Fortune favours the prepared mind, pasteur
All the same, the spores didn't just stand up on the agar and
say 'I produce an antibiotic, you know.' Fleming
T he mysterious
mould from Praed Street produced a substance which stopped the growth of
certain pathogenic microbes. The first point to get clear was: 'Have other
moulds the same power?' Fleming's friends remember the time when he would
stare at every mouldy surface, his eyes glinting with curiosity, and be for
ever asking whether they hadn't got any rotting old shoes to give him. The
sculptor Jennings, a member of the Chelsea Arts Club, recollects how on one
occasion Fleming suddenly addressed a general question to the artists
clustered round him: Tf any of you chaps has got a pair of mouldy old shoes,
Fd very much like to have 'em.' When somebody asked what for, he said: 'Oh,
for something I'm doing at the lab.'
Experiment showed that the other moulds which he tested did
not produce an antibacterial substance. His penicillium, therefore, was more
than ever worth looking into. What he needed now, in order to get on with
his research-work, was a great quantity of 'mould juice'.
For some time a young assistant, Stuart Craddock, had been
working with him. Fleming had asked him to help with his study of mercuric
chloride and to see whether, by injecting it in very small doses, it might
be possible, not to kill, but to inhibit, the microbe, and so facilitate the
work of the phagocytes. Tf he told me once, he told me a hundred times',
says Craddock, 'that the only usable antiseptic would be one which would
arrest the growth of the microbes without destroying the tissues. On the day
when such a substance should be discovered, he said, the whole treatment of
the infections would be transformed.' That was the leit-motif of
his scientific life.
Very soon Fleming told Craddock to abandon mercuric chloride
at once and devote his attention to the production of mould
juice. They began by cultivating the penicillium in a meat-broth at a
temperature of just under ioo° Fahrenheit. Then, the mycologist La Touche
said that the penicillium would be happier at about 69°. A large black
incubator was installed in the room where Craddock worked. The latter
planted the penicillium in a number of flat bottles of the kind used for
preparing vaccines, and left them in the incubator for a week. In this way
he obtained from two to three hundred cubic centimetres a day of the
mysterious substance, and this he put through a '^Seitz5 filter
with the aid of a bicycle pump — a somewhat primitive method.
Fleming studied the cultures in order to determine on what
day of growth, at what temperature, in what nutritive medium, he would get
the greatest yield of the active principle. The methods he had perfected in
the old lysozyme days enabled him to measure the antibacterial strength and
to standardize the concentration of the cultures. He observed that if the
broth was left at laboratory temperature, its antibacterial strength rapidly
diminished. This meant that the marvellous substance showed a disquieting
degree of instability. He discovered that it became more stable if the
alkaline reaction of the broth (pHg) were changed to a neutral reaction
(pH6.8).
At last he was able to submit his 'juice5 to
the test which no antiseptic had so far passed successfully — that of
toxicity. To his great — and silent—joy, he observed that 'the toxicity to
animals of powerfully antibacterial mould broth filtrates appeared to be
very low. Twenty c.c. injected intravenously into a rabbit were not more
toxic than the same quantity of broth. Half a c.c. injected
intraperitonically into a mouse weighing about 20g. induced no toxic
symptoms. Constant irrigation of large infected surfaces in a man was not
accompanied by any toxic symptoms, while irrigation of the human conjunctiva
every hour for a day had no irritant effect. In
vitro,
penicillin which completely inhibited the growth of staphylococci in a
dilution of 1 in 600, did not interfere with the leucocytic function to a
greater extent than did ordinary broth.'
It was all becoming tremendously interesting. 'There', says
Craddock, 'was the antiseptic of his dreams, a substance which, even in
diluted form, remained bactericidal, bacteriostatic and bacteriolytic,
without producing any harmful action on the blood.' Craddock just then was
suffering from an infected antrum. Fleming washed out the sinus with
penicillin-broth. In his laboratory notes we read: 'January gth, 1929: mould
filtrate antiseptic power on Craddock's antrum. Swab from antrum on
blood-agar: 100 staphylococci with myriads of Pfeiffer around. Then 1 c.c.
mould filtrate put into right antrum. Swab three hours after on blood-agar.
One colony of staphylococci and a few colonies of Pfeiffer. In films as many
bacteria seen after as before but mostly phagocytosed.'
Thus, even when immensely diluted, the substance killed
nearly all the staphylococci. That it would have no action on the Pfeiffer
bacillus, Fleming had expected, since it was one of the microbes which had
shown resistance in the early experiments. The result of this first and
modest therapeutic attempt with raw penicillin on a human being was not too
bad.
