An Inspector Calls and Other Plays

by J. B. Priestley

  FAWCETT [patiently, misunderstood]: Look! Now what have I done? I meet a bloke called Thring –

  EDITH [angrily]: And I hope he has gastric ’flu too.

  FAWCETT [wrestling hard with his cold]: Women! Girls! Women! The more – more – more I see – [another sneeze coming and he wrestles with it.

  [EDITH begins laughing. He glares at her.]

  How I admire your wonderful delicate sense of humour, Miss Westmore!

  EDITH [laughing]: If you only saw yourself. [Laughs.]

  FAWCETT [shouting]: I don’t want to see myself –

  [Enter PROFESSOR LINDEN.]

  PROFESSOR: Well, Fawcett, if you don’t want to see yourself, there’s no reason why you should, until you shave, tomorrow morning. Good evening, Miss Westmore. And I apologize once again for keeping you waiting.

  EDITH: It’s all right, Professor Linden.

  PROFESSOR [sitting down]: Thank you. What with my family coming and going – and other things – I seem to have completely lost my well-deserved reputation for punctuality. Well – this afternoon’s meeting of the Burmanley Citizens’ Vigilant Society was postponed – eh? And so, much to your relief, I imagine I’ll have to find another subject for next week’s essay.

  FAWCETT: Yes.

  EDITH [timidly]: Professor Linden –?

  PROFESSOR: Yes?

  EDITH [timidly]: We shall be coming to you next week – I mean –

  PROFESSOR [rather sharply]: I hope so. Why not?

  [They exchange glances, and he notices it. He gets up and moves a pace or two, impatiently, then more to himself than to them]

  Really – this is too bad. [He turns to them.] So you’ve heard rumours that I may not be here next week – eh?

  FAWCETT: Yes. Only just tonight – at the Union.

  PROFESSOR: I see. [To EDITH] And you too?

  EDITH [unhappily]: Yes – I did hear – something.

  PROFESSOR: You oughtn’t to have done. But it only proves what I’ve said before – that a university is a mad village.

  [They stare at him for a moment, and there is a pause while he reflects. Then, with more decision]

  You two are pretty average Burmanley History students and here’s a question I’d like to put to you, to be answered quite truthfully. If you’re merely polite about it, then you’ll make me sorry I asked it. [Pauses, then quietly and impersonally] Would it really matter to you – if I wasn’t here next week?

  EDITH [involuntarily]: Oh – dear!

  PROFESSOR: A truthful impersonal answer, mind. Fawcett?

  FAWCETT [steadily]: No, sir, it wouldn’t – not really. I get on all right with Mr Pearse and Mr Saxon. I don’t mean –

  PROFESSOR [quietly]: Never mind about what you don’t mean. You gave me an honest answer. Now, Miss Westmore –

  EDITH [struggling]: Oh dear! – it’s so difficult –

  PROFESSOR: I could take that as an answer, if necessary.

  EDITH [struggling away]: No, I mean I enjoy your lectures more than anybody else’s – and coming here for the essays – I don’t understand you always as I do Mr Pearse – but of course it would matter terribly if you went –

  PROFESSOR [quietly]: No, it wouldn’t. You’re giving me the same answer.

  [As she tries to apologize]

  No, please, Miss Westmore. If you try to apologize to me, then I ought first to apologize to you – for asking such a question – and we might be at it all night. [With an obvious effort] Well, that’s that. But – because we don’t know what’s going to happen – that’s no reason for not doing a bit of work, is it? So let’s get back to the Sixteenth Century … the Sixteenth Century…. [He moves about a little, trying to concentrate.] Yes – well. Shakespeare’s at the Globe Theatre, writing imperishable masterpieces. Suppose you try to trace the connexion between that glorious fact and the rise of the Lombard cities and the development of the banking system.

  FAWCETT [dismayed]: The banking system?

  PROFESSOR: Yes. You go back a century, of course. Twelfth Night, Hamlet – here – and there, the Italian cities and the banking system. Letters of credit and loans at five per cent, at one end of the chain, and at the other a crowded wooden theatre near the Thames and the afternoon fading and a player with a whitened face murmuring Absent thee from felicity awhile. That’s all.

  FAWCETT [as they rise to go]: And if you’re not here –

  PROFESSOR [rather sharply]: I’ve not been told yet that I shan’t be, Fawcett. In fact, you may take it that I will be.

  [The telephone rings. PROFESSOR goes to answer it.]

  EDITH [hissing at FAWCETT]: Idiot!

