Craig smiled. The old man was teasing him now, he was sure. He replied in kind. ‘My stories are of the past. I am a stranger to the present, and unarmed.’
‘There is no present,’ said Stratman. ‘One minute ago is the past.’ His eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses. ‘You are armed.’ He settled lower in the seat, and crossed his chunky legs. ‘I will have my beauty nap.’
Craig pushed himself off the front seat, stood up, and stretched. ‘And I’ll take a walk.’
Stratman’s eyelids had already drooped, but now they winked open. ‘Mr. Craig—’
Craig moved to the open rear door and leaned in. ‘Yes, Professor?’
‘I think you will try to win her good opinion.’
Craig said nothing.
Stratman sighed tiredly. ‘Should you succeed where others have failed, and make her lower her guard once more, do not disappoint her—or me.’
He yawned and closed his eyes, and Craig remained standing, moved but unmoving, reflecting on how Victorian the scene had been and how Herr Professor Stratman, guardian of the sun, and of his brother’s daughter, had momentarily sounded like Edward Barrett, of 50 Wimpole Street, London, guardian of the invalided Elizabeth against the young Browning. Yet the comparison was odious and unfair. Stratman was no jealous tyrant of Wimpole Street, suppressing latent feelings of incest. Stratman was a rutted bachelor, who had come into unexpected fatherhood late, and who was burdened with a responsibility that exceeded normal parental obligation. His first thought was for Emily, and not for himself. All things considered, Craig knew, Stratman had been kind.
Craig ambled off, without destination, without curiosity, about the perimeter of Skansen, sometimes halting to watch children play, once stopping for a lemonade. He meandered on and on, letting fantasies slip in and out of mind, occasionally letting himself become absorbed in the new characters who peopled his life, and then Miller’s Dam and the house on Wheaton Road and Lucius Mack, and even Harriet—yes, Harriet in the ground—seemed far away and of another time.
Half an hour had elapsed before Craig returned to the limousine. He saw that the others were already in the car, and Mr. Manker was wandering nearby searching for him, and he quickened his step. Once inside, squeezed into the jump seat, he apologized, and could not, for the life of him, explain, in retort to Leah’s question, where he had been and what he had done.
Mr. Manker was behind the wheel, and they were on the road again.
Craig listened, as Emily behind him reported to her uncle, briefly but brightly, on some of the highlights of the Skansen visit. When she had concluded, she asked her uncle how he had occupied himself.
‘Mr. Craig and I had a long, long talk,’ said Stratman.
‘About what?’ Emily wanted to know.
‘Shop talk, mein Liebchen. He advised me how to put plot in my papers, and I advised him how to employ solar energy in his typewriter. After that I napped.’
‘How do you feel now?’
‘Refreshed and a tourist again. . . . Count Jacobsson, what is your next propaganda to convert us all?’
‘The best we have to offer,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Mr. Manker is driving us to the Old Town—specifically, Stortorget—the Great Square—the original site of Stockholm seven centuries ago.’
Presently, going the long way around, they crossed the Norrbro bridge, swung past the Royal Palace, slowed before the Storkyrkan Cathedral, which had been built in 1260, proceeded up a narrow, ancient street that opened into the spacious square, and parked before the Börssalen, which Mr. Manker identified as the Bourse or Stock Exchange Building.
After they had left the car, Mr. Manker guided them around the Stortorget. The square, paved with aged, uneven bricks, was dominated in its centre by a huge round ancient well. Surrounding the landmark, there were public benches, and because the day was mild, the benches were filled with old men reading newspapers and middle-aged lady shoppers resting and gossiping.
They strolled along the sides of the square, which were lined with severe stone buildings, four to five stories high, housing commercial shops on the ground floor level and apartments in the floors above. Following Mr. Manker, they visited the hoary alleys and side streets leading into Stortorget. These shadowed streets were twisting and dark, as in medieval times, walled in by antiquated gabled houses that seemed to have been designed by the brothers Grimm.
‘Today, almost everyone wishes to live here in the Old Town,’ Mr. Manker was saying. ‘To live here is what you call in America a status symbol—is that right? The exteriors of the apartments are the originals. They cannot be renovated. They are left as they were in the beginning, and are now beaten by weather and chipped and peeling, and that is their charm. However, inside the apartments, I assure you, most of the quarters are spotlessly modern, with all the latest appliances, including oil burners for these winter months.’