Craddock also tried to cultivate penicillin in milk. After a
week the milk had curdled and the 'juice' had turned into something
resembling Stilton cheese, which Craddock and another patient ate, with
results that were neither harmful nor beneficial. Fleming had asked his
colleagues at St Mary's to let him try his filtrate on infected wounds. One
of the cases on which the 'juice' was tried was that of a woman. Coming out
of Paddington Station she had slipped and fallen under a motor-bus. She had
been taken to St Mary's with a terrible open wound in her leg. An amputation
was performed, but she developed septicaemia and it was quite certain that
she would die. Fleming, when his opinion was asked, judged the case to be
desperate. Then he added: 'Something very odd has happened in my lab. At
this very moment I have got a culture of a mould which destroys
staphylococci.' He tried soaking a dressing in the 'juice' and applying it
to the surface of the amputation. He had not much hope that this application
would do any good. The concentration was too weak, and the damage too
generalized. The effect was nil.
But he remained just as much convinced as ever of the
importance of his discovery. Sir Alexander McCall tells how, one day in
1928, 'Alec and Mrs Fleming spent a Sunday with us. Alec brought a glass
slab from his pocket, showed it to my wife, and expressed the opinion that
from this slab things would come which would create world-wide interest. My
wife, just to pull Alec's leg, said that it was "only a dirty slab".'
About this time it occurred to Fleming that the substance
discharged by the mould into the culture broth deserved a name. The one he
gave it, 'penicillin', is, as he said later, a word of 'perfectly orthodox
formation'. 'Penicillin' comes from 'penicillium', as 'digitalin' from
'digitalis'. Since he had not isolated the active antibacterial principle,
he continued to apply the name to the raw filtrate, but his conversation, as
well as his papers, leaves no doubt that what interested him was the
antibacterial substance contained in the filtrate.
What he wanted now was to extract this active principle. As
has been already pointed out, he was not himself a chemist, and there was
neither a chemist nor a biochemist on Wright's staff. In one of his moments
of paradox, Wright had said: 'There is not enough of the humanist in
chemists to make them suitable colleagues.' There is no reason whatever why
a biochemist should not be an excellent humanist, but the fact remains that
chemistry was not represented in the laboratory, unless we accept as a
chemist the young doctor, Frederick Ridley, who, though an amateur, had
proved to be skilful up to a point. In 1926, Fleming, having noticed his
competence, had asked him to purify lysozyme. Now he begged him once again
to make, in association with Craddock, an attempt to extract the
antibacterial principle of penicillin.
'So long', says Craddock, 'as penicillin was mixed with the
broth, it was obvious to all of us that it could not be used for injections
until it had been freed from foreign proteins' (a series of protein
injections would have caused anaphylactic accidents). It was essential that
extraction and concentration should be attempted before any serious
therapeutic use of the substance could be made. 'I have always thought',
Craddock continues, 'that the end aimed at in extracting and purifying
penicillin was to make it suitable for purposes of injection. When Fleming
had started me working on mercuric chloride, he said that it might be
possible to use it intravenously in doses sufficiently massive to inhibit
bacterial growth without killing the patient, and I am sure he had the same
thing in mind with regard to penicillin, provided we could extract it from
the broth as a stable and pure substance.
In this way it came about that two young men who had only
just finished their medical studies, set out to find the solution of a
chemical problem which proved to be an extraordinarily difficult one. The
astonishing thing is that, though they did not know it, they came within
measurable distance of success. 'Ridley5, says Craddock, 'had
sound and pretty advanced ideas about chemistry, but when it came to methods
of extraction, we were driven back on to books. We read up a description of
the classic method: using acetone, ether or alcohol as solvent, and
evaporating the broth at a fairly low temperature, because we knew that
great heat would destroy the substance; working in a vacuum. We knew very
little when we began. We knew just a little bit more when we had finished:
we learned as we went along.'
They worked in a narrow sort of passage, which contained a
sink, where in the old days the nurses had washed out bed-pans, filled
hot-water bottles and kept specimens of urine. It dated from the time before
the laboratory had been installed in this wing of the building. They chose
it because there were running water available and a water pump. They had to
construct their own apparatus from what odds and ends they could find. They
evaporated the broth by vacuum, because they could not use heat for fear of
the penicillin vanishing. After evaporation there remained at the bottom of
the bottle a brown, syrupy mass in which the strength of the penicillin was
about ten to perhaps fifty times greater than that measured in the broth.
But this 'melted toffee' could not be used. Their aim was to obtain pure
penicillin in the form of crystals.