  FAWCETT [indignant whisper]: What for?

  EDITH [same]: Oh – shut up!

  PROFESSOR [at telephone]: Yes? … This is Professor Linden speaking … all right. … [He turns to the students looking old and bleak now.] This is a call from London and it may take some time, so would you mind letting yourselves out? And we meet here, I hope, next Friday at the usual time.

  EDITH [moving out]: Yes. Good night, Professor Linden.

  FAWCETT [moving out]: Good night.

  PROFESSOR: Good night….

  [They go out, leaving door ajar. He now answers telephone.]

  Yes, Isabel – Robert here…. No, no news at all, but rumours are flying round, of course … well, if it should be vanity, it’s already receiving a shock or two … no, not worth talking about…. Do I? Well, you never did like my telephone voice, did you, my dear? And I may be rather tired…. Mrs Cotton? I’ll give her a shout, then we can go on talking. Just a minute. [Leaves telephone hastily and goes to door, calling] Mrs Cotton – Mrs Cotton – hurry! – telephone [and then goes back to telephone]. I’ve called her…. No, don’t worry about us. Regarded from the splendours of Rex’s flat, we probably seem worse off than we really are…. Certainly, why shouldn’t you enjoy it, my dear. I’m glad…. Well, I was never good at sounding glad on a long-distance telephone late on Saturday night…. Yes, Isabel, I know, but that’s how I feel and while I still live at all, I have to live with myself.

  [MRS COTTON now appears.]

  … Let’s leave it at that then, my dear – here’s Mrs Cotton.

  [He hands her the receiver, which MRS COTTON takes grimly, speaking into it in grim tone]

  MRS COTTON [at telephone]: This is Mrs Cotton…. Yes, Mrs Linden – well, you said that this morning … oh, we’ll manage…. I’ll tell ’em first thing Monday. – What? … Oh –

  [She glances at PROFESSOR, who is standing not far away.]

  A bit pinched, I’d say – as if it was a colder night than it is, if yer see what I mean…. Yes. – Oh, she’s all right…. I tell yer, we’ll manage…. Tomorrow night, same time? I’ll tell ’im. ’Bye. [Puts down receiver as if she disliked it.] She’s goin’to ring yer same time tomorrow night. Money no object. Mr Rex, I suppose. [Sniffs dubiously.] All this talkin’ on telyphones – where’s it get yer?

  PROFESSOR [rather despondently]: I don’t know. I’m not good at it.

  MRS COTTON: Not yuman, that’s what’s wrong with it. Oh – there’s a message for you.

  PROFESSOR: Yes?

  MRS COTTON: Young woman – pal o’ Miss Dinah’s – brought ’er some gramyphone records – an’ a message for you at the same time – works in ’is office, I think –

  PROFESSOR: Whose office?

  MRS COTTON: That Mr Lock’art. She said ’e’s comin’ to see yer tonight – might be any time now –

  PROFESSOR [slowly, softly]: I see. Well, Alfred Lockhart’s an old friend of mine – and – [looking her in the eye] Mrs Cotton – how much whisky is there left?

  MRS COTTON [with innocent air]: Not much. Might be a couple o’ pub doubles – and yer know what they are now –

  PROFESSOR: There ought to be more than that.

  MRS COTTON: There isn’t. Soon goes.

  PROFESSOR [softly]: It does. You couldn’t – by any chance – have had any lately, could you?

  MRS COTTON [a
fter giving him a nod]: Just a nip – yesterday morning – when that ceiling come down – an’ reminded me, you know – just ’ad to ’ave a nip.

  PROFESSOR: Yes, fair enough. I’d have done the same.

  MRS COTTON: Ah – you an’ me, Professor – we can get on all right – live an’ let live – that’s our motto.

  PROFESSOR: Something like that. Well, bring what’s left of the whisky and a couple of glasses for Mr Lockhart and me. We’ve a ceiling coming down too.

  [Sound of gramophone, distant and behind closed door, comes through now.]

  MRS COTTON: Right. ’Ear that? Music. She’s at it. [Smiles with some tenderness.] Talked to me tonight in ’ere about ’ouse-keepin’ an’ shoppin’ an’ all that – wants to look after yer properly, she does – bless ’er!

  PROFESSOR [gently]: You must look after her, Mrs Cotton. I know you’re fond of her.

  MRS COTTON: As if she was my own. Kid got me from the first go off – one reason why I stayed. That Dinah, Professor – she’s growin’ up of course –

  PROFESSOR: Yes, seventeen.

