(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  ‘But that’s the point, you haven’t written at all, not for three or four years,’ Sue Wiley shot back triumphantly.

  This brazen public exposure, by a sensation-mongering bitch, brought the heat of colour to Craig’s face. He found it hard to contain his fury. ‘Now, wait a minute, young lady—’ he began.

  Before he could go on, to what regrettable end he knew not, he was interrupted.

  ‘Mr. Craig, may I have the floor for a moment?’ The request, clear and confident, had come from Count Bertil Jacobsson, who had raised himself to his feet and now stood beside Sue Wiley.

  Craig bit his lower lip, and held his tongue.

  Jacobsson had moved apart from Sue Wiley, so that he could address not only her but the rest of the press.

  ‘When unfounded accusations, such as those just made by the lady press member, are directed against an honoured guest from abroad, I feel that it is my duty—and not his—my duty as a host of the Nobel Foundation and a representative of His Majesty, to intervene and make the reply.’ Jacobsson studied the hushed audience with awesome patriarchal gravity. ‘Let me make clear our position. We of the Nobel Foundation do not judge our nominees and laureates by their personalities or characters or eccentricities. We are not interested in whether our winners are drunkards, heroin addicts, or polygamists. Our judgment is not based upon human behaviour. That is a task for Sunday schools. Our decision, in literature, is based solely on whether or not we think we are satisfying Mr. Nobel’s desire to reward “the most oustanding work of an idealistic tendency”.’

  ‘What about freedom of the press and what readers want to know?’ demanded Sue Wiley. ‘We’re servants of the public. Why did you invite us to this press conference anyway?’

  ‘We invited you, and everyone,’ said Jacobsson calmly, ‘to meet a laureate but not so that you could malign him with inference, gossip, and unseemly questions. I do not know Mr. Craig’s personal habits, and what is more, I am not interested in them. I am interested in his genius, and I want you to be, also, and that is why I invited you here this afternoon.’ He studied the members of the Swedish press corps, and suddenly a smile broke across his wrinkled features. ‘And suppose Miss Wiley could prove that Mr. Craig, is indeed, a most obnoxious drunkard—which you can see he is not—but suppose she could prove it? What would be proved, after all? The majority of us in this room are Swedes. I should wager there is not a teetotaler in the group. What true Swede would claim that he does not, on occasion, have his love affair with schnapps or beer? Are we children? Or do we possess the mature tolerance of an Abraham Lincoln? Do you recollect the well-known Lincoln anecdote? Gossips had warned him that his most successful general, Ulysses S. Grant, was a poor drunken imbecile. “If I knew what brand of whisky he drinks,” said Lincoln, “I would send a barrel or so to some other generals”.’

  Laughter rattled through the room, and Sue Wiley blinked furiously.

  With aristocratic ease, Jacobsson went on. ‘I can speak to you with some authority of previous Nobel laureates in literature, whom I have met and known personally and respected highly. Needless to say, I would not wager that all of them were abstainers and prohibitionists. I remember when we notified one Scandinavian author that he had won the Nobel Prize, he went on a two-week drunk. It is a fact. It is also a fact that when Knut Hamsun came from Norway to get his literary award in 1920, he was thoroughly inebriated the night of the dignified Ceremony. He pulled the whiskers of an elderly male member of the Swedish Academy, and he snapped old Selma Lagerlöf’s girdle!’

  There was laughter once more, and much note taking, and before Sue Wiley could speak again, Jacobsson hastily added, ‘We have taken enough of Mr. Craig’s time, and surely, we have made him thirsty. While I join him in toasting Mr. Hamsun, I suggest you write your stories. Det är allt. The press conference stands adjourned!’

  Afterwards, after the Press Club had been cleared of reporters, and the Marceaus, Stratman, Farelli, and Garrett had gone off with Krantz and the attachés, Andrew Craig lingered behind. The drinks had disappeared, so he leaned against a wall of the cloakroom and smoked, watching Mrs. Steen and Count Jacobsson gather up their papers.

  When Mrs. Steen said her goodbye, Craig joined the old Count.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘For what? Everything I told them, I will tell you. It is true.’