'We were full of hope when we started', says Craddock, 'but,
as we went on, week after week after week, we could get nothing but this
glutinous mass which, quite apart from anything else, would not keep. The
concentrated product retained its power for about a week, but after a
fortnight it became inert.' Later on (when the brilliant work of Chain had
made possible the extraction of pure penicillin) they realized how close
they had been to success. 'We could not know at the time that we had only
one more hurdle to cross. We had been so often discouraged. We thought we
had got the Thing. We put it in the refrigerator, only to find, after a
week, that it had begun to vanish. Had an experienced chemist come on the
scene, I think we could have got across that last hurdle. Then we could have
published our results. But the expert did not materialize.' And so it was
that the attempts at extraction were abandoned.
There were also personal reasons why the two young doctors
should give up. Craddock had just got married and was about to go to a
better paid post at the Wellcome Research Laboratories. Ridley, who was
suffering from boils, had tried various vaccines in vain and had become
discouraged. He abandoned the problem of penicillin in favour of a cruise
which he hoped might cure him. An ironical feature of his case is that if he
had succeeded in the business of extraction, penicillin would have put an
end to his boils! When he returned, he gave the whole of his time to
ophthalmology, in which he later specialized. It was, after all, but natural
that both men should be out of love with the research-work they had been
doing. Chemistry was not their speciality. They had made an immense effort
and worked for several weeks, only in the end to find themselves with a
'batch' which had vanished almost at once.
Fleming had not taken an active part in their labours. T am a
bacteriologist,' he had said, cnot
a chemist.' He had asked his two 'amateur experts' to take over that side of
the work and had waited, full of hope, for their results. Meanwhile he had
prepared a paper on penicillin which he read on February 13th, 1929, to the
Medical Research Club. Sir Henry Dale, who was then its chairman, remembers
the reactions of the audience. They were more or less the same as they had
been in the case of lysozyme. 'Oh, yes, we said, Fleming does observe that
sort of nice thing.' It is certainly true that he never knew how to present
his findings in the best light. 'He was very shy, and excessively modest, in
his presentation, he gave it in a half-hearted sort of way, shrugging his
shoulders as though he were deprecating the importance of what he said...
All the same the elegance and beauty of his observations made a great
impression.' That impression may have been real enough, but nothing in the
strangely superior and sullen attitude of his listeners gave any indication
of it.
When a paper has been found interesting, it is always
followed by questions, and the greater the interest aroused, the more
numerous are the questions. The reader stands at his desk, waiting for them.
If none comes that period of waiting in the silent room is a terrible
ordeal. Fleming experienced it when he spoke of penicillin, as he had done,
formerly, when he spoke of lysozyme. Not a single question was asked,
whereas, the next paper: 'On the Nature of the Lesion in Generalized
Vaccinia5provoked a lengthy discussion. The icy reaction to
something which he knew to be of capital importance appalled him. In 1952,
when he was at the summit of his fame, he was still talking about 'that
frightful moment'. But in 1929 he gave no sign of disappointment.
He knew the value of what he had done and that knowledge gave him strength
and made it possible for him to remain unshaken in his belief.
He had now to prepare for publication in the British
Journal of Experimental Pathology a
report on penicillin. This first paper is a triumph of clarity, sobriety and
precision. In a few pages it covers all the facts. It does justice to the
efforts made by Ridley to purify the substance. It shows that penicillin,
since it can be dissolved in pure alcohol, is neither an enzyme nor a
protein. It speaks of the innocuousness of the substance when injected into
the blood stream and says that it is more effective than any other
antiseptic and can be used in the treatment of infected surfaces. It states
that he is engaged in studying its value in the treatment of pyogenic
infections. In the final summing-up, it recapitulates all these points and,
in particular, the following: '(1) A certain type of penicillium produces,
in culture, a powerful antibacterial substance ... (7) Penicillin is
non-toxic to animals, even in massive doses, and is non-irritant ... (8) It
is suggested that it may be an efficient antiseptic for application to, or
injection into, areas infected with penicillin-sensitive microbes.'
This conclusion was the cause of the first, and perhaps the
only, quarrel between Fleming and his master, Wright. When the latter read
the paper, prior to authorizing its publication (his imprimatur was
customary in the Department), he demanded the suppression of paragraph 8.
Had he n&t said a hundred times that the natural defences of the body alone
were effective? Had he not established, in conjunction with Fleming himself,
the fact that antiseptics were the enemy? But Fleming, the ever cautious
Fleming, who never used a word without weighing it well, and who, as the
greatest possible compliment to another bacteriologist, Jules Bordet, was to
say: 'Marvellous theories are sometimes promulgated — not always with
sufficient scientific backing. Young Bordet set to work, not to invent
theories, but to bring facts to light...' —Fleming stuck to his guns, and
paragraph 8 appeared, together with the rest of the paper, in June 1929.
