The Prize

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 Emile 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.’

Craig caught Jacobsson’s attention. ‘Your selections I understand,’ said Craig, ‘and for the most, I heartily approve-my own included.’

Leah, Flink, and Stratman laughed appreciatively, and Jacobsson permitted a flitting smile to cross his wrinkled features.

‘But I still don’t understand your omissions,’ Craig went on. ‘Some of them were brought up at the press conference yesterday. They seem to be brought up everywhere, and often, and never answered. Why didn’t Zola and Tolstoy win one of the early prizes? Why weren’t Ibsen and Strindberg, two of your own, ever honoured? Was it that the judges, at the time, were dunderheads? Or were actual pride and prejudice involved?’

‘Ah, I was coming to that,’ said Jacobsson, ‘I was leading up to that. Yes, generally it was prejudice- sometimes pride-often politics and weakness. Let us consider the specific names you have mentioned. Emile Zola was alive until 1902, and therefore twice eligible for the Nobel Prize. It is a fact that he was officially nominated for the first award by Pierre Berthelot, the celebrated French chemist. But, you see, Alfred Nobel had died only five years before, and his powerful ghost cast a long and influential shadow over the Academy members. In his lifetime, Nobel had detested Zola’s Nana and the rest of his naturalist novels. Nobel considered them too-how shall I put it?-too earthy, coarse, realistic. Do not forget, in his will Nobel offered the literary prize for “the most oustanding work of an idealistic tendency”. In Nobel’s opinion, Zola had been anything but an idealist, and the Nobel judges knew this, and they had to consider the benefactor’s tastes in disposing of his money.’

‘That I can understand,’ agreed Craig. ‘For the first time, the omission makes sense.’

‘You spoke of Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strindberg,’ continued Jacobsson. ‘Here, it was largely the strong prejudices of one man-one judge-who kept all of them out.’

Craig did not hide his surprise. ‘Actually?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Certainly, there were other factors. Not only were the Academy members handicapped by the idealism edict, but they were conservative and poorly read. That was long ago, and I think we can admit it today. The majority of the judges were limited in their literary outlook. They were historians, religionists, philologists. Only three of them, I believe, knew anything of literature. One of these, a remarkable man, a poet and a critic, was Dr. Carl David af Wirsen. When the Academy took over the Nobel awards, Wirsen was its chairman, its most powerful figure. He was about fifty-eight at the time, wise and learned, but a person of strong personal prejudices. As an example of his control of the Academy, I need only cite what occurred in 1907. When the Academy loses one of its eighteen, and elects a replacement for life, the King must give his routine approval. In 1907, a new member, an eminent literary historian, was elected over Wirsen’s objection that the new member had once committed lese-majeste by publishing a volume critical of Gustavus III, the Academy’s founder. When Wirsen found that he had been overruled, he went to King Oscar II and persuaded him to veto the new member-and the new member did not get in until Gustaf V was on the throne. That was the power of Wirsen. And it was he who kept out Tolstoy.’

‘How could he do it?’ asked Emily.

‘It is not easy to explain, Miss Stratman, but let me see if I can,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The French Academy had nominated a relatively unknown poet, Sully Prudhomme, for the first award. The Swedish Academy was impressed by its French counterpart. Furthermore, our judges wanted a safe, uncontroversial choice. So they gave Prudhomme the first prize. The literary world was shocked. Even here in Sweden. Forty or fifty Swedish writers and artists castigated the Academy and offered a petition favouring Tolstoy. As a matter of fact, Tolstoy could not have been elected that first year, because no one had officially nominated him. This oversight was repaired the second year. Tolstoy was, indeed, nominated in 1902. But now Wirsen, the chairman of the Academy, came into the picture. I have seen the minutes of the stormy meeting when the judges had to select a laureate from among Mommsen, Spencer, and Tolstoy. It was Wirsen, almost single-handed, who struck down Tolstoy. Wirsen admitted that War and Peace was an immortal work. But he charged that Tolstoy’s later writings were sensational and stupid, that Tolstoy condemned civilization, that he advocated anarchism, that he had the effrontery to rewrite the New Testament, and, greatest crime of all, that he had denounced all money prizes as harmful to artists. Wirsen’s fiery diatribe carried the day, and the great Russian was defeated, and although he lived through eight more awards, he was never again a serious candidate.’

