Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘I guessed it,’ said Craig good-naturedly.

‘She finally went to the dressing-room to make some long-distance call.’

‘Last night she told me that you were directing her in Adrienne Lecouvreur . It will be exciting news to the theatre world. When will she open?’

‘Never,’ said Cronsten. ‘I’ve rehearsed her in four plays these last years, but they never open. At the final moment, she always quits and goes into hiding again-searching for properties, she says, searching for the foolproof hit. She will never find it. You see, Mr. Craig, her malady is historic greatness. When you attain her summit, become not an actress but a legend, when you are so high, you cannot top it again. So you become over-cautious. You must find the perfect vehicle for your perfect talent-there can be no possibility of failure-and, well, it is impossible to arrange such guarantees. So I play her fool-we have our little game of rehearsals. I delude myself over and over-maybe this time, maybe this time-but it will never be. I doubt if she will expose herself on the legitimate stage again. Someday, perhaps-just possibly-another film, but I would not wager on that. And so she goes on playing the enigma, the recluse, the unattainable-and since it is a better role than she will ever find, I suspect she will play it out for the rest of her days.’

‘What does she do with her time?’ Craig wanted to know.

‘She’s not social if that’s what you mean,’ said Cronsten. ‘She busies herself with herself. When you are Norberg, you don’t need anyone else. She devotes mornings to her appearance and health-she is a faddist, like so many actresses, so there is always something new. She spends afternoons reading properties or rehearsing. She gives evenings over to Hammarlund and his friends. Sometimes she travels incognito. She owns a villa in the hills behind Cannes and keeps an apartment in New York. Most of all, here or anywhere, she intrigues.’

Craig’s interest was piqued. ‘You say-she intrigues?’

‘It is too complicated to explain. When you know her better, you’ll understand.’ He looked off. ‘Here comes our runner with tidings.’

The young man with tangled hair and stomach padding trotted towards them, and saluted them with the note in his hand. ‘Sir Toby Belch reporting. The Norberg has flown. In her place, she left with Viola a note addressed to Mr. Craig.’

He handed the folded paper to Craig, waited for dismissal, and was dismissed by Cronsten.

Craig opened the note:

DEAR LAUREATE, Rushing off to be home for a call from New York. It is imperative I see you tonight. Can you come to dinner at seven? I will expect you. I am a mile beyond Hammarlund. You need only tell the taxi-driver-NORBERG.

Craig saw that the director was inquisitive, so he explained. ‘She had to go, but she wants me to dine with her at seven.’

‘It’s twenty-five to seven now. I’ll tell you what we can do. Let’s go to my office and have a drink, and then I’ll drive you to Norberg’s.’

‘I wouldn’t think of imposing-’

‘Not far out of my way, so I will insist.’

They rose, and Craig followed the director into the corridor, and in a minute they were in Cronsten’s tiny, spotless office, with its dark teak desk and contrasting pale beech-framed chairs, carefully padded with thick foam-rubber cushions.

Opening a wall cabinet, Cronsten asked, ‘What will it be?’

‘No fuss. Plain Scotch. Don’t bother about ice.’

Cronsten poured, and brought the whisky to Craig, who was facing the opposite wall, examining framed photographs of Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Signe Hasso, Viveca Lindfors, Mai Zetterling, and half a dozen other Swedish actresses, all bearing affectionate autographs to the director. Above these, in solitary splendour, was a portrait of Märta Norberg. Across it was scrawled, ‘To Cronny-from his Trilby.’

Craig took his drink. ‘You seem to have known them all.’

‘Yes. I’ve directed them. They all have three things in common-Sweden, talent, and the Royal Dramatic Training Academy. They are all products of our Socialist-supported school.’

‘You’ve got a remarkable record.’

‘I’m proud of it. Every summer, we print and circulate a poster. It says, “ Kungl. Dramatiska Teaterns Elevskola Prospekt .” It is an invitation to our young ladies, between sixteen and twenty-two, and young men, slightly older, to try out for our state Training Academy. After rejecting certain ones, we usually have over one hundred to judge. They all come to Stockholm, to the little theatre here, in August, and do scenes for us. We have an elimination tournament. There are sixteen in the final round, and of these, we select eight to be trained for the stage.’

‘By what standards do you pick the eight?’

‘When we watch a young girl, we think beauty is nice but only an extra asset. It is the least important factor. We do not watch for technique and tricks, either. We watch to see if the girl has emotional range, imagination, and courage. It will surprise you to know-I remember the very day-that when Garbo tried out, she was an extrovert, full of noisy confidence. The eight we select are given a three-year course here, tuition free, and the fifty teachers show them how to stand, sit, walk, move, train them in diction, Shakespeare, make-up, and the psychology of other peoples so that they will understand all roles, including those written by foreigners. For their third year, they each get a salary of two thousand kronor extra. After that, they are admitted to the Royal Theatre repertory, but the best of them go on to the cinema in London or Hollywood.’

‘What school of acting do you follow?’

‘We are still old-fashioned,’ said Cronsten. ‘We are still Stanislavsky. Norberg grew up with that method. I will never forget Norberg, when she came here over twenty years ago. She was gawky, strange, but she had inner beauty, burning ambition. Even then, we might have passed her over, except that Hammarlund had discovered her and recommended her, and he was already famous and one of the patrons of our Donor’s Fund for needy students.’

Craig swallowed the last of his drink. ‘How did Hammarlund find her?’

‘She was an usher in a cinema house, and Hammarlund saw her, and liked her voice and fire. He became interested in her. I suppose we can assume that he slept with her. As Ellen Terry used to say, “Men love unhealthy women.” When he found out that she wanted to become an actress, he arranged for some private coaching, and then entered her in our eliminations. Well, once she had the scholarship, she had her confidence, and she swept all before her. By her third year, she had the nerve to refuse to play the role of Queen Christina in a one-act play because-I remember her telling me-she felt that Christina was not a real woman. She would only play a real woman. You know what happened after that. We had her only one year on our big stage downstairs, and then she had that second lead on Broadway, and then Hollywood-and now, twenty years later, only one role is good enough for her-to play Märta Norberg.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I would invite you for another drink, but you’ll be late.’

They slipped into their heavy coats, descended the stairs, and went into the chilled, foggy night. Once in the Saab, Cronsten drove slowly. Every corner was camouflaged by murky vapour, and when they entered Djurgården, the mist enveloped them, and Cronsten slowed the Saab to a crawl.

They spoke little. Once Craig thought that he recognized Hammarlund’s mansion. Five minutes later, Cronsten said, ‘Here we are.’

He turned into a long circular driveway, and stopped, idling his engine, before a white two-storey Georgian house.

‘You will have an interesting time,’ said Cronsten with a riddle of a smile. ‘Not many men are invited here.’