Leah burst forth towards Craig, taking his arm and attention possessively, and bubbling on about soundproof rooms and stainless steel and garbage-disposal equipment. Feigning a show of interest, Craig covertly sought out Emily Stratman. A quarter of an hour before, he had wished she would turn around so that he might enjoy her fully. Now she was turned around, in his direction, across the lawn. She wore a high-necked pale blue sweater beneath the suede jacket and over the tight skirt. Her bosom, rising and falling slightly—had they climbed stairs or was it the day?—was spectacularly abundant, and Craig was unaccountably pleased as he enjoyed it, and her, in the sun.
They drove on now, with Mr. Manker at his voluble best, fluently reciting capsule histories of this museum and that gallery and endless chapels of worship. On lovely Helgeandsholmen—Holy Ghost Island—he idled the car, and they considered the unlovely, Germanic Riksdagshuset or Parliament Building, and learned that it had been established in 1865, and that the aristocracy had been oppressive (did Count Jacobsson squirm ever so little?) and allowed only ten per cent of the population to vote until after the fall of the Hohenzollerns and Romanovs, so recently, when universal suffrage and true democracy finally came to backward Sweden.
They drove farther through Stockholm—‘a community of twelve islands connected by forty-two bridges’, recited Mr. Manker—until they reached an immense underground garage, known as Katarinaberget, and they were told that this had been specifically constructed as a shelter to protect 20,000 persons against nuclear explosions. Now, for the first time, Craig was fascinated by a projection of the future.
‘We hope that people will take the lesson of your book, Armageddon,’ said Indent Flink to Craig, ‘but if they don’t, you can see, we are ready to survive.’
‘How many of these have you got?’ asked Craig.
Mr. Manker replied. ‘We now have four of these huge atomic bombproof shelters in Stockholm, to save fifty thousand people, and, in all, nineteen such large ones throughout Sweden, and also thirty thousand small ones, to hold all together over two million people. The rest of the people we could evacuate in minutes from the cities to rural areas. The subterranean shelter you observe here has electricity, heat, water, and food, even preparations for schools. Much of our heavy industry—Bofors and Saab—make their anti-aircraft and jet aeroplanes in subterranean factories carved into granite hills. Other nations only speak of civil defence; we in Sweden have already acted on it.’
‘Perhaps you shall inherit the earth,’ said Stratman glumly, ‘and by then, you can have it.’
Emily stared at the cavernous underground garage. ‘It’s awful,’ she murmured.
‘But why?’ asked Mr. Manker. ‘We are so proud of this—’
‘I don’t mean what you think,’ said Emily quickly. ‘Of course, you’ve done the sensible thing. I mean’—she waved her hand toward the shelter—‘the completed cycle, the irony of going back to where we came from, Neanderthal man scooping out his pre-historic caves, except now, the caves are air-conditioned.’
Solemnity had settled on all of them, and Count Jacobsson was anxious not to have the afternoon spoiled. ‘Now you must see the lighter side of Stockholm,’ he announced. ‘Mr. Manker, will you kindly drive us to Djurgården and Skansen?’
Concentrating on his new goal, the attaché manœuvred the large car through the busy mid-afternoon traffic, conforming to the left-lane drive that unnerved all but the Swedes. He continued eastward through the city, until gradually be began to shed the traffic, and they drew closer to the vast pastoral island known as Djurgården.
Easing up the pressure of his foot on the accelerator, Mr. Manker slowly circled the vehicle around a clustering of odd and elaborate buildings. ‘We call this Diplomat’s City,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Here you will find most of the foreign embassies and legations. There, you see the Italian Embassy—’
As each was identified, it amused Craig to reflect on how each Embassy took on the character of its nationals abroad. The British Embassy was staid and sturdy brick, aloof, dignified, conservative and no-nonsense, like the majority of its nation’s travellers. The United States Embassy, across the way, squatted high on a small cliff. It was a modernistic horror, awkwardly trying to belong to the country it was visiting by imitating that country, and failing miserably, so that it was finally no more than a caricature of an American abroad trying desperately to be a part of Sweden.
