The writing of one novel, p.17
The Writing of One Novel, page 17
“Since I have many friends in Sweden, since I am deeply appreciative of the many Swedish citizens who helped me prepare The Prize—since, above all, I have a genuine love for your nation—I feel it imperative that I make a statement here and now about the true intent of my work of fiction.
“My novel, The Prize, was not written, in any sense, as an exposé or in an effort to create a scandal. I determined to use the Nobel Prize background in fiction because it appealed to me as having the essence of drama. As stated, I researched the factual aspects with care. If certain elements of my fictional story have been made to seem sensational or indeed are sensational, it is because I am primarily a novelist and the heart of any novel is conflict. It seemed to me that a group of foreigners, visiting your land for the highest prize on earth, would be in a situation that invited character conflict and story drama. And perhaps some of my invention is not so far removed from true life, after all.
“I did not set out to defame the Nobel committees. Anyone who has carefully read my book will see that I have treated all the fictional Nobel judges and officials, save one, with honest respect. The character Bertil Jacobsson is the spokesman of Sweden and the Nobel committees in my book, and I love him and believe him to be an admirable character. For the most, I have given the Nobel committees praise and credit, because I felt this was due them. However, that I have also shown their human weaknesses, I will not deny. Surely, the tradition of the Nobel committees is old enough, strong enough, most often right enough, to stand up under outside criticism. Every human face has two profiles. As a novelist, it is my duty to show not one but both.”
While attacks on my ‘scandal book’ continued to appear on front pages throughout Scandinavia, the wide circulation given to my letter had a salutary effect. It forced the Nobel Foundation to confirm that I was right, that some of their people had been wrong, and it left my integrity unimpaired.
It was Nils Ståhle, Executive Director of the Nobel Foundation, who finally came to my defense. He submitted to a telephone interview with the Stockholm Dagens Nyheter, and the newspaper featured the story on July 20, 1962:
“The American author, Irving Wallace, is correct in saying that he visited the Nobel Institute and that he received, both orally and by letter, answers to a number of the questions he had asked … This was confirmed by the Institute’s Executive Director, Envoy Nils K. Ståhle, by telephone from his summer home in Arild, as a commentary on the author’s letter to Dagens Nyheter. Envoy Ståhle also agrees with the author on another important point—he believes that Wallace’s controversial best seller, The Prize, is ‘not written in a tone unfriendly to Sweden and the Nobel Prize.’
“‘The book could have profited from a thorough condensation,’ says Mr. Ståhle. ‘At least for an older reader it is both tiring and unnecessary for the author to have spiced the meal with so many bedroom scenes. Fact and fiction are so interwoven that people not familiar with the milieu could get the most peculiar impression of how things are done in the Nobel circle,’ Ståhle fears. ‘But on the whole the book is skillfully written.’“
Two weeks later, one of the most prominent of the Nobel judges decided to speak out. In 1946, I had interviewed Dr. Anders Österling, Secretary of the Swedish Academy, which votes the annual Nobel Prize in literature. Now, sixteen years later, Dr. Österling, who had been voting on the literary award for thirty-six years, agreed to receive a reporter from the Stockholm Expressen.
What was Dr. Österling’s opinion of The Prize? On August 4, 1962, the newspaper reported Dr. Österling’s comments:
“I have been reading my usual summer literature [works by nominees for the next Nobel Prize], but this novel, The Prize, I thought I’d better throw in as my responsibility to the Swedish Academy.
“As a thriller, the book isn’t bad, but it is almost completely fantasy throughout. Of course, it is in poor taste, but not so vulgar as I expected. Rather amusing, as a matter of fact … Irving Wallace is one of the most successful authors of our time. He has for several years earned millions in Swedish crowns on books about sex, lightly seasoned with scandals. It should be noted that compared to his earlier books, his latest novel, the one about the Nobel Prize winners, is not half as filled with the above ingredients as other best sellers he has written. Lost in all the commotion around Sin with a capital S, Swedish girls and their morals, a little frigidity and alcoholism and extramarital relations, is the serious study of how the Nobel Prize winners are chosen.”
