THE NEW CURE.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXXV, Issue 1076, 15 March 1913, Page 4

THE NEW CURE.

AN INTERVIEW WITH DR FRIEDMANN.

(By Ariel.)

It is with very different eyes that I see Germany now, after eight years’ life among its people —and, what is of even more subtle importance, a natural speaking knowledge of the language. It is the serious Germany of great thoughts, expressing themselves in great deeds, that I know now, instead of that fascinating stageland ot drums and trumpets, shining soldiers and myriad friendly policemen that I found on my arrival. The serious Germany of well-built cities, of well-drilled armies, of well-ruled and orderloving people, takes longet to know ; the Germany of literature and art and science longer still ; but every hour, every year spent in the knowing is well spent. Germany has her very modern side of science, perhaps slowly, but very thoroughly and permanently developing. It is often said that Germany is a land of theories, England of practices, but should Dr. Friedmann’s discovery of a tubercle vaccine prove all that it is hoped for it—and it seems likely that it may—then Germany must stand first in the eyes of all nations as having done that most practical work in modern preventive medicine. I heard of the prophet not in his own land, but from Australia (in the return mail from Melbourne announcing the discovery). I was fortunate enough to see Dr. Friedmann soon afterwards, and later read his address before the Medical Society of Berlin, and the discussion in committee that followed. The daily . papers were not “full of it”—the Berlin Press had been refused an audience, and I found it rather difficult to find reliable facts, till I had the honour of speaking to the discoverer himself. Dr. Friedmann lives in Charlottenburg. I called at his house in a spare hall-hour (rare things in my Berlin days), and was ushered into an ante-chamber of Oriental splendour. “The herr doctor sees no one now,” was the answer to my request for an interview. I handed in my card, with the apparently magic word, “Australia” written on it. “In reference to the discovery?” said the messenger, looking incredulous. “Yes, about the cure.” “It is quite impossible, but I'll take in your card.” All my hopes hung on the mysterious word “Australia,” for I was leaving Berlin the next day, and knew that I could not return. A moment later the maid returned, looking more incredulous than ever. “A moment’s patience—the herr doctor will see you.” It was a curiously fascinating waiting room, tapestried with rich silk curtains woven in mystic Indian designs. Over the door leading to the surgery (also hidden by these costly hangings) was a tremendous serpent, quite two yards long, coiled round a jutting tree branch —emblem of the profession, of course, but with a strong suggestion of hunts in India. Well-chosen trophies of the East, and a few rare and beautiful pictures, also gave then impression that the possesser was a traveller and art lover. The moments flew too quickly for me to realise the honour to Australia, of which the maid was quite evidently conscious. I was ushered into a larger room, also elegant, and in daily use. The doctor had just had afternoon tea —alone. In half a moment he came hurrying from his surgery, with many apologies for receiving me in undress (the usual white medical coat, that I am really more fond ot than its black brother). I had come in the interests of an Australian patient—not as an “interviewer,” though I confessed in the end to a ‘‘free lance” connection with the Press- There were not many breathing, or even thinking, pauses during the visit, though I was reminded occasionally of the flight of time by repeated telephone rings from impatient “colleagues” and the repeat reply, “Please ring again in 20 minutes, Herr Colleague.”

Dr. Fried mann is young—not more than 30, I should say—and full of that vital energy that goes well with keen, brown eyes, a healthy complexion, and hair that is inclined to “stand up alone.” He carries the usual sword scar on his face that says he fought his duel in a German university. He is a Berlin university man, and, with the exception of a teftn at Fredberg, his whole medical training has been in the capital city. “I have worked at this cure for the past 10 years,” he said, glowing with enthusiasm and unaffected pride, “but it was only last

month that I felt it ripe to announce.” “You have worked alone ?”

“Quiet alone ; and the whole thing is still in my own hands. I prefer to keep it so at present, and let every patient be treated directly under my supervision. But by this time next year the remedy will be procurable in every land alike. I have made patients—for cure and prevention. Success is sure ; success is here. I am but demonstrating my methods to the others now. In a short time the doctots ate to meet me, and see me at work in my institute. We are to hold a congress of delegates from all lands. The doctors all agree here that my remedy is what I claim it to be, but it puzzles them. It has puzzled me for many years, but now all is well.” The stream of enthusiasm ran high. The discoverer is brisk and young and modern, simple and direct, as all born scientists, at times almost disconcertingly frank, for a medical man, to one trained to the Scotch variety of “doubts and reverses.” The flush of a very real success was evidently at work ; the enthusiasm was good to see. The writing-table was piled with letters and telegrams. These have come within the last half-hour,” he said, “and they keep on coming. There are some more,” he said, pointing to a sofa literally lost in letters. “I can’t read them all, much less answer them. ‘Can I come to your hospital at once ? Wire me particulars. Reply paid.’ ” He was reading aloud a line from a newly-despatched American telegram. “Ach! I have no time to ‘wire.’ So ‘wire’ is ‘telegraph,’ eh ?’ (Our puzzling slang.) He’ll come when be knows it’s worth while, He will be able to read all about it soon enough in his own papers. I have read my paper announcing the discovery to the profession—medical society in Berlin—that is enough.” I felt it my duty to confess that I was a journalist.

“I have seen none of the journalists in Berlin,” he answered, a little concerned, perhaps. “They have all come to me, but I have to refuse everybody. You are from Australia, though ? Are, that is interesting. I am glad you came to see me. No, I am not a follower of Dr Koch; my method is quite my own. The tubercle question has always been of the deepest interest to me, and the hope ot stamping out the disease in this land —in all lands—is worth working for. My discovery is a vaccine sub-cutaneous, intro-venous, or intra-muscular. It is of equal —no, of greater —importance to protect the race from the disease than to cure infected persons. Mine is a preventive as well as a cure.

“My institute is not a hospital. It is merely a centre where I make the injections. Patients from foreign parts simply board in Berlin and come to me for treatment as often as I find the case requires. It generally means a matter of a few weeks. If the case is far gone, of course, a longer treatment is necessary.” The minutes flew too quickly, but I brought the interview to an end myself, when the telepone again reminded us of the passing hdur, feeling that, however deep public interest in the discovery was, the “laiety” had no right to more than a general impression. . My interview with Dr Friedrich Franz Friedmann (it was, of course, in German on both sides) was my last of very many pleasant impressions ot Berlin. A few days later I found myself in Marburg, speaking again in German to one ot Germany’s most noted men. The interview was far less easy and natural, and the fault lay not on the shoulders of the “great man” (who, by the way, is small, and kind, and helpful). I was merely an unhappy examination candidate, and Professor Wilhelm Victor was sealing my fate (very kindly and happily) in passing the tests for the German certificate of the “Association Phonetique Internationale,” Professor Victor is the “father of phonetics” in Germany, as Bell, of Scotland, father of Graham Bell, of telephone fame, is the grandfather of science for us all. Germany is fortunate in having through her stage (as generally recognised an institution ot education as her high schools), an “absolute” standard of cultured pronunciation —amidst, to the “foreigner,” the most confusing variety of dialects, and equally fortunate in having such a man as Professor Victor to devote his life and learning to simplifying and systemising the written language, so that he who reads may speak, and also he who speaks may write—without fear of the pitfalls in pronunciation and

spelling that we are all liable to r hot only in a foreign, but equally, if not more so, in our own native tongue. The work has been one of very many years (and Australia might well be proud that one of her sons has been intimately connected with the work and the worker for at least the last twenty years), and at last—this year only —a complete “phonetic dictionary” of the German language has come from the hands of the professor.