until death robbed the jailer of his amusement. Palissy was eighty years old.

  Pieces by Palissy are kept in the Louvre in Paris as treasured art. Nonetheless, Palissy cursed the alchemy that taught him the techniques by which he created his signature glazes. These glazes brought him fame, but they did not bring him closer to porcelain. Ironically, it would be an alchemist who finally laid claim to the porcelain prize, but that cloak-and-dagger play would take place at a later date, and we will tell it at another time.

  Nevertheless, before dying, Palissy gave a friend a fossilized skull and said it was his philosophers’ stone. What did he mean by this? Did he mean that the philosophers’ stone was as worthless as a long-empty skull? Or was he saying in the calcified skull he saw the origins of the ceramic earth that was his treasure? We will never know. But his friend kept the skull carefully in a cupboard “in memory of this good old man whom I loved and cared for in his necessity, not as I would have wished, but as I could.”11

  In our next chapter we will look at two other Renaissance alchemists who also supplemented their income with writing. These two, however, had very different approaches, both from each other and from Palissy.

  But first, to the workshop of the alchemical artisan!

  DEMONSTRATION 12. PRACTICAL ALCHEMY

  Practical alchemy is not an oxymoron. As we've learned, not all alchemists were independently wealthy. Even if they started out wealthy, they probably didn't stay that way. The phrase died penniless shows up with distressing frequency in the biographies of alchemists. So it often became necessary to exploit the skills they'd accumulated in the search for transmutation to produce a different product. Dyes and pigments were popular because the alchemist knew how to purify materials so the color was clean and consistent. The alchemist also knew how to control the temperature of a calcination or a distillation for the best result, which required adjusting vents, arranging coals, and positioning the pot. They knew their materials. They knew their equipment. They got the job done.

  In this demonstration, we will be dealing with some of the alchemists’ more popular products: herbal cordials, perfumes, and dyes. In fact, in the 1600s, Otto Tachenius was reported to have said, “there is not an Old Woman in Italy, but will inveigh against the opposers of this [alchemical] Art…. For without it, it is impossible for them to find out any thing to Colour and Dye their Hair.”12

  Despite the insensitivity of the statement, the truth is apparent: The alchemists’ skills were able to make money, just not gold.

  DISPOSAL

  All solids from these demonstrations can go in the trash and the liquids can go down the sink, but keep your plumbing bills down and flush with plenty of cool water.

  RENÉ THE PARFUMIER

  As we said, poor, maligned Maître René was probably just a perfumer, but this demonstration will show how easily his skills could be extrapolated to create poisons. Some of the deadliest poisons are herbal in origin: monkshood, belladonna, nicotine. In fact, the onl
y limitation to their general employment in the Renaissance was their distinctive aroma and taste. The mineral poison of preference in the Renaissance, arsenic,13 also had a distinct taste, but the taste is said to be garlic-like, a spice liberally used in Renaissance cooking.

  The perfume we will be creating in this demonstration is called rose water. Rose water has been a staple of the perfumer since at least the time of the Islamic empire,14 and hopefully from the result of this demonstration you will smell the reason.

  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. You will need a half dozen yellow roses (yellow for reasons presently apparent), and the results will be better if they are all the same variety. Try to find the most aromatic. Cut off the flowers.

  Separate two flowers into petals and place half of the petals in the basket of the glass stovetop percolator we suggested for purchase in “Stores and Ores.” Add water to the 2- to 3-cup level marked on the percolator. Alternatively, you can put petals from two of your roses in a beaker with 200 milliliters of water, using the markings on your beaker to measure the water. The results with a percolator are a bit more pleasing and demonstrate how René might have proceeded, but the beaker works as well. If you are using a percolator, heat the water until it begins to percolate. This is usually just under full heat, but follow the guidelines given by the manufacturer for the percolator. If you are using a beaker, set the beaker in your cast-iron skillet and heat it on 40 percent power or whichever power setting gives you a nice simmer. Cover with a watch glass.

  Allow the roses to percolate or simmer until you can smell the aroma in a sample of the water, which should be in about twenty to thirty minutes. Pour some of the rose water into a disposable cup and sample the aroma.

  If you are wondering why we use a manufactured percolator with guidelines to do alchemy, rest easy. Manufactured percolators with guidelines weren't in the alchemists’ cupboards, but they did indeed have percolators15 and used them to make herbal extractions such as coffee. However, please do not try to make coffee in this percolator after you've made rose water. It's not just unsafe—you don't know what compounds were extracted from the roses (maybe some that René could use in his other occupation)—but it might also make some very nasty tasting coffee.

  LION'S BLOOD

  As promised, we are now ready to make Anna Maria Zieglerin's lion's blood—or at least our version of it. As far as we know, she never divulged her secret recipe. However by some accounts it had a yellow color, which is why we chose yellow roses.

  Fill the basket of the percolator or beaker as before, but this time, fill the pot or beaker with a premixed mixture of two parts water, one part 70 percent rubbing alcohol. Please recall from our demonstration of distillation (demonstration 5) that this alcohol is flammable as it comes from the bottle, undiluted, so it would be a bad idea to have full-strength alcohol around a heat source.

  You've already located your fire extinguisher in the course of other demonstrations, but check to see it's where you left it.

  Warm the pot as before until it begins to percolate, or warm the beaker until it simmers. The temperature needed should be a bit lower than in the first part of this demonstration.

  Continue the extraction until you have nice, lightly colored yellow water. Lion's blood.