Now the controversy began to intensify in another direction. I had learned that the Scandinavian countries—Sweden, Norway, Denmark, each of whom had successfully published my previous novel—were refusing to translate The Prize. When a reporter from United Press International called upon me, I told him what I thought. I told him there was a ‘sub rosa boycott’ existing in Scandinavia against my novel. According to the wire-service story:
“Book publishers in Sweden, Denmark, Finland and Norway have rejected offers of publishing rights in their countries even though they had an option to buy such rights. They took the options after the success in Scandinavia of an earlier Wallace novel …
“‘The only thing I can think,’ said Wallace, ‘is that the publishers may be under some kind of pressure because The Prize is against what they feel is the national good. A Copenhagen publisher told me the book was “sacrilegious to a highly important institution in Scandinavia” but the others did not even give me a reason.’“
Once again, there were headlines in Sweden. The front page of the Stockholm Aftonblcidet carried the head: AMERICAN BEST SELLING AUTHOR ACCUSES SWEDEN OF BOYCOTT ON BOOK ABOUT THE NOBEL PRIZES. The rest of the press carried similar streamers. One newspaper insisted that I was “dead wrong” to think that Scandinavian publishers would ever boycott a book for any reason.
But I was not dead wrong. I was dead right. The Oslo Aftenposten decided to interview Norwegian publishers and learn the truth. They pursued Gyldendals, my publisher in Norway, and the director of this firm, Harald Grieg, told them, “The reasons we do not want it are many … It gives a false impression of the Nobel committees’ function and depicts the prize winners in a fashion which does not at all correspond with the truth. It would be entirely unnatural for our firm, which has brought out more works by Nobel Prize winners than any other Norwegian firm, to publish it.” The Aftenposten then spoke to Ragnar Wold, head of E. G. Mortensen’s, who had also refused to publish The Prize. “We found it would be altogether too dangerous a project to embark upon, what with all the little details and relationships the author describes which we cannot prove. Also, the book is highly uncomplimentary to the Swedes. This is true not only of the prize givers, but of Swedes in general. But I want it understood there has been no pressure put upon us except in the sense that the Swedish people are sticking together on this.”
To this day, The Prize has not been published in Sweden, Norway, or Denmark, although in the years since, these three countries have brought out editions of either The Man or The Plot, two of my later novels.
Among the actual Nobel Prize winners who had read the book, at least among those I heard from or about, there were reactions as strong as those I had heard from Scandinavia. However, the reactions of the laureates were more evenly divided for and against.
Dr. Ralph Bunche, who had been voted the Nobel Prize for peace in 1950, disapproved. According to Bent Vanberg, writing for the Oslo Dagbladet, “The Undersecretary of the United Nations, Dr. Ralph Bunche, has little good to say about Irving Wallace’s book, The Prize. ‘This is a questionable effort done in bestseller form,’ categorically replies the American Nobel Peace Prize winner as an answer to Dagbladet’s question as to his reaction to the novel. Dr. Bunche is thus the first Nobel Prize winner to publicly comment on the book.”
The next laureate heard from was Dr. Linus Pauling, of the California Institute of Technology, who wrote to my publisher objecting to “some errors of fact in the book.” Dr. Pauling pointed to a passage where I had a character in the novel speak of Mme Irène Joliot-Curie and her husband as members of the French Communist Party. The passage that offended Dr. Pauling appears in the opening scene of Chapter VII, where Count Jacobsson receives Claude and Denise Marceau, the laureates in chemistry, and senses that there exists some personal animosity between them which might develop into trouble before the award ceremonies. The passage in the book reads, in part:
“Instinctively, Jacobsson wanted this couple to be happier, to be drawn closer together. He wanted to inform them of how happy Marie Curie, the first woman to win the prize, had been to share it with her husband … But somehow, Jacobsson felt that this might not be the time for such examples. Yet there was his job and the dignity of the awards, and he must think of something to give the Marceaus subtle warning. Then he thought of Irène and Frederic Joliot-Curie, who had shared the $41,000 prize in 1935, and with them he thought that he might make his point.