  ‘You may have put yourself out on a limb. What if I am a drunkard? It would make a fool of you.’

  ‘I am sure you are not. And if you are, I could not care less. Every few years, we have a witch like Miss Wiley, and she must be put down. It is dangerous, that sensationalism. It obscures all that is important here.’

  ‘Well, at any rate, you were right about one thing—you did make me thirsty. Do you know where I can buy some liquor to take to the hotel?’

  ‘I will direct you. We will walk together.’

  They went down the stairs and into the street. It was late afternoon, and already the darkness of winter had fallen on the city. A chill wind whipped up from the canal, and both men buttoned their overcoats. They walked across the square, Craig chewing his empty pipe, Jacobsson swinging his cane in a wide arc and thumping it on the brick pavement, and then they entered Fredsgatan, passing Fritze’s, who advertised themselves booksellers to the court, and turned the corner into Malmskillnadsgatan, where they found the shop.

  Craig fell in line, behind several Swedes, at the long counter of the shop, and waited patiently, studying the half-filled shelves behind. When it was his turn, he requested three bottles of Ballantine’s.

  Later, returning to the Grand Hotel along the canal, Craig wondered if the anecdote about Knut Hamsun were true, and Jacobsson said that he had witnessed it. For a moment, Jacobsson considered revealing to Craig a more recent incident: that of the elderly literary laureate who had arrived in Stockholm with two bountiful young ladies who, while introduced as his secretary and his interpreter, were rumoured to be his two current mistresses. It had been a situation fraught with the possibilities of scandal, but Jacobsson had artfully managed to hide it from the press.

  Now, Jacobsson decided against alluding to the lechery. Instead, he said that the details of the Hamsun anecdote were carefully recorded in his Notes, and then he told Craig of his Notes, and did not conceal his envy for writers who actually wrote books. He spoke fondly of his quarters, above the Nobel Foundation, and of his private museum, which was really his study, filled with autographed photographs and memorabilia of previous Nobel laureates. He hoped that Craig would find time to pay a visit to his museum, and Craig, with growing affection for the old gentleman, said that he would.

  ‘Do you think your press conferences were successful today?’ Craig asked.

  ‘Among the best in a decade,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I looked in on each one, you know. I believe you met Dr. Farelli?’

  ‘The medicine man?’

  ‘Yes. He made an interesting remark in his interview. Someone asked him what he thought was the most serious omission in the history of the medical awards. He said Sigmund Freud. Of course, he could not know the truth. I think it might amuse you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sigmund Freud was never formally nominated for the medical award, true—but once, he was nominated for the Nobel Prize in literature. Did you know that?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. It is a fact. And, for that matter, why not? I should guess he was as qualified for that award as Winston Churchill. In our literary awards, we respect gifted amateurs.’

  ‘When was Freud nominated for the literary prize?’

  ‘In 1936, in his eightieth year. It had been predicted, you know, but rather as a sarcastic joke. In 1927, the psychiatrist and physician, Julius Wagner von Jauregg, won our medical award for malaria inoculation used in paralysis. Well, the Freudians, of whom he disapproved, crowded about to congratulate him, and von Jauregg told them, “Gentlemen, someday you will all get the Nobel Prize—for literatur
e.” And it almost came to pass. In 1936, Romain Rolland and Thomas Mann nominated Freud for the Nobel literary award. Freud was a serious candidate that year, but in the end, the Swedish Academy voted him down. Sigmund Freud lost out to Eugene O’Neill. There is hidden history for you.’

  They had arrived at the entrance to the Grand Hotel, and Jacobsson took his leave. He indicated the bulging package of three bottles nested in the crook of Craig’s arm.

  ‘Do not let Sue Wiley see you,’ he said with a smile. And then he added, almost too gently, ‘And do not forget tonight you are a guest of the King.’

  Watching Jacobsson depart, Craig wondered about the old gentleman’s last remark. Did he suspect what that bitch, Sue Wiley, already knew? Had he, in his indirect and courtly way, tried to put Craig on his guard and warn him of the consequences of a scandal?

