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 Mälaren, between the Lake and the Klarasjö 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 Manker’s history, but his attention continued to be diverted by Emily, so trim and still with her legs crossed, so withdrawn and preoccupied.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 attaché 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 Mälaren, 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 Jacobsson about such legendary names-it made a deep impression on me. And I was thinking now-imagine, Emily, you are sitting here on a stone bench in Stockholm with a man-with one whose name, in later years, will be discussed exactly as you heard Anatole France and John Galsworthy discussed today.’
‘Well, hardly-it’s flattering, but not the same.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I may be the Eucken or Bunin of the Nobel roll call. Just as all our Presidents were not Lincoln. Some were Polk and Pierce.’
‘I think not.’
‘You don’t know a thing about me, Miss Stratman.’
She swerved towards him on the bench. ‘How is one transformed from Emily to Miss Stratman overnight?’
‘By the wondrous sorcery of sobriety.’
‘I see. Well, wet or dry, I’m still Emily.’
‘In that case-I’m Andrew.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s hard for me. It would have to be Mr. Craig for quite a while. After that, the next step would be-well, dropping Mr. Craig, and not using your name at all-the transition-and then long after, maybe your first name. But we have only a week.’
‘Andrew’s so easy. Try it.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Simply say it after me. Andrew.’
‘Andrew.’
‘There, you see. Was that so difficult?’
‘No-because I didn’t believe it, it didn’t connect with you.’
‘Well, when you’re by yourself, practise it, rehearse constantly. Andrew-Andrew-where is Andrew?’
She smiled. ‘All right, I’ll skip the Mr. Craig, I’ll use no name for the time and see what happens.’
‘The weekly news magazines refer to us as Nobelmen. I wouldn’t mind that.’
‘I’ll oblige you in my next incarnation-when I’m a weekly news magazine.’
She drew on her cigarette, and dropped her shoulders slightly, as if more at ease. ‘Back at Skansen,’ she said casually, ‘did you and my uncle really discuss physics and literature?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘I thought not. What did you talk about?’
‘You.’
She showed no surprise, and pretended no immediate curiosity. ‘That must have lasted a quick ten seconds.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Some people are conversation pieces, and some aren’t. I’m “aren’t”. I hate to admit this, Mr.-sorry, I promised transition-I hate to admit this, but I’m enormously unexciting.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Who else would know better? I’m cerebral and unadventurous. Not dull, mind you. I’m extremely clever in my head, and original, but there’s nothing for a biographer or novelist. Shouldn’t a good character provide conflict and excitement-action, eccentricity, passion-something?’
‘Not necessarily, but it helps. Most people are good characters, not from the skin out, but beneath the skin.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Emily. ‘Anyway, I can’t see two great Nobel brains discussing me at any length.’
‘I brought you up,’ said Craig, ‘because somehow it seemed to matter to me. I told your uncle how I’d behaved the night before, and that I owed you an apology, not only owed you but myself, because I wanted your good opinion.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I think he advised me to go find another girl and start from scratch.’
Emily laughed. ‘Oh, he couldn’t have-’
‘No, not in those words. But he made it clear that if I had offended you, I shouldn’t hold too much hope about unoffending you.’
‘Well-I’ve got to admit I have thought about last night-’
‘I was drunk, Emily, absolutely plastered. The way I behaved then has nothing to do with the way I am now or usually. I don’t ordinarily take pretty girls, whom I’ve just met, into private rooms and try to kiss them. I’m much too reticent. But my inhibitions had dissolved, and I was impelled to perform, in short minutes, as I normally might perform after long weeks. So, forgive me-and pretend I’ve found another girl, and I want to start from scratch.’