“Doubtless we must, sir,” Westerling spoke with a certain condescension. “But I cannot devote my life to the application of guess work and patch work which, I am convinced, is altogether based on erroneous premises.”
“As sweeping as that ...?” Superlatives, absolutes, all tendencies toward violence brought out in Mr. Daindrie the deprecatory smile.
“Yes. The sole sound future of Medicine must rest on the discovery of principles beneath effects which we call physical and mental life; principles the pursuit of which will make the introduction of alien curative elements into our bodies simply absurd. I am referring not only to medicines but to vaccines, anti-toxins—surgical makeshifts. The true curative elements of life must be inherent in us. Somehow we have lost them. I am convinced the reason is that we have lost certain unconscious principles of behavior in which they are implicit. I am convinced that drugs are superstition.”
“But bacilli—the trouble makers!” pleaded Mr. Daindrie.
“Harmless to the properly ordered organism. Immune to anything so isolated as the effect of drugs. We are subject to germ diseases, I am sure, because we are not masters of our independence of them. I am sure that some day it will seem as absurd to introduce drugs into our systems in order to kill bugs, as it would be now to say prayers in order to drive out devils.”
“But the devils don’t exist!”
“I’m not so sure of that. The instruments don’t exist—as they do for bacilli—for seeing devils.”
Mr. Daindrie was dazed by what seemed the man’s veering from pure science to superstition.
“You’re a bacteriologist!” exclaimed Miss Daindrie, sensing her father’s state.
“I am working to find out what disordered conditions of our tissues and organs give the bacteria their chance—the pernicious ones. Or rather what conditions develop the pernicious ones, for that is essentially what our bodies have done. I am interested in nothing else.”