While waiting for the doctors and surgeons of the hospital to
provide him with patients on whom to test his penicillin (tests, the results
of which he published in 1931-2), he finished his article on the
staphylococci for A
System of Bacteriology.
A little later, he returned to the subject in connection with what was known
as 'the Bundaberg catastrophe', when, in 1929, at Bundaberg, Queensland
(Australia), a number of children had been inoculated against diphtheria,
and twelve of them had died within thirty-four hours. The vaccine had been
contaminated by a very virulent staphylococcus.
In the meantime, one of the best chemists in England,
Professor Harold Raistrick, who taught biochemistry at the School of
Tropical Medicine and Hygiene, had developed an interest in the products of
moulds in general and especially in penicillin. A bacteriologist, Lovell,
and a young chemist,- Clutterbuck, joined forces with him. They obtained
strains both from Fleming himself and from the Lister Institute. This team
succeeded in cultivating penicillium, not, this time, in a broth, but in a
synthetic medium containing some salts and a little glucose. Clutterbuck,
Raistrick's assistant, studied the filtrate from the biochemical point of
view; Lovell from the bacteriological.
Raistrick succeeded in isolating the yellow pigment which
gave the juice its colour, and showed that it did not contain
the antibacterial substance. The objective in view was, of course, to
isolate this substance itself. Raistrick managed to extract it in ether and
hoped that, by evaporating the ether, he would obtain penicillin in its pure
state. In the course of this operation, however, the pemcillin, fugitive as
ever, vanished. The activity of the filtrate, if it was kept, diminished in
strength from day to day and very soon disappeared entirely.
In all research there is a human element. Raistrick wanted to
continue his investigation of penicillin, but the mycologist of the team was
killed in an accident. Clutterbuck, too, died while still quite young. Then
the bacteriologist, Lovell, left the School to enter the Royal Veterinary
College. 'But I did not go', he writes, 'until October 1933 and, so far as I
was concerned, work on penicillin had stopped well before that date, though
why, I do not know. I had intended to test penicillin by injecting it into
the peritoneal cavity of mice infected by pneumococci. Having observed the
astonishing activity of the substance on pneumococci in
vitro,
I wondered whether it would be equally effective in
vivo. I
was stimulated by some work done by Dubos on this, but my investigations
remained in the planning stage, and never got farther.'
'During all the time I was working on this subject',
continues Professor Lovell, 'Fleming was very much interested in what we
were doing, and gave us all the help he could. I constantly rang him up
about the difficulties we were experiencing over the mutations which
occurred with certain strains of penicillium. He was always ready to
co-operate. He told me of the incorporation of a malt substance which he had
obtained from the pharmacy at St Mary's, and I realized that he was treating
the subject more as an artist than a chemist. It mattered little to him what
the composition of the product was, so long as it gave good results. That
was all he wanted to know. He offered to send me some.
'I think that our main contribution had been to show that the
mould could be cultivated in a synthetic medium; that it was possible to
keep it longer when the pH had been brought over on to the acid side, and
that we could remove the penicillin by extraction with ether. It was a great
misfortune that Clutterbuck died while still a young man. I feel quite sure
that, had he lived, it would not have been long before he would have
realized that by switching the pH over to the alkaline side he would have
been able to recover the penicillin which was apparently lost when we
treated the filtrate with ether — as became obvious when Chain took over
from that point and succeeded in concentrating penicillin, which was the
starting point of the work which he and Florey did.'
It is only fair to admit that Raistrick and his assistants
achieved useful results and were moving forward in the right direction. It
is not surprising that they should have been brought up short, as Craddock
and Ridley had been before them, by the baffling instability of the
substance. cWe had
realized5, says Raistrick, 'that the effectiveness of penicillin
was no less destroyed in an alkaline than in an acid medium, and that, when
extracted with ether, it vanished. Such a thing had never happened to a
chemist. It seemed incredible. Faced by difficulties of this kind, we had to
abandon the work, and pass on to other experiments.'
Those who take a harsh view of the discontinuance of these
attempts for the purification of penicillin forget that similar breaks are
always occurring, either because the results obtained are disappointing, or
because of the convergence of fortuitous circumstances. In the case of
penicillin, all these factors played a part. The substance was more than
usually unstable and, on two occasions, the investigating teams, which
deserved to succeed, were dispersed by illness and death. Luck, bad as well
as good, is always present in research. The man who is forced to stop short
on the very threshold of discovery can have a clear conscience, provided he
feels sure that he has done everything which was (for him) humanly possible.
