Mauve

by Simon Garfield

  Much to the relief of BASF and AGFA, the government chose to ignore another statistic: while the dried fabric was deemed safe, substantial traces of arsenic were found in water after the first wash, suggesting that the cheaper dyes were far from colour-fast, and presented a considerable risk after exposure to rain or perspiration.

  The dilemma was fierce but not new. In 1862, William Cowper, Chief Commissioner of Works, had asked August Hofmann to examine the green compounds in a woman’s ballroom head-dress. He found it rich in arsenical Schweinfurt green. Hofmann noted that the same substance was used in many ball gowns, and frequently in wallpaper; it had been banned from such use in Bavaria. He concluded: ‘It will, I think, be admitted that the arsenic-crowned Queen of the Ball, whirling along in an arsenic cloud, presents under no circumstances a very attractive object of contemplation; but the spectacle – does it not become truly melancholy when our thoughts turn to the poor poisoned artiste who wove the gay wreath, in the endeavour to prolong a sickly and miserable existence already undermined by this destructive occupation.’

  In the mid-1860s, the Swiss dye firm of J. J. Muller-Pack and Co. faced a health crisis extreme enough to lead to its collapse. The company had leased land on two sites from the traditional dyewood firm J. G. Geigy, and produced mauve, fuchsine and aniline violet, blue and green. The director of the company had visited Manchester to secure the rights for aniline black from Roberts, Dale and Co., and he may have met Perkin to discuss other colours. Business boomed until 1864, when people living near its two factories in Basle began falling ill from water drawn from their wells. In one notorious case, the family and staff of a wealthy landowner became sick after drinking tea.

  An investigation revealed that local water had a ‘strange disgusting smell that was not well defined … You could not get this smell from normal drinking water.’ Muller-Pack and Co. was found guilty of arsenic pollution, and was fined and forced to close. The founder of the company was humiliated by a court order to hand-deliver clean drinking water to the locals. New anti-pollution legislation had some effect on the behaviour of other aniline companies in Europe, particularly the desire in Germany to move factories to the banks of the Rhine, where effluent would be broken up by the current and dissolved from sight.

  But the health debate would not subside. Its next battleground was England, and in particular the pages of The Times and the medical journals in 1884. The main issue now was fastness: although many of the earliest dyes retained their intense colours after many washings, less skilled and less principled dyers were now producing products of inferior quality, often with injurious results. A few years after the German enquiry, a letter appeared in The Times from a correspondent calling himself Paterfamilias. ‘The unusually hot season has given rise to numerous complaints of unaccountable skin eruptions, which have been attributed to the heat or a feverish state of the system. The real cause, however, is often to be found in the exhibit of Mr Startin, MRCS, in the east quadrant of the Health Exhibition, which contains some horrible examples of skin disease, caused by wearing, when in a state of perspiration, hosiery and flannel coloured with aniline dyes.’

  James Startin was a surgeon and lecturer at the St John’s Hospital for Skin Diseases in London, and had filled a glass display case with models showing the awful effects of aniline on skin. There were photos too – terrible purulent eruptions. Next to these was a collection of natural dyes from vegetable and insects, including indigo, cochineal and safflower, which were perfectly harmless. Paterfamilias observed that indigo was used as much as ever in England, chiefly because no artificial substitute had yet been found. ‘But the brilliant and permanent scarlet produced by lac dye or cochineal is seldom to be found now … The assertion that aniline dyes are only injurious when they contain arsenic is quite false; they are chiefly noxious because of their volatility.’

  Four days later, The Times ran another letter from William Gowland of Essex. He wrote of his knowledge of a woman who purchased red silk stockings near Charing Cross, and later found that her skin was in such a high state of inflammation that she felt compelled to consult a doctor. The doctor pronounced the stockings dyed with aniline and therefore ‘poisonous’. Mr Gowland trusted that the public would give their full attention to this important matter.

