(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  The room was attentive, and the interrogation resumed.

  ‘Mr. Craig,’ said the man from the Stockholm Dagens Nyheter, ‘is it true that you are only thirty-nine years of age?’

  ‘Only?’ echoed Craig with surprise. ‘Since when is anyone only thirty-nine?’

  ‘In terms of the Nobel literary award, sir, that is extreme youth. I believe you are the youngest winner to date. Previously, Rudyard Kipling was the youngest. He was forty-two when he came here in 1907, and Albert Camus was the second youngest, forty-four when he came here in 1957.’

  ‘Well, I assure you, I’ve established no record,’ said Craig. ‘I would allow Mr. Kipling to remain your juvenile lead. He was always younger than forty-two, and I’ve always been older than thirty-nine.’

  ‘Thank you on behalf of the British Empire,’ called the man from Reuter.

  Everyone laughed, and Craig smiled boyishly, and good cheer was restored to the room.

  ‘I wonder,’ said the man from Dagens Nyheter, ‘why our committees honour so many young scientists and old writers? Would you have any comment on that?’

  ‘I didn’t know you favoured young scientists,’ said Craig. ‘It’s hard for me to imagine. When I see news pictures of them, they always seem wrinkled and stooped, as though they invented seniority to give you confidence in their magic.’

  ‘Quite the contrary,’ the man from Dagens Nyheter persisted. ‘The Nobel Prize-winning physicist in 1960, Donald Glaser, was thirty-four years old. Chen Ning Yang and Tsung Dao Lee, of your country, who divided the physics prize in 1957, were thirty-five and thirty-one, respectively. Dr. Frederick Banting, of Canada, who won the medical prize in 1923, was just thirty-two years of age. William L. Bragg, of England, who won the physics prize in 1915, was only twenty-five. I believe that is the record. But you are the first winner of the Nobel Prize in literature under forty. Can you explain that?’

  ‘I should imagine the reason for this may be found in the nature of the awards,’ said Craig. ‘You give all your science prizes for a single discovery. A man may make this discovery in his twenties or thirties as easily as in his fifties or sixties. But you give the literary award not for one work, but for a body of work. It takes a long time to build up a list of books. It’s taken me thirty-nine years to write four novels, and you say I’m the youngest. Most writers are elderly gentlemen by the time they have produced sufficient quantity to be judged. Also, I believe, writers ripen more slowly than scientists. A brilliant physicist can often display his genius all at once, at an early age. Experience is less important to him than flash perception and inspiration. Writers, no matter how brilliant, are immature and callow when they are young. Words are not enough. Life provides their materials, and usually they are not good enough until they have lived enough.’ He half smiled. ‘Living enough takes time.’

  ‘Despite the necessity of the ageing process, do you not think too many old authors are given the prize?’ asked the Dagens Nyheter man. ‘Many of us believe Alfred Nobel meant his prize money to help the struggling and promising young, and did not want it wasted on the advanced in years who are usually secure and perhaps no longer productive. Nobel once said, “As a rule, I’d rather take care of the stomachs of the living than the glory of the departed.” Another time, he said that he wanted “to help dreamers, for they find it hard to get on in life.” Do not these statements imply an interest in aiding younger artists who lack means?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Craig with amusement, ‘I hope that is what Nobel wanted—for, by your standards, I am young—and, by my standards, l lack means.’

  The Dagens Nyheter man would not be put off. ‘Then why do our committees pour all their funds into the laps of old men who do not need it? The first seven literary winners averaged seventy years of age! Anatole France was seventy-seven when he doddered in here for the Ceremony and cheque; and his countryman, André Gide, was seventy-eight. Sir Winston Churchill was seventy-nine. Why does our Swedish Academy do this? I do not think it is fair. We wish your opinion, Mr. Craig.’

