The Prize

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 wi

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 wi

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. Émile 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.’