With relief, Craig observed that they had crossed a bridge over a small canal and arrived at the winding road of the great island. To the left stretched acres of wood-fringed meadow, similar to the fields of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and to the right rose the stately villas of Sweden’s elite. ‘Djurgården means Animal Park,’ explained Jacobsson. ‘In its early days, this was the King’s hunting preserve. Now the forests and clearings are a public pleasure park. As to the rest, the estates of our aristocrats and millionaires and artists, I think Mr. Manker is better qualified to point out things of interest.’
Enthusiastically, Mr. Manker resumed his recital. There was a series of villas, many hidden from view by foliage or sunk below road level, belonging to princes of the blood, but of the names of their owners, Craig recognized only that of Prince Bernadotte. And finally, on that portion of the Djurgårdsbrunns Canal that resembled a lake tinted blue and green, stood Åskslottet—Thunder Palace—a miniature but ominous version of the Taj Mahal and the home of Ragnar Hammarlund.
‘Pull up there before the manor gate,’ Jacobsson directed Mr. Manker. ‘Our guests have all met Mr. Hammarlund—in two days they will be enjoying his hospitality at dinner—and they may have special interest in his residence.’
‘You mean, someone actually lives in that place?’ asked Leah incredulously, as they drew up before the metal gate.
‘Indeed, yes,’ said Jacobsson, ‘and a bachelor, at that.’
A pure-white gravel walk led dramatically to the statue of a white sea nymph by Carl Milles. The nymph guarded a magnificent rectangular artificial lily pond. On either side were walks and gnarled oak trees, and at the far end, almost in replica of the marble Mogul tomb, was Åskslottet. The mansion was two stories in height, square and light grey, with a steep reddish roof. Four slim pillars, like minarets, towered before the entrance.
‘Of course, Hammarlund is not quite alone in there,’ Jacobsson was saying. ‘He has his staff of mysterious retainers. At any rate, it is all impressive to look at. . . . Well, Mr. Manker, shall we go on?’
As the limousine started forward, everyone but Leah settled back for more of Djurgården. Leah craned her neck for a last sight of Hammarlund’s castle.
‘It’s hard to believe that he’s a millionaire and owns that big place,’ she said. ‘I mean, when I met him, he seemed so ineffectual and ordinary.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Emily, ‘he was exactly what I had expected—type-cast for his role—right out of a hundred suspense novels about tycoons, munitions makers, merchants of death.’
Since Craig was interested, Leah could not allow herself to be contradicted by this young woman. ‘You’re being romantic,’ she said to Emily. ‘What’s so different about him?’
‘For one thing, he’s bizarre,’ said Emily. ‘For another, when I think of Hammarlund, I suffer astigmatism—I see him in plural—the limp personality we meet by day, and the other personality he keeps locked up until night.’
‘ “I want to write about a fellow who was two fellows,” ’ quoted Craig. ‘That’s what Robert Louis Stevenson once told Andrew Lang, and that’s how Jekyll’s Hyde was born.’
‘We’re all two fellows,’ said Stratman with a grunt.
Leah grasped for any ally. ‘I agree with Professor Stratman,’ she said vaguely.
‘So do I, Lee,’ said Craig. ‘However, I suspect Hammarlund’s two fellows are more interesting than mine or yours. And that’s where I side with Miss Stratman. I, too, think he’s bizarre, a cache of secrets, and that he only permits his second self out at night when there’s empire
work to be done, and no one’s looking. That’s the self we never meet, the one who assembles cartels and makes millions. The self we see is simply too soft, too bland, too hairless and chinless, to be believed. There must be more.’
‘Oh, there is more, indeed there is,’ Jacobsson said from the front seat, ‘but perhaps not so exciting as you imagine. Hammarlund has his intrigues constantly, of course—is that not so of all big businessmen today, in a business world?—but he has no double life or private band of assassins, as far as I can ascertain. The Zaharoffs of private enterprise are dead in a world of expanding socialism.’
‘I can’t wait for his dinner party,’ said Leah.
‘It will be correct and lavish,’ Jacobsson promised, ‘but do not expect hidden doorways and secret passages and bodies that fall out of cupboards.’ He smiled indulgently, and one almost heard the facial parchment crackle. ‘Of course, for your sake, Miss Decker, I hope that I am wrong.’ Jacobsson peered through the windshield, and then said, ‘And now we approach an institution no less glamorous but far more innocent, one in which we Swedes take great pride. I refer to our celebrated Skansen park. Once more, Mr. Manker is the authority.’