  ‘It comes down to the purpose of the award,’ said Craig carefully, ‘and that was not defined by Nobel and has never been clear since. I’m not sure I agree that the handling of the literary award is as unfair as you imply. I don’t think age should be the issue at all—only merit—and older writers, proved writers, generally have more merit and deserve more honours. This may be playing it safe, true enough. But honouring younger men, simply because they are younger and promising, may be equally unfair. They may not improve, may not endure—indeed, may retrogress. I have heard that your Academy considers Sinclair Lewis a case in point. I’m no Pollyanna, and I’m not given to toadying, but all things considered, I think your Swedish Academy is doing the right thing. I’m sorry I can’t agree with you, but that’s how I feel. Call the Nobel Prize in literature an old-age pension, if you will, but I think that is better than turning it into a young man’s subsidy.’ He might not receive the most sympathetic write-up from the Dagens Nyheter, he told himself, but it did not matter. His attention was diverted to someone else’s upraised hand. ‘Yes?’

  The young male correspondent, with the short-cropped beard, was standing. He introduced himself as representing Sweden’s Bookseller Magazine.

  ‘Mr. Craig, past winners of the literary award, in recent years, have often stated—whether out of honesty or modesty—that they were less deserving than some of their contemporaries. Sinclair Lewis, in his public speech here—that was back in 1930—felt that James Branch Cabell, Willa Cather, Theodore Dreiser, Upton Sinclair, all were Americans more deserving of the Nobel Prize than he. Six years later, when Pearl Buck was notified of our award, she called it incredible and ridiculous, and stated that the honour really belonged to Dreiser. In 1954, Ernest Hemingway said that Carl Sandburg, Bernard Berenson, or Isak Dinesen should have had the award before him. Three years later, Albert Camus said, “Had I been on the Swedish jury, I would have voted for Malraux.” This brings us to Andrew Craig. What other author alive would you consider as deserving as, or more deserving than, yourself of the honour you are receiving here?’

  Craig struggled with his conscience briefly. Leah had begged him not to derogate himself. But honesty forbade evasion or silence. Yet he hated to name names. There were so many. Well, without fully exposing his inferiority, why not complete candour?

  ‘I cannot name one author more deserving than I—because there are half a hundred who should have this prize before me. There are at least ten in the United States, perhaps fifteen in England and France, several in Japan, and many more elsewhere. I can think of several in Scandinavia, certainly one right here in Sweden.’

  ‘Would you name Sweden’s candidate?’ asked the young man from Bookseller Magazine.

  ‘I’m reluctant to name names—second-guess your Academy—but I will say that I’ve read two novels by your Gunnar Gottling, and for all his irreverence, explicit sexuality, crudity, he is a major talent.’

  ‘He does not qualify in certain areas.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the facts,’ said Craig, ‘and I have no wish to argue in favour of authors who should be here in my place. You asked if there were others that I thought should be here in my stead, and I said yes. I’m sure no author can ever be certain that he alone, above all others, deserves the world’s highest literary compliment. Nor, I am sure, can any annual award satisfy the entire public.’

  The Svenska Dagbladet reporter had risen. ‘Mr. Craig, I suppose you are acquainted with our Nobel machinery? Former Nobel winners are allowed to nominate. French and Spanish and other recognized Academies are allowed to nominate. Professors of literature in universities are allowed to nominate. And, of course, our own Swedish Academy has given itself eligibility to nominate. These nominations are submitted in person or by cable or by letter. I am sure you know all of this—’

  ‘No,’ said Craig truthfully, ‘I had no idea of all these formal preliminaries.’

  ‘Of course, I am leading
up to a question,’ said the Svenska Dagbladet reporter. ‘Please bear with me a moment longer. Early in 1950, I am informed, there were over one hundred nominations for the literary prize from abroad. Many were from America, and not one included the name of William Faulkner, of Oxford, Mississippi. Consequently, our own Swedish Academy nominated Mr. Faulkner, and then voted him the prize for 1949, which had been held open. I am also informed, from an excellent source, that you won your prize in the very same fashion. Did you know that?’

  ‘I had not heard it, no.’

  ‘You were not nominated by your fellow countrymen in America or any other nation abroad. You were nominated right here in Stockholm, by our Swedish Academy, who then later voted you the prize.’

  ‘Again, I can only say I am grateful—now doubly so.’