  Another correspondent, writing as Anti-Aniline, had also visited, or perhaps owned, a stall in the east quadrant of the International Health Exhibition, and found that it provided relief from the perils of the new dyes. Here you could buy stockings ‘made by the peasants of Donegal’ coloured entirely with vegetable dyes. ‘Notwithstanding all our boasted advance in technical education it would seem that the efforts of our chemists and dyers have resulted in the production of a volatile substitute for the old fast dyes formerly in use, which is calculated to deceive the consumer to the benefit of the manufacturer and shopkeeper, and ultimately to degrade the character of our coloured textile manufactures. The Shah of Persia was more foreseeing than Englishmen, for he at once discovered the fugitive nature of aniline dyes, and excluded their importation lest they should injure the good name of Persian carpets.’

  A few days later the news worsened. Wearing coal-tar colours was only a small problem compared to the horrors of eating them. ‘There is every reason to fear that in these “cheap and nasty” times aniline dyes are being used to a considerable extent in the manufacture of sweets and confectionery,’ wrote Detector from Mincing Lane. Detector had recently seen the analysis of one type of yellow sweet and was shocked to learn it contained 50 per cent picric acid, ‘a poison hardly less deadly than arsenic itself; the rest was probably chalk’. Some dyemakers had refused to accept orders from confectioners, but not all. ‘The Shah of Persia is not the only authority by whom the use of aniline dyes has been forbidden, for the Swedish government will not, I believe, allow them in the country. Here, in this gloriously free country, all appears to be allowed, even to the slow poisoning of our little ones.’

  The final accusatory correspondent – and there were none who wrote in favour of the new dyes – remarked on another detrimental effect, namely ‘the altered appearance of most of the carpets and curtains of the present day after a comparatively short exposure to the light, on account of the fugitive nature of the dye used. Aniline colours are largely used by dyers on account of their convenience and the facility of application; but the public suffer immensely, and the remedy is in their hands.’

  The Times leader writers believed that the remedy lay in their hands as well. It noted that these complaints had been made for a number of years, but there was hope that the extent of the evil had been exaggerated. ‘The wearers of aniline dyed fabrics are countless, while the persons who suffer from them are at least exceptional; and, so far, no cases of aniline poisoning by confectionery have come under our notice.’

  The editorial was suspicious of the severity of most claims, and supported the relentless industrial process. Short of legislation banning all artificial dyes, and thereby gravely damaging dye works and the textile trade, there was little to be done except advise its readers to be vigilant. The revolution in synthetic colour had already gone too far. ‘The suggestion that the use of the dyes should be abandoned in favour of cochineal, indigo, madder and other animal or vegetable substances, is unpractical, because the supply of these substances is limited, and has been far outgrown by the demand for coloured goods. It would now be impossible to return to what we may call the pre-aniline stage of manufacture, and we must be content with the enforcement of such precautions as may banish or minimise the risk of injury.’

  Rather than follow Persia or Sweden (whose restrictions were largely dictated by protectionist rather than health concerns), The Times trusted to the responsibilities of British traders. ‘A purchaser who suffered in health and pocket after wearing a given pair of stockings or gloves would unquestionably have his remedy against the seller. Even if the penalty fell in the first instance upon the retailer, it would ultimately reach the manufacturer,
and it would be sufficient to hinder the distribution of imperfectly cleansed fabrics as ordinary articles of commerce.’

  The main culprit was arsenic acid, used in the oxidation process of several colours. Arsenic was still in limited use, despite an awareness of its devastating effects. Its use in wallpaper and paint was particularly popular, not least in a pale green shade that had caught on in the mid-1860s. Here, arsenite of copper was not just a constituent of the dye but the dye itself, and became known, after its Swedish inventor, as Scheele’s Green (Karl Wilhelm Scheele was one of the greatest experimental chemists of the eighteenth century, responsible for groundbreaking work on oxygen and other gases and acids). At Guy’s Hospital in London a surgeon had been presented with many patients suffering from sore eyelids and lips and lung and throat complaints, and he was the first to isolate a universal cause. A cheap and widely used type of wallpaper was decorated in green foliage and flowers, the pattern made up in thick relief of arsenite of copper. Under heat or agitation from brushing or cleaning, particles of dust would slowly poison people in the room.