‘And Ibsen and Strindberg?’ asked Craig.

‘Again, as I have said, Dr. Wirsen’s was the decisive veto. Ibsen’s name was offered in 1903. Wirsen argued that to honour Ibsen then was, in effect, to honour a dead monument. Wirsen seemed to be saying that Ibsen’s best plays had been done between Peer Gynt in 1867 and The Master Builder in 1892, and that in the eleven years after, his talent had declined. On the other hand, one of Ibsen’s fellow Norwegians, Bjornstjerne Bjornson, a writer Nobel himself had admired, was still at the height of his powers. The argument carried the day. Ibsen was voted down and Bjornson elected.’ Jacobsson paused, lost in thought a moment, and then resumed. ‘The opposition to August Strindberg was unfortunate, but even more bitter. Wirsen judged Strindberg’s plays as “old-fashioned”. That may have decided the matter. On the other hand, I sometimes think Strindberg was his own worst enemy. Wirsen and the majority of the Academy, and the King of Sweden, too, were appalled by the dramatist’s private life. Strindberg had been thrown out of school for low grades. He had been fired from every job he had undertaken. He had been married and divorced three times. He had been sentenced to jail for blasphemy. He was a drunkard, an anti-Semite, and an advocate of black magic. And if there was ever any hope for him, he destroyed it by ridiculing the Swedish Academy in print. I believe it was in Aftontidningen that he wrote, “The anti-Nobel Prize is the only one I would accept!” No men enjoy honouring someone who persistently insults them, and so Wirsen and the Academy had little difficulty in keeping the prize from Strindberg. Of course, for accuracy, I must add that Wirsen did not always have his way. There was an awful fight in 1908. Wirsen and the board were behind Algernon Swinburne, and half the Academy was behind Selma Lagerlof. A deadlock resulted, and a poor co mpromise candidate, Rudolf Eucken, a German, was elected laureate. After a year of politicking, however, the Lagerlof adherents managed to acquire a majority vote, and in 1909, over Wirsen’s opposition, they gave her the prize. With that defeat, I believe, Wirsen lost his power over his colleagues.’

‘The Strindberg veto still fascinates me,’ said Craig. ‘Have many authors been deprived of the prize because of their personal lives?’ Shortly before, Craig’s mind had gone back over his last three years, his alcoholic bouts, and he had wondered if the Academy would have elected him had they known the truth. Now, he was curious.

‘Unfortunately, a writer’s behaviour is often an issue,’ confessed Jacobsson, ‘but, aside from Strindberg and D’Annunzio, I cannot think of a single case where it has been the determining factor. Although, now that you bring it up, I do recall one laureate who was almost passed over because of his private life. If the ladies will forgive me, I must mention the example of Andre Gide. Year after year, he was a contender, and year after year, he was voted down because of his homosexuality, which he had admitted and defended in public. In 1947, Gide’s name came up again. By this time, many members of the Academy had become more tolerant of him. His perversion was still an issue, but there was an odd switch in the balloting. One of Gide’s most ardent supporters suddenly became prudish and turned against him, while at the same time, several members of the conservative bloc suddenly favoured him. As you know, he was finally elected and, because he was ailing, had the French Ambassador to Sweden pick up his prize.’

‘You’ve been speaking of personal behaviour,’ said Emily. ‘What about personal beliefs? Do the ideas an author stands for ever affect the voting?’

‘Definitely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘In 1916, the Academy board recommended Zenito Perez Galdos, a Spaniard. But a majority of the actual Academy was impressed by Romain Rolland’s pacifism, his unpopular stand against World War I, which caused his self-imposed exile, and his leaving belligerent France for neutral Sweden. As a result, Rolland won the prize. In 1928, Archbishop Nathan Soderblom, although not exactly a literary figure, was a member of the Swedish Academy. He was an ecclesiastic of considerable prestige-a few years later, he would win the Peace Prize-and when he backed Henri Bergson for the literary award, because he venerated the Frenchman’s philosophic beliefs, all opposition to Bergson fell aside. However, Miss Stratman, sometimes an author’s beliefs will