An Inspector Calls and Other Plays

by J. B. Priestley

  Would it be a nuisance for you to slip in here afterwards? It wouldn’t? Then do that, please. So off you go. And I’m sorry you had to wait.

  [PROFESSOR goes to door, FAWCETT following. But EDITH looks at JEAN.]

  EDITH [humbly]: Dr Linden – I hope I didn’t sound rude when we were all arguing. Bernard always makes me lose my temper when he attacks religion.

  JEAN [smiling]: No, I didn’t mind.

  PROFESSOR [as EDITH moves up]: High time you lost your temper, Miss Westmore. Pity I missed that. [Confidentially] I lost my temper this morning, up at the University offices. Well, perhaps I shall see you tonight –

  [He is now ushering the students through the door. JEAN lights a cigarette. PROFESSOR returns, closing door.]

  JEAN: Did you lose your temper, this morning?

  PROFESSOR [with satisfaction]: I did. I raised merry hell. I told them they couldn’t get rid of me simply by remembering we’re supposed to have an age-limit.

  JEAN: So you think it’s all over and done with.

  PROFESSOR [eyeing her]: Don’t you?

  JEAN [softly]: No I don’t.

  [Goes nearer to him.]

  PROFESSOR: I ought to write a letter or two.

  JEAN [now closer, softly]: They can wait a minute, Dad. And we’re alone. Nobody listening. You can tell me. I’m not one of the Get-Him-Out-Of-Here party.

  PROFESSOR: Who is – or are – members of it?

  JEAN [still softly]: Mother. Rex. Marion. Now confess, Dad, it’s not all as easy as you pretended, is it?

  PROFESSOR [with elaborate whisper]: No – it isn’t. Between ourselves, of course. [Then in quite ordinary tone] Nevertheless, I’ll settle it all right. Actually the battle’s not over – may be going on now. And I must write those notes – that wasn’t an excuse not to talk. [Going to desk or work table, to write.] Lidley probably imagines from my grumpy manner that I haven’t any friends round here. He’s wrong. I still have a few. And his own position isn’t as strong as he thinks, unless he has a string or two to pull that I don’t know about. He may have, of course. [Sitting down now, to begin writing.] These notes are part of the campaign, otherwise I wouldn’t bother about ’em now.

  [He begins writing swiftly. JEAN watches him for a moment or two, very thoughtfully. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then checks herself.]

  Yes?

  JEAN: Nothing.

  PROFESSOR [still writing]: I thought you wanted to say something. If so, please say it. As Rex keeps telling us, there isn’t much time.

  JEAN [after slight hesitation]: I may be conceited – people keep saying so – but – well, I know you’re a very wise old bird, Dad, and you always understood me best …

  PROFESSOR [looking up, putting pipe in]: So?

  JEAN: What’s the matter with me?

  PROFESSOR [lighting his pipe]: Not very much. Otherwise, you couldn’t be doing the job you are doing.

  JEAN: But there is something. I know that.

  PROFESSOR [coolly]: Feeling miserable, aren’t you?

  JEAN: Yes. And hating myself.

  PROFESSOR [calmly]: That’s the trouble. You’re resenting your own emotions. You’re annoyed with yourself for being a woman. Quite wrong. After all, there’s no escape from that. This man you’re in love with. – Perhaps he isn’t worth it. And you’ll have to get over him. I don’t know – and don’t much want to. But just remember, you’re a young woman, with a hundred thousand other women among your ancestors – and all the medical degrees in the world don’t change that fact – and don’t try to pretend to yourself you’re a termite queen or a creature from Mars or something. Because you have to attend to bewildered sick women who perhaps enjoy their emotions – luxuriate in ’em – you refuse to give your own an inch of rope. And then they tear back at you like having a wounded cat inside you.

  JEAN: Just about. But what can I do?

  PROFESSOR: Buy a bottle of gin. Sit up with a girl friend. Split the bottle, tell everything, have a dam’ good cry – and enjoy every minute of it. Then start again, on a better basis.

  JEAN: For myself, you mean?

  PROFESSOR: For yourself, and for the rest of us. Don’t demand a world as efficient, sterilized and scientific as an operating theatre. We couldn’t live in it if we got it. Don’t confuse science with life. It’s an abstraction – neat and quick, to get certain things done. That’s all. Even if the bath water’s distilled and heated to just the right temperature, it’s still the baby that’s important. Messy things too, babies. Always will be. You won’t mind too much when it’s yours.

