The Prize (84 page)

‘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, M
ن
rta 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.’

‘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 Lagerlِf’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
ن
r 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.