Slowly, Mr. Manker led them back to the ancient well in Stortorget’s centre. ‘This is a hallowed place,’ he announced, as the party gathered more closely about him, and several Swedes on the benches looked up curiously. ‘This is the very spot of the infamous Stockholm Massacre or Blood Bath. In 1520, a Danish king, who controlled all of Scandinavia, offered amnesty to eighty rebellious Swedish aristocrats, invited them to this square for a celebration, then betrayed them by beheading all eighty.’ Mr. Manker pointed off. ‘Now, there is a more pleasant object for sightseeing.’
The members of the party turned to examine, once more, the rococo Stock Exchange Building before which the limousine was parked. ‘That palace was built in 1773,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘On the ground floor is the Exchange, but upstairs are the offices and library of the Swedish Academy, where André Gide and T. S. Eliot and Andrew Craig were voted the Nobel Prize in literature.’
Leah took Craig’s arm. ‘Isn’t it exciting, Andrew?’ Craig grimaced at his sister-in-law’s display, and then, worried that his hosts would be offended, he summoned forth a slight smile of pleasure.
‘Alfred Nobel is not your only benefactor,’ Mr. Manker told Craig. ‘There is another, and he is King Gustavus III, who came to our throne in 1771 and fifteen years later founded the Swedish Academy. For all of his faults, and they were many, ranging from a disinterest in the poor to a lavish spending on himself, Gustavus III has our high regard because he gave us much of our culture before he was assassinated at a masquerade ball in 1792. He gave us our opera. He gave us works of art from every corner of the world. And finally, to promote literature, he imitated the French by establishing the Swedish Academy. Because he superstitiously favoured the number eighteen, he founded the Academy with eighteen members, taken from Sweden’s most respected authors and scholars. Gustavus III’s number has survived to this day. Eighteen members, Mr. Craig, voted you the Nobel Prize.’
Jacobsson came forward and touched Craig’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps it would interest you to see the place where you were elected?’
‘I’d enjoy it,’ said Craig sincerely, ‘but I’m afraid the others might be bored. Maybe one day I can come alone—’
‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Stratman. ‘All of us would like to see the inside of the Academy.’
The members of the party fell in behind Count Jacobsson, and with him crossed the square, and turned the corner into the side street. They followed Jacobsson up the street, until he came to a halt before two giant, timeworn doors at Källargränd 2. To the of the entrance, fastened to a granite block, was a plate bearing the legend: SVENSKA AKADEMIENS NOBEL-BIBLIOTEK.
They all went inside. Mr. Manker and Jacobsson led them through a gloomy hall, up wide stone steps to the first floor above the one at ground level, and then through a beige door into a long corridor, which was cheerfully lighted and awesomely scholastic. To their immediate right was a librarian’s desk, now unattended, and next to it the portal to the Nobel Library, whose stacks bulged with the literary produce, in almost every language, of the Nobel winners, contenders, as well as associated material.
Wi
th a possessiveness that came from familiarity, Jacobsson took them along the corridor, lined with shelves of books on either side, to another door that opened into a colossal auditorium. As they passed through the auditorium, Jacobsson said, ‘We are approaching our Kaaba, the holy place where the Academy members convene annually to elect a Nobel winner. The secret chamber is called the sessions room. And here we are.’
They entered one more door and found themselves in a bright, broad room, high-ceilinged, with tall windows looking down on the historic square below. Beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier rested a rectangular table, which seemed to fill the room, and drawn up neatly around the table were twelve ornate chairs, their seats, backs, and armrests covered with blue plush. The glossy table was bare, except for a wooden tray holding a pen set that had belonged to King Gustavus III almost two centuries before, and a pewter pitcher and a glass vase. Against the walls were a blue-covered sofa and additional easy chairs, and on one wall hung a gleaming gold medallion engraved with Gustavus III’s royal symbol, bound wheat stalks. At the head of the table, behind the Permanent Secretary’s chair, stood the Academy’s ever-present conscience—a marble bust of the founder, Gustavus III, perched on a circular stone pedestal.