  JEAN: Let’s have a long talk next time, Dad.

  PROFESSOR [beginning to write again, quickly]: Yes, come up here alone, as soon as you can.

  JEAN: But, Dad – I think I ought to warn you.

  PROFESSOR [still writing]: Yes?

  JEAN: Mother’s more serious than you think.

  PROFESSOR [glancing up]: She needs a change badly, of course. Burmanley’s been a bit too much for her lately, I know. Don’t blame her.

  JEAN: It’s gone farther than you think.

  PROFESSOR [looking at her now, quietly]: You believe that, do you?

  [Enter MARION, holding door open.]

  MARION: Tea’s in.

  JEAN [moving]: I’m coming.

  PROFESSOR [writing]: Early, isn’t it?

  MARION: Yes, but we shall be starting soon. But Mother said you needn’t bother. She’s having hers now, and she said she wanted to talk to you.

  [JEAN has now gone.]

  PROFESSOR: There – or here?

  MARION: Here, I imagine. [Hesitates a moment, drifting in a little.] I hated that silly noisy argument we had this afternoon.

  PROFESSOR [still writing]: You made a hell of a row about it.

  MARION: What’s the matter with everybody here?

  PROFESSOR: All kinds of things.

  MARION: No, I mean – why are you all so completely materialistic now?

  [He looks up at her questioningly. She continues, with more warmth.]

  As if nothing on earth mattered but production – and exports – and what people earned –

  PROFESSOR [mildly]: We have to live, you know. And being poorer than we used to be, it’s more of a problem.

  MARION: But that’s not all there is in life.

  PROFESSOR: Not a bit. Only the start of it. The mechanics, so to speak.

  MARION: But it’s all you seem to care about now. No, not you – yourself.

  PROFESSOR: I know. Not me, but everybody else. Remember the miracle of the loaves and fishes – ?

  MARION: Yes, of course.

  PROFESSOR: Materialistic?

  MARION: No, that’s quite different.

  PROFESSOR: The idea’s the same. Spread it out and give everybody a fair share. It’s never been done before, you know, not in a whole large society. Oh – there’s been colour, grace, culture, philosophy, nobly spiritual lives – but always with a lot of poor devils, whole masses of people, left clean out, slogging away in the dark, ignored, forgotten. Is it materialistic and sordid not to ignore and forget them, to bring them all out into the light, to take their share?

  MARION: Yes, but to talk and think about nothing else –

  PROFESSOR [jumping up]: Wrong, yes. I keep saying so. But give us a chance, my dear Marion. Call us drab and dismal, if you like, and tell us we don’t know how to cook our food or wear our clothes – but for Heaven’s sake, recognize that we’re trying to do something that is as extraordinary and wonderful as it’s difficult – to have a revolution for once without the Terror, without looting mobs and secret police, sudden arrests, mass suicides and executions, without setting in motion that vast pendulum of violence which can decimate three generations before it comes to a standstill. We’re fighting in the last ditch of our civilization. If we win through, everybody wins through. Why – bless my soul! – Marion – [He is leading her to the window now, then pointing] Look – you see that flat-footed dough-faced fellow … slou
ching along there –

  MARION [half-laughing]: Yes. And I suppose he’s the ordinary British citizen – the hero of the world –

  PROFESSOR [with sudden change of manner]: That’s what I’d hoped, but actually I see it’s poor Atherfield, our professor of physics, who took some bull-headed wrong line of his own upon the isotopes of uranium, or whatever it was – and so missed his place on the atomic band-wagon. If we’re all blown to smithereens, he won’t have contributed anything to the explosion – and the poor chap’s heartbroken. But I must post my letters. [He hurries back to his desk or table and is putting letters in envelopes.]

  [Enter MRS LINDEN; she is dressed ready for travelling, but not wearing a hat or heavy coat.]

  MRS LINDEN: Oh, there you are, Marion. Do go and finish your tea. Rex wants to start in half an hour.

  MARION: All right, Mother, don’t fuss, I’m quite ready. [Exit MARION.]

  [MRS LINDEN looks at the PROFESSOR steadily. He looks at her, then slowly rises, the letters in his hand.]

  MRS LINDEN: Did you hear anything more this afternoon, Robert?

  PROFESSOR: No, my love. I have an idea that Lidley’s busy with my protest at this very moment. Alfred Lockhart told me there might be some sort of meeting this evening. So I might have news later tonight.