  Hell, Craig thought, nothing happened to Knut Hamsun, did it? He hugged the package more tightly in his arm. Momentarily, he felt secure, three bottles secure. But he would go easy right now. He regretted that he had not reassured Jacobsson. He could have told him that tonight he would be fit for a King.

  5

  * * *

  IN a corner of his restfully quiet, lamp-lighted library, Count Bertil Jacobsson, attired in starched shirt, white braces, cummerbund, and formal trousers, sat at his antiquated walnut desk—a reproof to the new generation’s intense modernism—and thoughtfully tapped the capped end of his pen against the open green ledger before him.

  He contemplated the shadows cast on the high ceiling, and across a wall of books, and on the nearby glass case that held his Nobel award souvenirs, and at last, knowing the hour was late and the limousine would soon arrive, he resumed his Notes. In his pinched chirography, he wrote:

  —was one of the rare occasions in which I had to intercede between a laureate and the press. It may be true that Craig drinks—I do not know yet—but if it is true, his resultant behaviour could damage us and ruin him. The Knut Hamsun incident still haunts me. We shall see how matters develop tonight.

  He read over what he had written, and was about to put the pen back in its holder when he decided to add a paragraph less speculative and more factual.

  The Royal Banquet has been moved up to tonight, which is December 3, and will formally inaugurate Nobel Week. Except for the afternoon of the climactic Ceremony, and the Town Hall dinner that follows it, the Royal Banquet, highly exclusive and dominated by the presence of the King, is often the most memorable social event of our winter season. I remember that after he had received the prize for literature in 1923, William Butler Yeats, the Irish poet, wrote of the Banquet, ‘I, who have never seen a court, find myself before the evening is ended moved as if by some religious ceremony.’ I trust that this year’s winners will be similarly impressed.

  Carefully, Jacobsson blotted the page, closed the green ledger, and placed it in the middle drawer of his desk.

  With an indistinct complaint, he stood up, pulled on his formal jacket, and then started for the bedroom to find the decorations that he must wear. The decorations, he knew, would soothe him. They would remind him of long experience and exemplary performance, in the service of the throne, in handling all manners and nationalities of men. He hoped that he would not need the confidence of these decorations this night.

  It was almost seven o’clock when Andrew Craig finished changing from his single-breasted tuxedo into his freshly pressed dark blue suit, and it was the second time he had dressed for the evening.

  The half-bottle of Scotch that he had consumed through the late afternoon, sparingly and in the privacy of the bathroom, out of sight of Leah’s disapproving gaze, had made him forgetful of the duplicated instructions about attire for the Royal Banquet. It was only after he had answered the door earlier, and admitted Mr. Manker, the prim and punctilious young attaché with the high pompadour who had been assigned to him by the Swedish Minister of Foreign Affairs, that he had been tactfully reminded of protocol.

  Mr. Manker had removed his felt fedora and overcoat, and placed both neatly on a maroon chair, and had sat stiffly on the sofa, while Craig, his mouth cottony from the drinking, had tried to think of conversation. The awkward pause had been filled by Leah’s zestful entrance from her bedroom.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Manker! Have you come for inspection? How do I look?’ She pirouetted once, gaily, rather clumsily, Craig thought. Her brown hair was swept back and bunned more tightly than usual, her face unlined and flawless and unsoftened by the make-up, and the evening gown of red satin that hung straight down along her rigid figure.

  Mr. Manker had leaped to his feet, clucking approval, then gallantly clicked his heels and bent over her hand. ‘Exquisite,’ he had murmured, and Craig, watching hazily, detected false professionalism and disliked it. ‘It is a terrible bother, this protocol,’ Mr. Manker went on, ‘but it is the way of monarchies, no matter how democratic. I, for one, approve. It gives us islands of dignity in the drab land mass.’

  ‘I approve, too,’ said Leah with pleasure.

  Mr. Manker took brief stock of Craig, and his lower lip worked in and out. ‘For the annual Royal Banquet,’ he said, ‘His Majesty the King wears formal evening dress—’

  ‘And a crown?’ asked Leah.

