Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘As to the argument that a candidate’s financial straits be considered, that may have been an influential factor when William Butler Yeats defeated Thomas Hardy in 1923. That, and also the fact that Yeat’s advocates inveighed against Hardy’s pessimism, which they felt did not meet the specifications of Nobel’s will.’

‘Were there ever such intense debates over an American laureate?’ Craig wanted to know.

‘Several times,’ admitted Jacobsson. ‘Perhaps the meeting in this room in 1930 was the strongest. For three decades, the Academy had passed over American candidates, men such as Mark Twain, Edwin Markham, Stephen Crane. But in 1930, both Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser were leading rivals for the prize. To be perfectly honest, not much enthusiasm was generated over either candidate. Lewis was considered too prolific and popular, and only one of his novels, Babbitt , was held in high esteem. Dreiser was criticized for being too ponderous. In the end, Sinclair Lewis was chosen. I remember him well, all arms and legs, studying Swedish on Linguaphone records. He was most gracious. He was proud of his honour, but he told us all that many others deserved the prize before him.’ Jacobsson looked down the table. ‘I see Mr. Manker is signalling me. I am afraid I have talked too much, when there is more of the city you must see before the sun sets.’ He pushed his chair from the table and rose to his feet. ‘We have had enough of the sessions room.’

Fascinated by the Count’s recollections, Craig felt for the first time since his arrival in Stockholm a glimmer of gratification in his own triumph. He felt undeserving, yet reassured. He had courted extinction for many months, and feared it, and now there was relief in knowing that, despite himself, he would never die as long as the Nobel pantheon of accomplishment meant something to the civilized world. In many ways, the conversation in this room had been his best moment in Sweden, this and Lilly’s love and the hibernating emotions that had awakened in Emily Stratman’s presence. It was as if his dark soul was admitting its first shafts of light since mourning and guilt had drawn the shutters against life.

Rising, he murmured his thanks to the old Count.

‘For what?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘For pride,’ he said, and knew that Jacobsson had not heard him, and that if he had, neither he nor anyone on earth would understand what he really meant.

The sun was lower, but still warming, when they arrived at the Town Hall, and clustered together on the open terrace, beneath the arches of colonnades, to listen to Mr. Manker.

The Town Hall, their guide had promised, would be the most inspiring building that they would visit in Stockholm. They were not disappointed. They had driven north-west of the Old Town to Kungsholmen island, and here, set sturdily on a small peninsula that crept into Lake Mälaren, between the Lake and the Klarasjö inlet, they found Stockholm’s rare municipal structure.

They saw first the stark square tower of Town Hall, climbing 350 feet into the sky. They saw that it was russet red, as indeed was the entire building, with three crowns adorning its summit. They saw, also, that the red was brick, each and every brick lovingly set by hand. The roof of Town Hall was burnished copper, the gates of oak, and, below the arches and thick columns of the terrace, the balustrade that stretched over the water was of marble.

As Mr. Manker explained the history of the Town Hall, Craig noticed that Emily Stratman had drifted away from the gathering, and was now seated on a marble bench in the garden nearby, half listening and smoking a cigarette. Craig tried to concentrate on Mr. Manker’s history, but his attention continued to be diverted by Emily, so trim and still with her legs crossed, so withdrawn and preoccupied.

‘Now as to the magnificent interior of Town Hall,’ Mr. Manker was saying, ‘I will let you go inside and see for yourselves. We shall visit first the gold banquet hall, and I will direct your attention to the gold mosaic mural, made of one million pieces of coloured stone, which depicts the story of Stockholm. Please, if you will follow me-?’

They had started off then, following the Foreign Office attaché into the courtyard, with Craig alone in the rear. As they filed past Emily, she quickly dropped her cigarette, ground it out, took her handbag, and prepared to rise. Craig reached her at that moment, with the others continuing ahead, and he halted between her and the others, and smiled nervously down at her.

‘Miss Stratman, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you.’ He had not meant it to come out so formally, but it had because his instinct told him that too familiar or abrupt an approach might frighten her away.

She remained sitting, but uncertain. ‘They’re expecting us.’

‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ he said. He sat down on the marble bench, a few feet from her. ‘I think people absolutely ruin their travel by compulsively trying to see everything, grinding through city after city, trying to store up more see-manship than the next fellow. I’m for unplanned travel, with an occasional art gallery or historic site thrown in. If I ever give up writing, I’ll start Aimless Tours, Incorporated-and I’ll advertise, “We Take You Nowhere, but You’ll Find Yourself or Money Back.” ’

She smiled. ‘Where do I make a reservation?’

He pointed off. ‘Look at that. Don’t tell me what’s inside can be better for the soul than that.’

Staring out at the lazy blue waters of Lake Mälaren, they both watched the graceful gliding sea gulls, and the hazy fairyland outlines of Riddarholmen island beyond.

‘Peace, it’s wonderful,’ she said softly. She opened her bag, found the packet of cigarettes, and took one, and he lit it. He filled his pipe and lit that, too. They smoked in silence for a while.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you. That visit to the Swedish Academy-all that insider talk by Count Jacobsson about such legendary names-it made a deep impression on me. And I was thinking now-imagine, Emily, you are sitting here on a stone bench in Stockholm with a man-with one whose name, in later years, will be discussed exactly as you heard Anatole France and John Galsworthy discussed today.’

‘Well, hardly-it’s flattering, but not the same.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I may be the Eucken or Bunin of the Nobel roll call. Just as all our Presidents were not Lincoln. Some were Polk and Pierce.’

‘I think not.’

‘You don’t know a thing about me, Miss Stratman.’

She swerved towards him on the bench. ‘How is one transformed from Emily to Miss Stratman overnight?’

‘By the wondrous sorcery of sobriety.’

‘I see. Well, wet or dry, I’m still Emily.’

‘In that case-I’m Andrew.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s hard for me. It would have to be Mr. Craig for quite a while. After that, the next step would be-well, dropping Mr. Craig, and not using your name at all-the transition-and then long after, maybe your first name. But we have only a week.’

‘Andrew’s so easy. Try it.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Simply say it after me. Andrew.’

‘Andrew.’

‘There, you see. Was that so difficult?’

‘No-because I didn’t believe it, it didn’t connect with you.’

‘Well, when you’re by yourself, practise it, rehearse constantly. Andrew-Andrew-where is Andrew?’

She smiled. ‘All right, I’ll skip the Mr. Craig, I’ll use no name for the time and see what happens.’

‘The weekly news magazines refer to us as Nobelmen. I wouldn’t mind that.’

‘I’ll oblige you in my next incarnation-when I’m a weekly news magazine.’