  MRS COTTON [solemnly]: Eighteen. But she still lives in the land o’ childhood, where you an’ me’s forgotten.

  PROFESSOR [astonished]: My dear Mrs Cotton, it’s true of course but what an extraordinary thing for you to say –

  MRS COTTON [complacently]: ’Eard a chap say it top of a tram – one Easter Monday – an’ it stuck in my mind. Crossin’ the river we was – packed of course – an’ it was rainin’ a bit an’ sun shinin’ all at the same time – way it does about Easter – an’ everything suddenly so bright an’ shiny I could ’ave laughed an’ cried. So when I ’eard ’im say that it stuck in my mind. Yer know?

  PROFESSOR [softly]: Yes. And perhaps, after all, we’re not forgotten.

  [As if the door is now wide open, the gramophone can now be heard, clearly but still distantly. It is the Casals recording of the final movement of the Elgar ’Cello Concerto – the passage, before the very end, in which earlier themes are recalled poignantly. PROFESSOR begins listening intently.]

  MRS COTTON [quietly]: I’ll get yer that whisky.

  [She goes, and as he listens near the open door, he is joined by DINAH, in a fine state of excitement.]

  DINAH [in a loud whisper]: That’s Casals. You didn’t think it was me, did you?

  PROFESSOR: I wondered, but I couldn’t think how you’d got the BBC symphony orchestra into the dining-room.

  DINAH: Wouldn’t it be marvellous if you could? Just pack them up in a magic little box?

  PROFESSOR: They’re in one now. Last movement, isn’t it?

  DINAH: Yes, and I’ll never be able to play it properly for ages and ages – if ever. Listen – [the music comes through poignantly] he’s remembering the earlier themes now, Daddy, and saying goodbye to them.

  PROFESSOR [quietly, almost to the music]: Wandering through the darkening house of life – touching all the things he loved – crying Farewell – for ever – for ever –

  [After a moment, there is heard a ring at the front door.]

  DINAH [crossly]: Oh – bother! I’ll go. [Hurries out.]

  PROFESSOR [going to doorway, calling]: If it’s anybody but Alfred Lockhart, I can’t see them. [Going out to look.] Oh – it is you, Alfred.

  LOCKHART [calling]: Yes.

  PROFESSOR: Come up. Dinah, when you’ve finished with the gramophone, you’d better go to bed.

  DINAH [as she hurries past doorway]: All right, but I’m a bit excited.

  [PROFESSOR now ushers in LOCKHART, who wears a dark overcoat and carries a dark hat. He looks grave.]

  PROFESSOR [still near door, not closed]: Alfred, you’re wearing your undertaker’s look tonight. Won’t you take your coat off?

  LOCKHART: No, thanks, Robert. I mustn’t stay long.

  [MRS COTTON appears with a tray on which are two glasses, small jug of water, and whisky decanter with small amount of whisky in it.]

  MRS COTTON: ’Ere it is, what’s left of it – so make the most of it, I say. [Goes to put tray down.]

  PROFESSOR: Thank you, Mrs Cotton. And there won’t be anything else tonight. So – good night.

  MRS COTTON [moving out]: Good night. An’ I’ll try an’ get that young madam off to bed too. [She goes out and closes the door behind her.]

  PROFESSOR: A little whisky, Alfred?

  LOCKHART [gravely]: I’d rather get the official part of my visit over first, if you don’t mind, Robert.

  PROFESSOR: I thought there must be an official part.

  [They have now sat down.]

  LOCKHART: I’m not enjoying this. That’s why I wanted to get it over tonight.

  PROFESSOR: Go ahead.

  LOCKHART [steadily, impersonally]: I’ve been instructed by the Vice-Chancellor that in the circumstances he will not press for your immediate resignation – though he deplores – and he particularly asked me to tell you this – the attitude you have adopted and trusts you will reconsider your decision –

  PROFESSOR [cutting in]: Alfred, I can’t listen to any more of this jargon or watch you pretending to be a Civil Service dummy. What have they agreed to? Do I stay as I am?

  LOCKHART: No.

  PROFESSOR [shocked]: What?

  LOCKHART: It’s a compromise. I expected it, as I hinted this morning. You give up the Chair and most of the work but you can stay on an Emeritus level – no examining – off the Board of Studies – about half-salary – a little more perhaps –

  PROFESSOR [angrily]: God! – Alfred – it’s an insult –

  LOCKHART: It’s what I expected.

  PROFESSOR: But was there a proper meeting?

  LOCKHART: Yes.