Mr. Manker shifted into low gear, sending the limousine grinding up the rising highway, and then he spoke in his rehearsed Cook’s Tour monotone, the words floating forth too easily, as if lacking the ballast of thought. ‘Skansen is unique,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘It is not an amusement park like Disneyland or Tivoli. It is a museum in the open air, a condensation of Sweden’s past, presented visually in the present. It was opened in 1891, and in the decades since, it has become one of our foremost attractions. You will see our manor houses, centuries old, reconstructed . . .’
By the time Mr. Manker had finished his description, they had arrived at the foot of the final ascent, and entered the parking place reserved for them. Emerging from the car, after Emily had stepped down, Craig studied the main entrance gate of Skansen and remembered the humid summer’s day when Harriet and he, carrying cameras and ice-cream cones, had first walked through it. He remembered it as fun, that time, like discovering an old National Geographic in the dentist’s office. But he was in no mood for visual history today. The lack of a single drink, since the night before, had left him parched and restless. He required something to comfort him, either Emily to talk to or a whisky, preferably both and at the same time. If he went on this visit, he decided, it would only be to seek a moment with Emily.
Stratman had been conversing in an undertone with Emily, and now the physicist waddled over to Jacobsson and Mr. Manker.
‘If you will forgive me,’ said Stratman, ‘I think I will sit this one out. The spirit is willing, but the bones are weak.’ He looked off. ‘Your Skansen appears too formidable.’
‘There is a modern escalator,’ said Mr. Manker.
‘Thank you. I believe I will just sit in the car and doze. I am sure there is much more to see after this. I must conserve my strength.’
Emily had come up alongside her uncle, and her face showed concern. ‘I’ll stay with you, Uncle Max—’
‘Ach, no—no fuss, now—please go with the young ones.’
Some unconscious purpose, in Craig, made him speak. ‘I’ll be here, Miss Stratman, so you needn’t worry.’ He turned to Jacobsson and Mr. Manker. ‘I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but I’ve already been through Skansen, top to bottom. It’s worth another visit, but like Professor Stratman, I’d like to conserve my strength. I still haven’t got over the plane trip.’
Emily was not appeased. ‘Uncle Max, I prefer—’
‘No,’ said Stratman firmly, ‘I want you to go and tell me all about it. Mr. Craig and I have had no time together. I will teach him physics, and he will give me a course in literature appreciation. Please, mein Liebchen—’
Emily glanced worriedly from her uncle to Craig, and at last capitulated. She permitted Mr. Manker and Jacobsson to lead her to Leah and Indent Flink, and together the party started for the Skansen gate. Once, Emily looked back, and Stratman reassured her with an uplifted hand.
After they had gone, Stratman shook his head. ‘The child troubles too much about an old man. It is my fault.’
With a sigh, Stratman went into the limousine, loosened his collar, and laid his head back comfortably on the rear seat. Craig took out his pipe, and after lighting it, he sat down on the front seat.
‘I have my meerschaum, but I forgot my tobacco,’ said Stratman.
‘Have some of mine,’ said Craig, quickly passing his pouch.
When Stratman was puffing contentedly at last, he spoke again. ‘As you add years, your pleasures subtract. Once, my years were few, but my pleasures were many, many. Long ago, I would fish, play billiards, hold a Fräulein’s hand, stay up the entire night with my brother in card games, go to the opera, read for pleasure, stuff myself with schnitzel, smoke my pipe, and work—work was always pleasure.’ He held up the brown meerschaum. ‘Now only pipe remains, this and work. I do not complain. It is enough.’
‘I envy you,’ said Craig. ‘I have only the pipe.’
‘And not the work?’
‘No.’
Stratman was silent a moment. ‘Emily told me you lost your wife recently. Is that the reason?’
Separate emotions struggled inside Craig. One was of elation, that Emily had actually spoken to her uncle of him. The other was of shame, that he had indulged himself in prolonged self-commiseration. ‘When I lost my wife, there seemed no point any longer.’