  MRS LINDEN [gravely]: You know what I think about it.

  PROFESSOR: Yes. That even if they wanted me to, I’d be a fool to stay on. And as some of ’em don’t want me, as I have to fight to keep my job, I’m out of my senses to stay. Right?

  MRS LINDEN [sits down]: Yes. And Rex – and Marion – and even Jean, I think – agree with me.

  PROFESSOR [easily]: Well, they could be wrong too. [Pause, looks at her.] I don’t enjoy not having you on my side in this, you know, Isabel.

  MRS LINDEN [sharply]: And do you think I enjoy it? I hate it. I hate it. But they never really liked you here – that’s what you’ve never understood. It never was your place. I knew it – and you ought to have known it. All this is just another reason why I’m glad to go.

  PROFESSOR [lightly]: You’ve had a particularly difficult time lately, I know, my dear. A change will do you good. Rex, who understands these things much better than I do, will see that you enjoy yourself. I’m glad you’re going. When you come back, my little quarrel with Lidley and his set will be over, I hope – and we’ll try to find some more help for the house.

  MRS LINDEN: I’m not coming back.

  PROFESSOR [stares at her]: You don’t mean that.

  MRS LINDEN: Robert, I mean every word of it. I’m not coming back. I’m leaving Burmanley for ever.

  PROFESSOR: Never mind Burmanley. You’re leaving me.

  MRS LINDEN: I’m not leaving you. That’s the point.

  PROFESSOR: I don’t see it.

  MRS LINDEN [with more urgency now]: It’s quite simple, Robert. You ought to retire – and you’ve been told to. There’s nothing to keep us here. We can live with Rex for a time – he’s very anxious that we should, and he can well afford to have us as his guests. Afterwards, if necessary, we can find a little place of our own. Everybody agrees that this is what we ought to do. It’s perfectly obvious. But suddenly you’ve decided to be obstinate. You want to stay on here. But what about me? Have you ever thought about me?

  PROFESSOR: I tried to, Isabel. And I realize it’s not easy for you –

  MRS LINDEN [urgently]: I never liked Burmanley from the first, but of course I put up with it – for your sake, always hoping that we’d soon be able to go somewhere else. During these last few years, with the older children away, with most of our friends dead or gone, with no proper help in the house, with all the rationing and queueing and drab misery, I’ve loathed every single day. And always I’ve been longing and praying for this time to come – when you’d have to retire – when we’d done with Burmanley for ever. Rex knew what I felt – he’s always understood –

  PROFESSOR [lightly, but with underlying gravity]: Rex the Tempter – it’s a part that suits him – offering you breakfast in bed at Huntingdon House – then Bond Street – a nice little lunch somewhere – a theatre – a little bridge –

  MRS LINDEN [warmly]: All right. And why not? Rex and I understand each other, always have done. And if he offers me those things – yes, and having my hair done properly – and looking at silly illustrated weeklies – and having a good woman’s gossip – and sometimes spending money foolishly – and being nicely looked after –

  PROFESSOR [not sneering]: Is that what you’ve always really wanted?

  MRS LINDEN: No, it isn’t, except somewhere at the back of my mind, like most women. What I’ve wanted is what I’ve had – looking after you and the children – keeping this house going – trying to plan good holidays for us all. And when it had to be done, I did it – and did it gladly. But it hasn’t to be done any more. And now I don’t want to spend another day in this hateful place –

  PROFESSOR [in wondering melancholy tone]: Hateful? Hateful? It’s just a city – full of people working, trying to get along – not very different from us. Hateful?

  MRS LINDEN [almost tearful now]: I don’t mean I’ve never been happy here. It was different at first. But it’s hateful now – grey, dismal – with a stupid shabby sort of life – all meaningless to me – so that sometimes I’ve felt like a wretched ghost. You’ve had your work – your students –

  PROFESSOR: Yes, yes – I know it’s easier for me – quite different. But –

  MRS LINDEN [tearful, though not crying]: And soon I shall be sixty – all my life gone – Rex in London – Marion far away in France. And I tell you I hate this drab gloomy world we’ve made. Rex is right – the only thing to do is to laugh at it and then forget it. And now he’s been here again – and talked so much – Marion too – if they went and left me here, I feel I’d die of misery –

  [As she almost breaks down, he crosses to comfort her.]