  PROFESSOR: But what about Drury and Hamilton – and my lot –?

  LOCKHART: They were there. Didn’t like it. Hamilton said what he thought – he was pretty fierce. But they had to give in.

  PROFESSOR [quietly]: We’ll have that whisky now, I think. [Gets up and begins pouring it.] And don’t keep on being official, Alfred. You and I have known each other for over twenty years – skirmished and fought together – and tied up each other’s wounds – eh?

  LOCKHART [calm and mild]: Yes. And I’m not being official any longer. To hell with ’em. And I’m sick of this job. I’ll find a way out – and soon too.

  [Takes the glass PROFESSOR gives him.]

  Thanks, Robert. Can you spare it?

  PROFESSOR: No, and neither can my housekeeper.

  LOCKHART [calmly]: It’ll taste all the better. [Looks solemnly over his glass.] Skoal!

  PROFESSOR [raising his glass]: Salut!

  [They drink solemnly.]

  LOCKHART: I’ll say what I tried to tell you this morning. You shouldn’t have given them this chance. You should have walked out. Your wife was right –

  PROFESSOR: You behaved badly there, Alfred, lending yourself to female intrigue. Isabel, by the way, has gone to live with Rex, and says she’s never coming back here.

  LOCKHART: Bad in theory, but right and sensible in practice – trying to force your hand. You ought to join her on Monday. Tell the VC he can keep his Emeritus nonsense. I’d enjoy taking him a message in your best style, Robert.

  PROFESSOR: I’d two students here tonight, Alfred. Average types – Fawcett and the Westmore girl – so, like a fool, I did a Gallup Poll on them – would it really matter to them if I did go? I gathered it wouldn’t. So far as they are concerned, I might as well be in Rex’s super-flat tonight, swigging his excellent Black Market whisky.

  LOCKHART: That’s where I’d be.

  PROFESSOR [softly]: No, you wouldn’t, Alfred, you old liar. What about the job that Masterton, the motor chap offered you, last year, with an expense sheet as long as your arm? You turned it down – to toil on here.

  LOCKHART: I was a fool.

  PROFESSOR: I’m the same kind of fool. And insult or no insult, students or no students, wife or no wife, I’m staying –

  LOCKHART [rather angrily, for him]: But why? What i
n God’s name do you think you can do here now?

  PROFESSOR: Be an old nuisance. Make senile mischief. Throw large spanners into their godless works. I’ll grab the pick of the history honours people and show them what life’s done so far with this gaudy little planet. I’ll give lectures that have about as much to do with the syllabus as Brock’s fireworks. I’ll contradict every dreary little lie about humanity that Pearse and Saxon and the rest can cook up. I’ll –

  LOCKHART [cutting in, rather sharply]: Don’t go on, Robert. Because I think you’re bluffing.

  [PROFESSOR, who has been on his feet during his last speech, turns away, hurt, but not wanting LOCKHART to see he is hurt. LOCKHART, however, guesses this and rises, moving nearer PROFESSOR. The latter turns and looks at him, reproachfully.]

  LOCKHART: I’m sorry. Even if I thought that, I oughtn’t to have said it.

  PROFESSOR: If you can think it, then you’d better say it – even tonight. But perhaps I was bluffing a bit – whistling in the dark perhaps. Let’s put it like this, then. I’ve been here a long time – I like the glum mucky old place. And times are hard, Alfred – we’ve got to keep on if we can. And there might be something I could help to do here, before the light goes. A touch of colour. A hint of wonder. An occasional new glance at old stuff. A bit of insight. Or is it the characteristic vanity of the Emeritus type?

  LOCKHART: No, it isn’t. You’ve all that to give. If they’ll let you.

  PROFESSOR [a trifle bleakly, at first]: Yes, there’s that. And it’s not so much men – as machines – that we have to beat. The new educational machine here, for instance. And generally – the capital-industrial machine – and now the Trade Union machine and the Civil Service machine.

  LOCKHART: Right.

  PROFESSOR: I was telling my family, who don’t care a damn, that we’re trying to do a wonderful thing here. And so we are. But somehow not in a wonderful way. There’s a kind of grey chilly hollowness inside, where there ought to be gaiety, colour, warmth, vision. Sometimes our great common enterprise seems only a noble skeleton, as if the machines had already sucked the blood and marrow out of it. My wife and family tell me to go away and enjoy myself. Doing what? Watching the fire die out of the heart, and never even stooping to blow? Here in Burmanley – with Dinah and her kind – and a few friends and allies – I can still blow a little – brighten an ember or two.