‘Yes,’ Jacobsson was saying, as he patted the marble bust, ‘ever since 1914, when the Academy took over this room, His Majesty has sat here listening to secrets the entire world would like to know. Before that, the voting was held in the Permanent Secretary’s home on Skeppsbron, then in a rented apartment at Engelbrektsgatan, and then in the old Nobel Library at Norra Bantorget. But since Romain Rolland was selected in 1915, every literary laureate has been voted the prize right here.’
‘How often do the Academy members meet in this room?’ Emily inquired.
‘I will explain the modus operandi,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Let us take the case of our current winner—Mr. Andrew Craig. Nominations for the Nobel Prize in literature this year, as always, were closed this last February first. Nominations, usually in writing, were submitted to the Swedish Academy. There were forty-nine this year. Thirty came from properly accredited sources—previous winners in any category or recognized academies throughout the world—and nineteen came from unaccredited sources, such as authors’ publishers or wives or the authors themselves, and were thrown out. Mr. Craig’s name was formally submitted, not from a foreign source, but by eligible admirers in our own Swedish Academy, led by Miss Ingrid Påhl, a voting member. I think Mr. Flink can better tell you how that came about.’
Indent Flink addressed himself to Craig and Leah. ‘I claim no credit,’ he insisted with false modesty. ‘I am in the business of publishing, and I have a part-time book scout in New York, just as I have scouts in Paris and London. Mr. Craig’s last novel, which had been overlooked in Scandinavia, was sent to me with a bushel of other books. I was impressed—it’s a rattling good story—and I bought the Swedish rights on Armageddon for five hundred dollars. I believe that was the price?’
‘That was the price,’ said Leah.
‘I had the translation made, and brought the novel out in September of—let me see—four years ago. The reviews were so overwhelming that, I believe, many of the eighteen members of the Academy read it and became acquainted with Mr. Craig.’
‘Quite so,’ said Jacobsson.
‘Well, to make a long story short,’ Flink continued, ‘I bought up two more of Mr. Craig’s novels, the sales were gratifying, but the enthusiasm in literary circles was even greater. Then I acquired a copy of The Perfect State, and it was the best of the lot. I translated it myself, and published it early last year. This time, I had my cake and ate it, too. It was a runaway best seller, and it was a critical rave. Well, I think that did it. An Andrew Craig cult had sprung up in the Academy—not only Miss Påhl, but others—and he was nominated for the prize in February.’
Craig had listened attentively, detached, as if hearing another author being discussed. Then he realized that the others in the room were looking at him, and among them Emily, and almost for the first time he became aware that it was he himself who was the subject of Flink’s little reminiscence. He knew that something was expected of him. ‘My American publisher thanks you, my agent thanks you, the Miller’s Dam Security Bank thanks you, and I thank you, Mr. Flink.’
‘In turn, the world thanks you,’ Flink said grandly.
Embarrassed, Craig sought to change the subject. ‘Count Jacobsson, exactly what happened after the nominations last February—or is that secret?’
‘Not at all,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Four members of the Academy’s eighteen serve as a weeding-out board. The leading books, by the thirty official nominees, were turned over to them. Many of the works, like your own, were already in Swedish and easy to read. Others had never been translated, and so the four board members had to read them in their original languages. Besides Swedish, the board members read well in English, French, German and Spanish. Where a nominated work might be in an exotic language like Chinese or Hindu, it would be turned over to special consultants who are linguists. Language is a barrier, but I doubt if it has ever barred consideration of a work of real merit. I am thinking, at the moment, of 1913, when Rabindranath Tagore, of India, was nominated for his poetry. He had only one volume in English, when he was nominated. There were none in Swedish. The cream of his creativity was in his native Bengali. The four-man sifting board located a Swedish professor, an avid Orientalist, who could read Bengali. So charmed was he by Tagore that he tried to teach our Academy members Bengali that they might appreciate the poet in his own tongue. But the Academy members found Bengali too formidable, and awaited the professor’s translation. It was accurate enough, and beautiful enough, to convince all that Tagore must have the prize.’
‘Then the literary award is actually in the hands of four men,’ said Stratman.