“‘Indeed, you are in a select circle,’ Jacobsson told the Marceaus. ‘You are only the fourth husband-and-wife pair in our history to win the prize. We are sentimental about such awards, and the winners, with one exception, have made us proud.’
“‘One exception?’ said Denise carefully.
“‘I am thinking of your countrymen, Irène and Frederic Joliot-Curie, who won the chemistry award for their discoveries in radioactive elements.’
“‘What of them?’ asked Denise.
“‘They earned the award for artificial radium, and they received it here in Stockholm, and we would give it to them again. But their subsequent history, after the prize, was—in some respects—unfortunate.’
“‘They were a devoted couple,’ said Denise sharply, with an eye on her husband.
“‘Oh, yes, yes, nothing like that,’ said Jacobsson hastily. ‘Indeed, they were heroes of the Second World War. Frederic Joliot-Curie stole the world’s greatest supply of heavy water—then important in atomic research—from under the noses of the Nazis in Norway. He got it safely to England. And in France, despite the Gestapo, he organized eighteen underground laboratories to make incendiary bottles for the maquis. I have no doubt you know all of that.’
“‘Yes, we do,’ said Denise.
“‘It was their activity after the war that most Swedes deplored,’ said Jacobsson. ‘They joined the French Communist Party. And Irène Joliot-Curie told an American visitor that the United States was uncivilized, and that the workingmen should overthrow the government. I remember more that she said, for I have recorded all in my Notes. She told the American, “You are deliberately fomenting war. You are imperialists, and you want war. You will attack the U.S.S.R., but it will conquer you through the power of its idea.” I tell you, this caused much headshaking in the Swedish Academy of Science.’
“‘Unfortunate,’ said Claude. ‘However, surely you judge by the scientific achievement of your laureates, not by their personal activities.’
“‘True,’ said Jacobsson. And then, he added slowly, ‘Still, our laureates are so much looked up to, so widely respected, that when they commit scandals we are unhappy—extremely unhappy.’
“The shaft, motivated by instinct and not information, hit its targets, Jacobsson was certain. For Denise regarded her husband coldly, and Claude avoided her gaze and lifted his heavy-set frame from the sofa.”
Dr. Linus Pauling had not liked that passage at all.
In his letter, Dr. Pauling said that he had met Mme Joliot-Curie in her laboratory in 1952, and that she had personally told him that she was not a member of the Communist Party and had never been one. Furthermore, Dr. Pauling doubted the truth of Jacobsson’s statement in the passage that indicated Mme Joliot-Curie had been anti-American. Since the Madame was dead and could not defend herself, said Dr. Pauling, he felt that it was his duty to come to her defense. Also, he felt it his duty to come to the defense of the Nobel Foundation, since I had attributed my quotations to a fictional member of the Foundation. As a whole, the tone of Dr. Pauling’s letter was testy.
My publisher forwarded the protest to me, suggesting that I might want to reply to Dr. Pauling. This I did directly. Here, in part, is my reply to Dr. Pauling:
“Let me say at once that I have always had tremendous respect for Madame Joliot-Curie’s achievements in chemistry. I make factual mention of these achievements in my novel, just as I salute the genius and bravery of her husband. At the same time, I have somewhat less respect for the late Madame’s politics and her public utterances in fields outside of science.
“I am quite aware that the Madame is dead and cannot defend herself. I do not feel this is an issue. If one were barred from writing about the dead, there would be no more history. However, in a manner of speaking, Madame Joliot-Curie is quite alive, for she has left a published record of her beliefs as well as her accomplishments. As a public figure, her surviving record of speeches and interviews in France and America also remains to reflect her life. And, to the end, these speeches and interviews were anti-democracy, anti-Unitcd States, pro-Communist, pro-U.S.S.R …
“Do not misunderstand me, Dr. Pauling. I am not saying that her political judgments were not always justified. I am merely saying that they are what they are, and they exist, and that many liberal democrats in the United States, France, Sweden found them objectionable.