‘Is not work itself, creation, solitary accomplishment, the real point?’
‘One would suppose so. I remember one of Mr. Maugham’s characters once saying that an artist should let his mother starve, if necessary, rather than turn out potboilers to save her. In short, the artist’s work, his devotion to it, was all that mattered. You know, Professor, that takes terrible strength.’
‘For strength, I would substitute something else—an unrealistic sense of divinity—that the Lord gave you, only you, the Golden Plates.’
‘I used to feel that.’
Stratman nodded. ‘I am sure you did. If you had not, you would not be in Stockholm today. Then, what has happened to you? I am no psychologist, but I can guess. The unrealistic sense of divinity was violated by a horrible accident of reality—your wife’s sudden death—and you have been brought down, and your faith shaken, and you are still in shock. It happens, young man, it happens.’
Craig tried to think about this, sort it out and spread it before him, but he was not ready to understand it, and finally he decided to defer analysis for another day. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, and said no more.
Both men had lapsed into silence, puffing their pipes and listening to the remote sounds of Skansen and welcoming the winter sun as it filtered through the openings of the automobile.
‘Why did you remain behind?’ Stratman asked suddenly. ‘To keep an old man company?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Then what? To speak of yourself?’
‘Not that either. Instinctively, I wanted to be near you, because you are close to Emily.’
‘Emily, eh?’ But there was no astonishment in the red face. Stratman emptied the bowl of his meerschaum, lifted his bifocals higher on the bridge of his nose, and peered at Craig uncritically, seeming to regard him for the first time not as a fellow laureate but as a human being. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what does Emily have to do with us?’
‘She told you that we met last night?’
‘She mentioned it. We reviewed the affair together, afterwards—we have often done that after social gatherings—and she told me a little about you—and, as a matter of fact, about some of the other guests, too, ones she had met.’
‘I see.’ Craig felt disappointed. He had hoped for more, some affirmation, some special interest. ‘Did she tell you what happened between us?’
‘What happened between you?’
‘I was drunk, and I offended her.’
‘Um
m.’ Stratman digested this, perhaps tried to define it. ‘I am sorry to hear that. I could have told you—she is extremely sensitive and withdrawn about men. So—you made her angry?’
‘Yes, I did. I’ve been waiting for the moment to apologize. She won’t permit it.’
‘That is right. It is her way since childhood.’ He paused. ‘Why is this so important to you, Mr. Craig?’
‘I’m attracted to her. I want her good opinion.’
‘Then, you have an unenviable task—’
‘A hopeless one?’
Stratman shrugged. ‘I cannot think for her. I know her better than I know any person on earth. I have a father’s love for her. I raised her. I know her quirks and fancies and most of her reactions. But each day is a new creation of life, and to some minute degree, each person enters that day as a newborn. The brain, the nervous system, the muscles, the glands, the conditioned reflexes, all go through the life of the day responding in set and familiar ways—but then, there occurs one new accident or adventure or confrontation, one exceptional stimulus, and suddenly past performance means nothing—and the person’s brain or nervous system reacts differently, in a way previously unknown. So—how can anyone judge anyone else or speak for them? How can I know what Emily feels about you today?’
‘But you have an idea?’
‘Of course, I have an idea. I have past performance. After I brought my niece out of Germany, to England and then America, I saw her adhere to one pattern of behaviour, and this has remained remarkably unchanged. She does not trust men. She does without men. If by some voodooism you managed to make her lower her guard last night, and then took advantage of it, I would predict that her distrust would be stronger than ever—of men in general, of you in particular. So—you ask if it is hopeless to win her good opinion once more? As her relative, and a scientist, I would say the odds are against you, Mr. Craig. Certainly, I would not wager on your chances. But still, the imponderables—we have them in physics—a new day with a life cycle of its own, and possibly, somewhere between dawn and dusk, a new Emily. I am sorry, Mr. Craig, but this is the best I can offer. I am sorry to be so ponderous and long-winded. I am German born and raised. You are a product of optimism, a society of optimism, so your own decisions, for yourself, will be fairer than my own. And this, too—you are a spinner of tales, greatly honoured, so no doubt you have perceptions about people much keener than mine. Apply your optimism and your genius.’
(1961) The Prize Page 39