  ‘The point I am leading up to is—why was it left for a Swedish jury, so far from your homeland, to introduce your name? In short, why are you so neglected—unappreciated, I should say—in your native America?’

  Craig shook his head. ‘You’ve posed a tough question. Well, I’ll do my best. For years, Faulkner was relatively obscure because his admirable Yoknapatawpha County was obscure—in the eyes of critics and public alike. Happily, your Swedish jury, with the insight of distance, found him less so. My output has been relatively neglected, in my own country, for similar reasons.’

  ‘Obscurity?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I write about the present, but I write about the present in terms of the past. Most Americans have been conditioned to believe that historical fiction should be romantic and escapist. To them I am an odd duck, out of joint with time. My historical fiction does not fit the popular mould. It is neither romantic nor escapist, but puzzlingly realistic, and touches their contemporary lives. It worries them. It confuses them. They find my method obscure, and they turn their backs on it. For some reason, which is a mystery to me, your Swedish jurors understood what I was doing and admired it. I was fortunate to find understanding an ocean and half a land away from where I live.’

  The London Spectator man was on his feet. ‘Mr. Craig, you were especially cited for The Perfect State and Armageddon. The Academy called them “writings in support of humanitarian ideals”. Can you elucidate, in your own words, the humanitarian ideals these two novels represent?’

  ‘Certainly. In The Perfect State, I was saying that communal government cannot work unless the nature of man is changed. I doubted if the nature of man would change, or even that it should. I was saying that the socialized state—now exemplified by Communism—was basically anti-man, and could not dominate man, and that man would fight it and survive it. I was saying this was true in Plato’s day, and it is true in our day. As to Armageddon, I was simply adding my voice to many, to remind readers of the magnitude of catastrophe conceivable on this planet, and of their own microbe-insignificance and helplessness in the face of it. It was as if ants had finally invented their own insecticide. I was pointing out that, at best, man is a frail, wispy creation, with an uneasy and precarious foothold on earth, and that he had better think twice about outdoing the Maker in competing for destruction. Perhaps the Maker challenged man with Pompeii and Herculaneum and the Lisbon ’quake and Krakatoa, but He did not obliterate him. By imitating God, without God’s wisdom and mercy, man can destroy his kind forever with nuclear weapons, his homemade Krakatoas.’

  The La Prensa man from Buenos Aires looked up from his pad with a question. ‘Sir, do you have another work in progress?’

  ‘Too long in progress, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is that the novel entitled Return to Ithaca that I’ve heard about recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this also a novel set in an historical frame?’

  ‘No, it’s modern, it’s contemporary.’

  ‘Isn’t this the first time you’ve gone modern? What made you change?’

  Craig hesitated. He had always wanted to be a part of his time, and had been afraid, and it had been Harriet who had encouraged the project. But Harriet was the dead past, and they were wanting to know about the present. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘except that’s the way this new idea came to me. Possibly, too, like most writers, I felt I’d been in a rut and wanted a change of scenery. I guess I got tired of my costume parties—decided that the Mardi Gras was over—wanted to remove the mask and show the world my own face. I’m not sure. I’m just repeating the first thoughts that come to mind.’

  ‘Sir, can you tell us what the new novel is about?’ It was the Japanese gentleman from Yomiuri Shimbun.

  ‘This much—a twentieth-century Odysseus, his wanderings through the labyrinth of life, fending off its monster perils, fighting attacks—from within and without—on his liberty to speak and think, on his right to worship alien gods or none at all, on his ethics and moralities in averting poverty. It’s an oft-told tale, but each generation must tell it in its own way. I hope I live long enough to write it.’

  A lady from Aftonbladet spoke up. ‘What authors, now regarded as classical, influenced you?’

  ‘I won’t vouch for any direct influences, but I know who has interested me and moved me. Will that do? Very well. The writings of Tolstoy, Stendhal, Flaubert and Sir Richard Burton meant a good deal to me. The life Shelley lived, that rather than his poetry, was valuable to me.’

  ‘Are you aware, sir, that Shelley was also one of Alfred Nobel’s favourites?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he adored Shelley’s philosophy and rebellion. Nobel’s only published book, a tragic play, Nemesis, was based on the same theme Shelley used in The Cenci.’