“In my novel, I was writing a work of fiction, shot through with factual conversation, almost all of it substantiated by solid sources. When my fictional character of Count Jacobsson spoke of the Joliot-Curies, he spoke as a character in a story. He was not necessarily wearing my cap or thoughts. He was making a story point for two other fictional characters—and the Joliot-Curies seemed to me an excellent example of the point he was trying to make. By this, I am not disavowing my responsibility for what my invented characters say. I merely remind you of my motivation.
“Now let me take up, specifically, your three objections.
1. You are correct in pointing out that Madame Joliot-Curie was not a Communist in the card-carrying sense. Technically, I am in error on page 371 to have a character remark, ‘They joined the Communist Party.’ The slip is regrettable [I made sure it was corrected in the third edition], and I can find only one way to explain it: even though Madame Joliot-Curie did not join the Communist Party, it always appeared to me, from the evidence on hand, that she was far more fervent a Communist or fellow traveler than her husband who held a card.
2. As to the anti-American statements I attribute to Madame Joliot-Curie, I find no reason to revise them. The Madame’s affection for the U.S.S.R. and its system, and her dislike of ‘Fascist’ United States, are a matter of printed record in a wide variety of publications.
3. There is no necessity for you to defend the Nobel Foundation against anything I have written. The Foundation, through correspondence I have on hand, through admitting me inside its doors, was entirely cooperative during both my visits to Stockholm. In Count Bertil Jacobsson, fictional spokesman of the Foundation, I tried to create one of the most sympathetic and likeable characters in a long book … Since you have forwarded a copy of your original letter to Professor Arne Tiselius, a scientist I have never met but always admired, I hope you will be kind enough to forward to him a copy of this reply to you.”
Dr. Linus Pauling hopped on the last. Two days later he was writing me that he could not resist making a comment on the fact that while I admitted I had never met Professor Tiselius, in my printed acknowledgments I had expressed gratefulness to the professor for research help.
This was nasty, and I was irritated. I replied to Dr. Pauling’s letter with the following: “At this rate, we will become pen pals.” I added: “At the end of a last letter to me, dated March 21, 1961, a member of the Nobel Foundation replied to my questions and reminded me that the new Chairman of the Foundation was Professor Arne Tiselius. In short, I was being told that the cooperation I was receiving was under the guidance of Professor Tiselius … I had never met the professor. On the other hand, I owed thanks to him for permitting members of his staff to answer my inquiries in detail. Therefore, I thanked him in the book …”
A few days later, I was able to write my publisher, Peter Schwed, of a happier reaction from a Nobel laureate. “A psychiatrist friend just telephoned. She was down in La Jolla yesterday and saw Dr. H. C. Urey, winner of the Nobel Prize in chemistry (1934), lolling on the beach reading The Prize. She inquired how he liked it. He said he had just begun, loved it, and both he and his wife were wild about Dr. Garrett’s group therapy session and Garrett’s obsession with Farelli.”
One evening in this hectic period, attending a big-name dinner party, I met the wife of a prominent recent Nobel Prize winner. She told me that she had enjoyed most of the book—”all except that absolute nonsense about Dr. Claude Marceau’s having an affair behind his wife’s back—it was unbelievable—you simply don’t know—I’m married to a Nobel Prize winner, and neither he nor his Nobel winner friends behave like that—they’re just not that sort, and they’re far too preoccupied with their work.” Just three years later, at another dinner party, 1 met this same Nobel Prize winner’s wife again, and she was contrite and apologetic. “My God, what a fool I was,” she said. “I was absolutely naive when I told you that what you’d written was improbable. At that very time—but how could I know?—my husband was having an affair with some younger woman, some slut. Winning the prize had gone to his head. He’d become a public figure. And there were available women everywhere, especially this one, and what happened was just like in your novel. The damn fool. Well, we’re getting a divorce….”