‘By no means,’ replied Jacobsson. ‘The four-man board merely does the preliminary job. This year, they read the primary works of the thirty nominees, and eliminated twenty-four, and settled on six names as the final contenders. The best books of these six—Mr. Craig, another American author, two Germans, one English-man, and a Japanese—were sent to all the other Academy members, along with excerpts, translated into Swedish, of other writings of the nominees. All through this past summer, the eighteen members of the Academy read and read.
‘And now to reply to your earlier question, Miss Stratman—in the middle of September they all met formally, for the first time, in this room, to discuss what they had read, to sound out one another, to speak for their favourite works. One morning last month, in November, they met in this room a second time—gathered about the table here, the door locked, visitors not admitted—and they prepared to select the year’s winner. The chairman of the four-person sifting board rose to his feet, right over there, and he said, “We have reduced the thirty nominations to six, and of these six, we wish to recommend two names in particular.” He then offered Mr. Craig’s name as a first choice, and an English author’s name—I am not at liberty to identify him—as a second choice. He then read biographies of Mr. Craig and the five other nominees. After that, he read both favourable and unfavourable critiques of each man’s literary work. Then the debate began. It lasted six hours. If you think Swedes are calm and pacific, I wish that you could attend one such wrangle. There was much passion, for and against—not only you, Mr. Craig, but every nominee. At last, ballots were passed down the table. Sixteen voted and two abstained. I am happy to say, Mr. Craig, you won by a creditable majority. Immediately, I was informed. I prepared the notification cable that same evening, and it went out to you directly. Shortly after that, the press was given the news by the Foreign Ministry.’
Stratman advanced to a chair, and held it for support. ‘This wrangling, Count Jacobsson, this passionate debate you speak of—can you give any other specific instances?’
‘To discuss this year’s or last year’s closed meetings might be improper,’ said Jacobsson, ‘but I suppose there is
nothing wrong with relating a few historic disagreements. I relish them, and do not mind sharing them.’ He noticed the physicist’s weariness, and said suddenly, ‘Please, Herr Professor—in fact, everyone—sit down for a few minutes while we talk. Take the chairs. This is not a museum—the chairs are for use.’
Quickly, he helped Stratman off his feet, while Craig held a seat for Emily, and Mr. Manker and Flink vied to assist Leah. Soon, everyone was at rest around the long table. Jacobsson settled himself at the head, before the bust of Gustavus III.
‘You know,’ said Jacobsson, ‘on many days every November and December, people all over the world pick up their newspapers and read of Nobel Prize winners. They come to believe, without thinking, that the laureates are demigods, and that the award is divinely ordained, but I am the first to admit that the winners, often geniuses and saints, are not demigods but human beings. At the same time, I am also the first to admit that the awards are neither divinely ordained nor decided by judges endowed with superior wisdom, but rather they are voted upon by ordinary men, of fine intellect, but of human frailty. I make these preliminary remarks because you wish to know what has gone on in this room, in secret sessions behind locked doors—and to appreciate what I will tell you, you must understand that our eighteen, like members of the other prize-giving committees, are merely mortals, after all. Most are experienced and knowledgeable men and women of scholarship and objectivity and great integrity. But, I repeat, they are mortals—they have personal prejudices, likes and dislikes, neuroses, vanities. They can be influenced by others, and influence one another. They can be bold, and they can be frightened. They can be cosmopolitan, and they can be provincial. They can be overspecialized in one area, and completely ignorant in another. But all of this considered, they are the best eighteen minds in this field that we have to offer. Once appointed, they serve for life, and to a man, they are the dedicated servants of Alfred Nobel’s will. They are the judges of an Academy which has honoured Rudyard Kipling, Gerhart Hauptmann, Romain Rolland, Anatole France, George Bernard Shaw, Sigrid Undset, Thomas Mann, Bertrand Russell, and Boris Pasternak. They are also the judges of an Academy which has ignored or rejected Émile Zola, Leo Tolstoy, Henrik Ibsen, Marcel Proust, Mark Twain, Joseph Conrad, Maxim Gorki, Theodore Dreiser, and August Strindberg. You see, they are wise, and they are f oolish, but no wiser and no more foolish than other men.’
(1961) The Prize Page 40