  PROFESSOR [comfortably, as he crosses]: My dear, I’m sorry you feel like this – I know it’s been hard –

  [When he is about to touch her, she waves him away.]

  MRS LINDEN [checking her emotion]: No, Robert, please! Let me say what I want to say. I’ll be quite calm.

  [She makes an effort. He steps back. Then she speaks fairly quietly and firmly.]

  No, I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving Burmanley. And I’m doing it for your sake as well as for my own. I’ve tried to persuade you – so have the children – and now I’m doing the only thing that I think may make you behave sensibly. But I mean what I say. I’m going and I’m not coming back. If you stay here, Robert, you’ll stay here alone – and I don’t think you’ll want to do that very long – thank goodness!

  [As he stands stiffly, she pleads a little.]

  Robert, please! This isn’t a quarrel. I’m not leaving you.

  PROFESSOR [gravely]: I think you are. A man stays where his work is and the woman stays with the man.

  MRS LINDEN: And I did it for thirty-seven years. But you’re no longer a man who has his work.

  PROFESSOR [bitterly]: That’s the most damnably hurting thing you’ve ever said to me.

  MRS LINDEN: I’m sorry, Robert. I didn’t say it to hurt you. But it’s true – and you’re hurting yourself because you won’t admit it.

  [Enter REX, wearing an overcoat but no hat. He looks sharply at his parents, but takes an easy tone.]

  REX: Sorry to barge in. But I’d like to get off in about ten minutes. I’ve put most of the stuff in the car. Want to be alone?

  MRS LINDEN [rather wearily]: No, it doesn’t matter now. Come in, darling.

  [PROFESSOR goes over to the window and looks out, standing stiffly. REX and MRS LINDEN exchange a look, then she rises and they meet. He takes her arm and pats her hand with his other hand, affectionately. She smiles rather sadly at him.]

  DINAH [off, just outside, surprised]: But I didn’t know you were going so soon.

  MARION [calling, farther off]: In a few minutes.

&nbs
p; DINAH [off, as before]: Gosh! – I don’t really know what’s happening about this family.

  JEAN [farther off, calling]: Has anybody seen my little red bag?

  DINAH [calling]: I’ll have a look for it.

  [We hear her moving off whistling, the door being wide open. MRS LINDEN gently releases herself from REX, pulling herself together, but stands near him. MARION enters, ready to go, and looking very smart. She glances at her father’s back, and then exchanges meaning glances with her mother and REX.]

  MARION [softly]: Dad – I hoped Mother would have persuaded you to come with us.

  PROFESSOR [after turning, quietly]: Well, she hasn’t, Marion. She tells me she’s leaving Burmanley for good.

  MARION: I know. And I think she’s right. There’s nothing for her here.

  PROFESSOR: Except me. And some work still to be done.

  MARION: I don’t see that, Father. You needn’t stay.

  REX [cheerfully]: They don’t even want you to –

  PROFESSOR [sharply]: Rex – I’ve heard enough of that today.

  REX [who sees he is hurt]: Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean –

  PROFESSOR [cutting in, curtly]: All right.

  MRS LINDEN: If your father felt he was behaving sensibly, he wouldn’t be so touchy. But he knows he isn’t. I do think he’s behaving with ridiculous obstinacy.

  PROFESSOR: Quite possibly what I do may not be very important, but I want to keep straight on doing it. I don’t believe this is simply personal vanity – an elderly man not wanting to be put on the shelf. Although even now I don’t fancy being one of the passengers, I’d rather be with the crew.

  REX: Is that one for me?

  MARION: And me?

  MRS LINDEN: Well, if it is, it’s absurd. Why shouldn’t Rex –

  PROFESSOR [cutting in]: This isn’t an attack on Rex. Or on anybody else. You all seem to think I’m unreasonable and I’m trying to explain myself. After all we’ve heard during the past twenty-four hours, we know by this time that Burmanley’s a gloomy, shabby hole that nobody but an old fool would want to do any work in. And why work anyhow if you needn’t? That’s been the line. And it doesn’t appeal to me. I don’t like the sound of it. There’s death in it, somewhere. Down these fancy side turnings, although there seems more fun and colour and light that way, there are dead ends. I don’t want to walk away from real life, give it up as a bad job. It’s a pity just now that it’s got a pinched look, frayed cuffs and down-at-heel shoes – whereas some coffins have satin linings – but I prefer to stay with it and help a bit if I can –