The Prize

act against him. In 1934, Benedetto Croce, of Italy, was the favourite to win. It was a time, in Italy, when Benito Mussolini and his Fascist blackshirts were on the rise. Croce was anti-Fascist and outspoken in his hatred of Mussolini. A Nobel award to Croce would have been a slap in the face to Mussolini, and the Italian dictator knew it. I cannot substantiate what happened next-some say that Mussolini got in touch with his Ambassador in Sweden, and the Ambassador got in touch with the Swedish Academy-but, at any rate, Croce was voted down for his beliefs, and his relatively harmless countryman, Luigi Pirandello, was given the prize. I know that this sounds weak-kneed, but you must remember it in the context of the time, a time when Fascism was a fearful threat. Anyway, I believe our Academy members made up for it in 1958, when they courageously gave Boris Pasternak the prize for his beliefs, despite the Communists holding a gun to our heads.’

‘But you can be pressured and bullied?’ said Stratman.

Jacobsson lifted his palms upward and shrugged. ‘I have told you, Herr Professor, we are only men. More often than not, the pressures are lesser ones, and they come not from without but from within this room. There is always what you Americans call lobbying.’

Jacobsson paused. He had something on the tip of his tongue, and hesitated, as if to reconsider it, but then spoke again. ‘There is one notorious case-an American author-I do not think I should mention the name. This author had produced several novels that, for reasons of personal taste, had impressed two senior members of the Academy, Dr. Sven Hedin, the explorer, and Selma Lagerlof. These two tried to convince their colleagues that the American must have the prize. The majority of the Academy considered the works of this American potboilers and, as the chairman put it, “mediocre”. Nevertheless, Hedin and Lagerlof persisted, dramatizing the polemic value of the American’s books, and finally invoking their seniority as judges until the Academy capitulated. The American won the prize, although originally opposed by the majority of members.’

‘I wonder who it was,’ said Leah.

Jacobsson waved his finger. ‘Not important. The American was certainly as deserving as many laureates before or since.’ Jacobsson looked across the table at Stratman. ‘Have you had enough of our little bouts in this sacred room, or do you have an appetite for more?’

‘The entree was excellent,’ said Stratman with a smile. ‘I still have room for a dessert.’

‘Very well,’ Jacobsson thought a moment, reliving his precious Notes in his mind, reviewing this story and then that, censoring some and considering others, and when he was ready, he leaned his elbows on the table, and resumed. ‘In 1921, the two leading candidates were John Galsworthy and Anatole France. The board recommended Galsworthy, considering France’s output as “a dainty hothouse”, but the majority of the Academy favoured France for injecting a new romanticism into literature. Anatole France was elected. It was eleven years before Galsworthy was offered as a serious candidate again. This time, his opponents were Paul Ernst, the German poet, and H. G. Wells. The argument for Ernst was that he was not only gifted and uncommercial in his creativity, but that he needed the money more than Galsworthy. Nevertheless, the final vote was in Galsworthy’s favour.

‘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 Malaren, between the Lake and the Klarasjo 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 attache 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 Malaren, 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