  The newspapers and medical journals carried many reports, and caused considerable panic amongst readers. The Times noted, ‘It was not very uncommon for children who slept in a bedroom thus papered even to die of arsenical poisoning, the true nature of the malady not being discovered until it was too late.’

  A committee comprising chemists, dyers and some medical men was formed by the Society of Arts to consider the danger, and concluded that the best policy would be public education. The message appeared to be simple: don’t buy green wallpaper. Other colours were promoted and bought instead, but with wide use of aniline dyes the problem returned. Arsenic acid used in the manufacturing process of other dyes had often not been adequately filtered and washed away.

  The British Medical Journal noted that the problem largely affected the working class. Coal-tar dyes had brought a greater choice of colours to the masses, yet also gave a new interpretation to Thackeray’s definition of the Great Unwashed; adorned in the more fugitive hues of low-quality garments, it soon became clear that colour-fastness was best preserved by avoiding detergents. ‘The cheaper magenta and scarlet fabrics are much sought after by the poorer labouring classes for underclothing, stockings and trimmings,’ noted the BMJ. ‘The safest plan in regard to clothing is to discard all transient colours, and to be content with as much show as is wholesome. The risk incurred by wearing aniline or arsenic next to an absorptive skin, or by breathing the atmosphere of a room loaded with particles rubbed off the wallpaper, overbalances any ornamental effects which these pigments can afford.’

  The dye trade took a little while to respond to this crisis, but then did so with clinical thoroughness. The Society of Dyers and Colourists decided that what was needed was proof, for the public outcry was based on hearsay and inadequate evidence. While the Society acknowledged that the wallpaper incidents had been regrettable, it claimed that by 1870 great pains had been taken to eliminate the problem. It would not accept that its textile dyes had ever caused the problems described in the press.

  Accordingly, it had been in correspondence with James Startin, whose shocking display had been at the root of this predicament. From the start, they tried to paint Startin as a charlatan, a doctor who had no idea of their complex trade. ‘We want the truth, and well authenticated cases, and proof that aniline dye has produced the injurious effect alleged,’ pronounced one member. ‘Fortunately, chemistry is a science which deals only with facts. It does not deal with speculative opinions or sensational exhibits.’

  Unfortunately, it now had to: dyers acknowledged the untold damage the exhibition and its publicity could inflict on its industry in the long term; already the London Commercial Record had reported that customers were specifically asking for goods not dyed with the new colours.

  The dyers argued that it was quite possible that arsenic or sulphuric acid could be introduced into the dyeing method of vegetable dyes, perhaps in the mordanting process. It was quite possible that the material itself might be to blame. It was likely that the materials in question had not been dyed with aniline at all, or at least not British aniline, or at least not aniline that was applied with the help of a skilled chemist.

  The Society regretted that Mr Startin was obliged to turn down its offer to attend one of its meetings due to other engagements. He did, however, send some small samples from his exhibit, and these would be examined and a report prepared for a future gathering. In the meantime, the colourists were left to dispute Startin’s findings with some inexact science of their own. One member, Charles Rawson, mentioned a little practical experiment he had conducted at home and on the streets. He held up two hanks of woollen yarn, one dyed with cochineal, one with aniline scarlet. He told how some of the yarn had been made into socks, and how for a week he had worn the cochineal sock on his left foot, and the aniline scarlet one on his right. ‘My brother has made a similar experiment,’ he explained, ‘and in neither case has the slightest irritation or inconvenience been experienced.’ Mr Rawson suggested that like experiments might be conducted on a more extensive scale.