  ‘Heavens, no. The crown is there, but as a symbol,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘You shall see for yourself at the dinner. The King’s family and relatives, and the few higher-ranking members of royalty who have been invited, also are in formal evening garments. Perhaps some will wear the uniforms of their station. The Ambassadors whose nations are represented in the Nobel awards, and our Cabinet members, wear dark but informal suits. The ladies of the court, and commoners, all wear similar dresses—black taffeta or velvet with puffed sleeves. This is to prevent one from outdoing the other. The wives or relatives of the laureates may wear evening gowns of any design or colour. Miss Decker is handsomely attired. The male laureates, like our Cabinet members, are expected to wear informal dark suits. Full dress is only expected at the Nobel Ceremony on the tenth.’

  Craig realized that Mr. Manker had been addressing him, and suddenly he realized what was wrong. ‘I’m not supposed to have a tux on for this brawl, is that it?’

  ‘You will not be barred,’ Mr. Manker said with his trained smile, ‘but you may be mistaken for a member of the royal family. Yes, as you understand it, a plain dark suit is preferred.’

  ‘I’ll change,’ said Craig.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Mr. Manker, his face reflecting relief. ‘But before you go, while we have the time—I came early for this—a few words about further protocol. I hope you do not think me insufferable, but it is my duty. I extend this briefing to laureates every year.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Craig.

  ‘Cocktails will be served in one of the salons off the dining-hall. This will take place for half an hour to perhaps one hour before the dinner. The purpose is really for our laureates to meet distinguished members of our government, and to meet each other.’

  ‘I already met the other winners at the Press Club this afternoon,’ said Craig.

  ‘Ah, yes, but this will be, it is hoped, a more social and relaxed meeting. After the cocktails, and immediately before dinner, the King and princesses and princes will appear. For Mr. Craig, it is only necessary to take the King’s hand when it is offered, to speak after being spoken to, and to address him as Your Majesty or Your Royal Highness—either one will do. Our King is not withdrawn, and his informal cordiality will please you. At dinner, there will be place cards. You will remain standing until His Majesty is seated, and then, of course, you may sit, too. As for you, Miss Decker, when the introduction to the King is made, you will curtsy deeply—’

  ‘I’ve never done that, I wouldn’t know what to do!’ Leah cried out. Her concern was genuine.

  ‘That is why I am here,’ said Mr. Manker calmly. ‘I will demonstrate the curtsy, and then we will rehearse it together while Mr. Craig is changing.’

  Craig regarded the c
ue as a form of insolence, but his alcoholic intake allowed him to accept it with equanimity. He left the sitting-room, pulled the sliding drapes across his bedroom entrance, and began to undress.

  Now he stood before the full length mirror in his dark suit and knew that only one thing was missing. One leg, he told himself, was still hollow. He went into the large bathroom, located the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the tile behind the bidet, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed once, twice, three times. This meant three ounces, and this meant he was fortified and informal.

  He hid the bottle again, and returned to the bedroom. Momentarily, he eased himself into the chair across from the double bed. He wanted the good feeling to invade and occupy every limb. He thought that he could hear the creaks and compliments that accompanied the art of the curtsy from the sitting-room. Above his bed, he noticed for the first time, hung a copy of a painting in a mahogany frame appropriately royal. Napoleon Bonaparte was playing with his ill-fated son, L’Aiglon, as set on canvas by Jules Girardet. It struck Craig not as a work of art but as a sigh for a past glory, and, somehow, it was as much an anachronism as the night that lay ahead.

  Craig reached over and took the duplicated sheet from the bedstand. Once more, he read it:

  His Majesty the King has been graciously pleased to invite the Nobel Prize laureates with their husbands, wives, or relatives to a banquet at 7.30 P.M., December 3, in the Royal Palace of Stockholm.

  Car will be in waiting at the hotel at 7.10 P.M., and the persons invited will be accompanied to the Palace by the attachés attending.

  Dress for the evening will be . . .

  The words had begun to cloud. Craig crunched the sheet into a ball, and in pleasant emulation of a basketball idol of his youth—was it Hyatt of Pittsburgh? Murphy of Purdue? McCracken of Indiana?—he aimed the wad of paper at the distant waste basket, and missed.