This was so with Raistrick and Lovell. T am only too glad', writes the
latter, 'that I was able to contribute even a small amount towards the use
of penicillin, and to the good it has done.'
The scientific research-worker finds his satisfaction in the
knowledge that he has played his part in a great common task, without being
influenced by either personal ambition or jealousy. 'No research is ever
quite complete. It is the glory of a good bit of work that it opens the way
for still better and thus rapidly leads to its own eclipse. The object of
research is the advancement, not of the investigator, but of knowledge.'1
Meanwhile, Fleming was going ahead with his experimental
local applications of penicillin at the hospital. The results were
encouraging though not miraculous because, owing to its instability,
penicillin had a way of giving out just when its use would have been most
rewarding. 'I am convinced', said Fleming, 'that, before it can be used on a
large scale, it must be concentrated.'
Speaking at the Royal Dental Hospital in 1931, he reaffirmed
his faith in the substance and, a year later in the Journal
of Pathology and Bacteriology published
the results of his experiments on infected wounds. He had been bitterly
disappointed by the ill-success of the chemists. It had never occurred to
him that the extraction of a substance could present so many difficulties,
and he had felt certain that, after the work done by Raistrick, the
substance would at last be available for use in its pure state. All through
the years to come, he obstinately retained a secret tenderness for 'his
baby'. There is much evidence to show that, in spite of his habitual
reserve, he frequently spoke of penicillin, and never despaired of one day
seeing it purified.
Dr A. Compton, for a long time Director of the Laboratories
of the Egyptian Department of Public Health, describes how in the summer of
1933 he paid a visit to Fleming who gave him a bottle containing a culture
of penicillium
notatum with
a request that he should try it on his patients when he returned to
Alexandria. But Compton at that time was hoping for great things from
another bactericidal principle which he had himself discovered, with the
result that the bottle remained in a corner of the laboratory at Alexandria
and was never used. Fortune was not favourable.
Dr Rogers (who now works in Birmingham) was a student at St
Mary's round about 1932 or 1933. Just before a shooting-match between the
London hospitals in which he was due to figure, he was laid low with an
attack of pneumococcal conjunctivitis. 'You'll be all right by Saturday,'
Fleming told him, after treating his eye with a yellow liquid and remarking
that, in any case, it couldn't do him any harm. On the day of the match,
Rogers found that he was cured. Whether this cure was the result of
penicillin, he never knew.
To Lord Iveagh, his neighbour in the country, who bred cows
and was consequently brought face to face with the problem of mastitis, a
streptococcal infection, Fleming spoke of a fungus which could arrest the
development of certain microbes. 'Who knows?' said he. 'One of these days,
perhaps, you'll be able to put it in the animals' feed, and be rid of your
mastitis trouble for good and all.'
In 1934 Fleming took on as an assistant Dr Holt, a
biochemist, for the purpose of preparing antitoxins. He went through the now
classic experiments for his benefit: action of penicillin on a mixture of
blood and microbes — microbes killed, leucocytes intact — which was the
reverse of what happened with the known antiseptics. cHe
was well aware', says Holt, 'of the therapeutic potentialities of
penicillin, and was extremely keen that it should be purified, because, he
said, it was "the only product capable of killing microbes with a high
degree of resistance, such as the staphylococci, without injury to the white
corpuscles" ...'
Holt was struck by the spectacular nature of these
experiments and agreed to make an attempt at purification. He reached the
same point as Raistrick had done, but could go no farther. He succeeded in
passing penicillin into an acetate solution, but it disappeared with great
suddenness. After numerous failures he gave up. Fleming was once again
disappointed, 'but', says Holt, 'to those of us who lived with him in the
lab. he said over and over again that penicillin had great potential
therapeutic value. He continued to hope that some day somebody would come
along and solve the chemical problem, and that he would then be able to make
the appropriate clinical tests.'
In 1935, he copied into his diary — where he was in the habit
of recording quotations to which he attached great importance — under the
date December 20th, Friday, Ember Day, the following passage from a speech
delivered by Lister in 1898 on the occasion of his having the Freedom of the
City of Edinburgh presented to him: 'I must confess that highly, and very
highly, as I esteem the honours which have been conferred upon me, I regard
all worldly distinctions as nothing in comparison with the hope that I may
have been the means of reducing, in however small a degree, the sum-total of
human misery.' Such was his secret ambition. One day, it was going to be
satisfied beyond his wildest dreams. |