  The Society’s honorary secretary G. H. France had done some research of his own, writing to dye works throughout Europe asking whether their workers were getting sick. In the factories, people handled dyes in large quantities every day, often with no protection to their hands: were there any cases of skin disease or rash? BASF replied from Ludwigshafen that although it employed a great many hands making many varied dyes, they had never heard of any complaints. Leopold Cassella and Co., from Frankfurt am Main, said they were producing 30 classes of coal-tar colours, but that arsenic was only used in one of them, magenta. In this case, arsenic made up only 1 per cent of magenta crystals, and 95 per cent of this remained in the dye bath. ‘We may also state that the workmen employed in the manufacture have always their skin and saliva intensely dyed with the colour, and, notwithstanding this, the men are perfectly well and healthy, and their mortality compares very favourably with that of other workmen who never come near the dyes.’ The German government had appointed an expert committee to conduct their own investigation, and it concluded that the dyes were quite harmless. The committee included August Wilhelm Hofmann. He and his colleagues reasoned that the dyes were so safe they could happily be incorporated into foodstuffs.

  In Britain, Ivan Levinstein reported from Blackley, near Manchester. He said that in all his years as a colour maker he could not recall one single case of skin eruption on his staff. Williams Bros and Ekin, from Hounslow, Middlesex, mentioned that an analytical chemist from London called Antony Nesbitt fed his rabbits for many weeks on oats which had been steeped in strong solutions of magenta, violet, brown and orange. The rabbits seemed to like it, and stayed white.

  Three weeks later, the Society met again to hear the results of its analysis of James Startin’s exhibits. Two chemists had examined eight tiny samples, each about one-inch square. These were cut from offending flannels, socks, stockings and gloves, and dyed with both aniline and vegetable colours – logwood, magenta, alizarin and safranine. The results, alas, were inconclusive. No arsenic was detected on the samples. The assembled dyers reasoned that some of the dyes were of a cheap and primitive form, and unworthy of their profession. Others were more fugitive than those being produced currently. In all cases there was no proven link between dyes and skin disorders.

  *

  William Perkin, a founding member of the Society of Dyers and Colourists and later its president, probably observed this investigation with some satisfaction and a little bemusement. It was not the first time his discovery had been the subject of public scrutiny; in earlier days he had been accused of polluting the canal and local streams, and destroying ancient trades and the lives of those who lived off madder. He would be accused of making colours more fugitive than those they replaced, and of endangering the lives of his workers and those living near his works.

  At the time of the latest skin scanda
l he was probably relieved that he was no longer part of the industry.

  In 1873 he had sold Perkin and Sons to Brooke, Simpson and Spiller, the successors to Simpson, Maule and Nicholson. He was thirty-five, and it had been seventeen years since he had made mauve. He had several reasons for the sale: his firm was too small to compete, for he had fallen victim to his own success with alizarin; any expansion would have required employing more chemists, and he believed that there were too few qualified English scientists and he would have a tough time recruiting from Germany; in the last year there had been two bad accidents on his site following leakages in his retorts, and as a deeply religious man he did not feel he could continue to expose his staff to danger. In addition, the price of natural madder had recently fallen by almost a third in order to compete with alizarin, and thus Perkin had been forced to reduce his own price and profits accordingly; he felt inadequately protected by his patents, and disliked spending time in litigation. Another reason came from abroad: whenever Perkin looked towards Germany, where many of his former trainees now worked, he saw only mass investment and expansion, and rigorous state protection. He saw no prospect of a happy future.

  Several years later, after correspondence with Perkin, Heinrich Caro found time at BASF to write an account of Perkin’s decision to pull out of the industry he helped create. ‘There was no possibility of remaining in the same condition and to rely on the protection of the British patent law to ward off the invasion of German alizarin made at Hochst and Elberfield in infringement of the joint patents of Perkin and the Badische.’ Cost was a problem, but so was quality. According to Caro, Perkin was ‘fatally prejudiced’ towards a process of producing alizarin by a method that had now been improved upon in Germany. The Perkins realised they would have to triple the size of their plant, and probably relocate from Greenford Green. So they sold up, the ‘prosperity of alizarin being past and gone’.