  ‘I’d certainly like to read Nobel’s play,’ said Craig.

  ‘I’m afraid that would be almost impossible,’ said the Aftonbladet lady. ‘After his death, Nobel’s relatives burned every copy of that play they could find. Since it was a horror story, they felt that it was not worthy of a legendary prize-giver. I believe only three copies survived.’

  Craig nodded his thanks for the information, and then acknowledged the Expressen representative.

  ‘Mr. Craig, I understand you have visited Sweden before?’

  ‘Yes, after the war.’

  ‘We always welcome opinions on our country, good or bad. Do you have any?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I’m qualified—’

  ‘What have you liked about Sweden?’

  Craig was amused by the journalist’s persistence. ‘All right. I’ve liked—let me see—most of all I’ve liked the island of the Old Town, Carl Milles’s fountain in Haymarket Square, your lobster in cream sauce, the store called Svenskt Team, your actresses Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Märta Norberg—especially Miss Norberg—why won’t she do more plays?—and what else, do I like? Yes, the trip to Uppsala by boat, Orrefors glass, your cooperative movement, your abolition of poverty, and, yes, Ivar Kreuger—I don’t want to outrage you, but the grandeur of the man fascinates me. That’s a partial list.’

  ‘And the other side, Mr. Craig—what have you not liked about Sweden?’

  ‘That’s not quite fair.’

  ‘You are not the type to like everything.’

  ‘Of course, no one does. All right. I’ll be brief, and not elaborate. I think you put too much store in conformity, you make too great a virtue of politeness and manners, you have sex but too little romance, you reap the benefits but suffer the consequences of the middle way—no highs and lows, over blandness, over neutrality. I love Sweden, but these are the things I love least of all. I would not speak of these things, but we are here to question and answer, and that is my answer.’

  Craig had half a minute’s respite, as the reporters wrote. He made a gesture towards taking up his glass, but saw that it was empty. He filled his brier and lit it.

  Across the room, a young woman in a Robin Hood hat was standing. Even at the distance, Craig could see that she was blinking nervously.

  ‘I am Sue Wiley of Consolidated Newspapers, New York,’ she said loudly
. ‘Do you have any objections to personal questions, Mr. Craig?’

  ‘Many objections, I assure you—’

  Several reporters tittered.

  ‘—but I acknowledge your right to ask them,’ Craig continued. ‘By being here, I’m fair game, I suppose. And I do confess, I’m more interested in Charles Dickens’s relationship with Ellen Ternan than in his paper heroines. I must assume your readers are, too. So, though I’m a reticent person, Miss Wiley, do go ahead.’

  Sue Wiley remained standing. ‘Speaking of relationships, who is the lady you have travelled to Sweden with?’

  He did not like her tone, or its edge, and he sat up. ‘She’s my sister-in-law, Miss Decker, and she’s quite inoffensive and having a marvellous time, thank you.’

  ‘Your wife was killed in a car accident three years ago.’

  Since it was an announcement and not a question, Craig did not reply to it. But he did not like Miss Wiley’s prosecutor mannerism, either.

  ‘Do you have any immediate plans to marry again?’ she demanded.

  This was impertinent, and Craig tried to contain himself. ‘I have none. If I had, it would remain my own business.’

  Sue Wiley stood unabashed and blinking. ‘I want to ask you about your work habits.’

  That was better, and Craig’s arm muscles eased slightly. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Do you find that drinking hard liquor stimulates the imagination?’

  Craig tightened, and he pulled himself completely upright on the couch. The clever, insensitive bitch, he thought. He was in for a dogfight, and smelt it at once. ‘You were inquiring about my work habits,’ he countered coldly.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Craig, that’s what I’m talking about. I have my research. It’s no secret, is it? I’ve met and heard of writers who use dope because it helps their work. Look at De Quincey. I have it that you drink when you work.’

  He would not concede a public display of bad temper. All eyes were upon him, and he forced a smile to his lips. ‘Miss Wiley, if I drank when I worked, I wouldn’t write at all.’