  The second extraction should have colored the water more intensely than the first. Why? It could be that alcohol disrupts the cell walls of the roses, releasing more color, but it could also be a matter of solubility. The molecules that create the scent of the rose are water soluble as well as alcohol soluble. The molecules that lend color to the rose, however, seem to be more soluble in alcohol.

  This difference in behavior can be understood by considering oil and water. Some materials are soluble in oil (peanut butter) and some are soluble in water (jelly). But oil and water are not soluble in each other. They do not mix.

  Alcohol, however, is a sort of hybrid molecule that is part water and part oil, so it can mix with water but also mix with the oil-like molecules that give color to the rose. Vitamins have different solubilities, too, which depend on whether the vitamin molecule is more water-like or more oil-like. That is why Anne of Denmark's alcohol cordials were indeed healthy. Lots of vitamins. And lots of fun.

  On the dark side, the molecules responsible for the poisonous properties of monkshood, belladonna, and nicotine are also soluble in water/alcohol mixtures. A thorn among the roses.

  PALISSY'S MORDANT

  A mordant is a molecule that attaches to cloth and forms a complex with dye molecules. As a result, mordants essentially anchor the dye to the material. Palissy was first and foremost an artist and, as such, interested in color. In this demonstration, we will investigate the color-fixing power of alum as Palissy did. If you enjoy the process, you may want to investigate natural dyes and dyeing.

  Get a piece of white, pure-cotton cloth, such as an old T-shirt. The weave should not matter. Cut out a square about 8 inches on each side. Cut the square in half.

  Take a water-soluble colored marker (sold as washable markers) and place it, cap off and writing end down, into a small bowl of water or one of your plastic cups. The dye from the marker should start to seep out and into the water, coloring the water. If it does not, you may not have washable markers.

  On paper towels, set out two ceramic or heat-resistant glass bowls capable of holding 4 cups (about 1 liter) of water each. Boil about eight cups of water. Add about a tablespoon (15 milliliters) of alum to one of the bowls and write something like “alum” on the paper towel next to that bowl so you will know which cloth is treated with mordant.

  Divide the boiling water evenly between the two bowls. Put one piece of cloth in each bowl and allow them to sit in the water for at least an hour.

  Obviously the piece of cloth in the plain water will not experience any change, but by treating both pieces of cloth exactly the same, we assure ourselves that any difference will be from the alum, not the other treatments.

  Divide the marker-colored water into two containers. These containers can be plastic if that is more convenient. Place one piece of cloth in one container and the other piece of cloth in the other container, noting which container holds the alum-soaked cloth. Let them sit in the colored water for at least another hour.

  Remove the two pieces of cloth, wring them out, and spread them flat to dry overnight.

  The next day, wash both cloths in warm, soapy water. The cloth without the alum should lose its dye while the other cloth should retain at least some color.

  A secret an alchemist would know!

  We learn more secrets of alchemists next when we look at Renaissance alchemical authors.

  When I had emptied to the dregs the cup of human suffering…I…[withdrew] myself from the evil world…to devote myself to the service of God. When I had spent some years at the monastery, I found…I still had some time on my hands…. I determined to use it for the study and investigation of…natural secrets.

  Basil Valentine, ca. 1600, author of The Twelve Keys*

  Written communication has existed since primitives drew bison on cave walls, and if someone brought the artist a slice of roast beast while the effort was underway, then professional writing was born at that moment, too. The practice continued: first walls, then tablets, then scrolls, then books, all written with various motivations, some noble and some not so much. In this chapter we will examine the writings of two alchemical authors, one clearly not noble, the other one, perhaps. The first is Leonard Thurneysser, the unscrupulous one.

  LEONARD THURNEYSSER

  Born in Switzerland in 1531, Thurneysser1 forsook university for the school of hard knocks. He learned his father's profession, goldsmithing, a little alchemy, and then married, but he abandoned his wife and residence when he was caught selling gilded lead as gold. He traveled Europe until he was shanghaied to work in the mines, which, although probably not appreciated at the time, turned out to help him with his professional grifting. Eventually released, he worked as a goldsm
ith and then managed to insinuate himself into royal employ.

  Having a way with courtly supporters, he continued on this path. Next, with the Elector of Brandenburg, he established a production laboratory that supplied chemical commodities such as mineral acids, drugs, and perfumes. With the funds he earned in his employment, he set up a printing house and made himself a printer.

  As a printer, Thurneysser found a new way to make pocket change. He published his own books of magic spells, medicines, alchemy, and prophecies, and—borrowing a page from Paracelsus—he made up words or, less creatively, borrowed them from languages he did not understand. At least some of the language has been identified as Hungarian (and swear words at that), but he also used Greek, Arabic, Syrian, and Hebrew. He quoted Paracelsus, but made up the quotes.

  Since no one had stopped him from passing himself off as an author, Thurneysser decided to pass himself off as an alchemist and open a school for alchemy. The golden trail played out, however, when he was accused of murder, almost lost his business when it was run by his brother, and then finally lost his fortune when his third wife divorced him and the courts sided with her.

  The last straw came when Thurneysser failed to make gold and silver for his patron and was drummed out of Brandenburg. However he found succor with Grand Duke Ferdinand di Medici in Florence, and in 1586, after one particular dinner with Medici, he entertained the assembled company by changing an iron nail into gold, a maneuver easily duplicated by coating a gold nail with black wax or ink and dipping it in a solution that will remove the cover and reveal gold underneath. Though this trick could be mimicked with simple materials and techniques, it astounded the Renaissance crowd. Reportedly the Cardinal di Medici kept the relic of this transmutation on display for a number of years.