Microbe Hunters by Paul de Kruif

Author:Paul de Kruif
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

6

Roux and Behring

Massacre the Guinea-Pigs

1

It was to save babies that they killed so many guinea-pigs!

Emile Roux, the fanatical helper of Pasteur, in 1888 took up the tools his master had laid down, and started on searches of his own. In a little while he discovered a strange poison seeping from the bacillus of diphtheria—one ounce of the pure essence of this stuff was enough to kill seventy-five thousand big dogs. A few years later, while Robert Koch was bending under the abuse and curses of sad ones who had been disappointed by his supposed cure for consumption, Emil Behring, the poetical pupil of Koch, spied out a strange virtue, an unknown something in the blood of guinea-pigs. It could make that powerful diphtheria poison completely harmless.

These two Emils revived men’s hopes after Koch’s disaster, and once more people believed for a time that microbes were going to be turned from assassins into harmless little pets.

What experiments these two young men made to discover this diphtheria antitoxin! They went at it frantic to save lives; they groped at it among bizarre butcherings of countless guinea-pigs; in the evenings their laboratories were shambles like the battlefields of old days when soldiers were mangled by spears and pierced by arrows. Roux dug ghoulishly into the spleens of dead children—Behring bumped his nose in the darkness of his ignorance against facts the gods themselves could not have predicted. For each brilliant experiment these two had to pay with a thousand failures.

But they discovered the diphtheria antitoxin.

They never could have done it without the modest discovery of Frederick Loeffler. He was that microbe hunter whose mustache was so militaristic that he had to keep pulling it down to see through his microscope; he sat working at Koch’s right hand in that brave time when the little master was tracking down the tubercle bacillus. It was in the early eighteen eighties, and diphtheria, which several times each hundred years seems to have violent ups and downs of viciousness—diphtheria was particularly murderous then. The wards of the hospitals for sick children were melancholy with a forlorn wailing; there were gurgling coughs foretelling suffocation; on the sad rows of narrow beds were white pillows framing small faces blue with the strangling grip of an unknown hand. Through these rooms walked doctors trying to conceal their hopelessness with cheerfulness; powerless they went from cot to cot—trying now and again to give a choking child its breath by pushing a tube into its membrane-plugged windpipe. . . .

Five out of ten of these cots sent their tenants to the morgue.

Below in the dead house toiled Frederick Loeffler, boiling knives, heating platinum wires red hot and with them lifting grayish stuff from the still throats of those bodies the doctors had failed to keep alive; and this stuff he put into slim tubes capped with white fluffs of cotton, or he painted it with dyes, which showed him, through his microscope, that there were queer bacilli shaped like Indian clubs in those throats, microbes which the dye painted with pretty blue dots and stripes and bars.

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