Misalliance

Misalliance

By George Bernard Shaw.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Dramatis Personae
4. Misalliance
   1. Misalliance
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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Dramatis Personae

• John “Johnny” Tarleton, Jr.

• Bentley Summerhays

• Hypatia Tarleton

• Mrs. Tarleton

• Lord Summerhays

• John Tarleton

• Joseph Percival

• Lina Szczepanowska

• Julius “Gunner” Baker

Misalliance

A Debate in One Sitting

Misalliance

Johnny Tarleton, an ordinary young business man of thirty or less, is taking his weekly Friday to Tuesday in the house of his father, John Tarleton, who has made a great deal of money out of Tarleton’s Underwear. The house is in Surrey, on the slope of Hindhead; and Johnny, reclining, novel in hand, in a swinging chair with a little awning above it, is enshrined in a spacious half hemisphere of glass which forms a pavilion commanding the garden, and, beyond it, a barren but lovely landscape of hill profile with fir trees, commons of bracken and gorse, and wonderful cloud pictures.

The glass pavilion springs from a bridgelike arch in the wall of the house, through which one comes into a big hall with tiled flooring, which suggests that the proprietor’s notion of domestic luxury is founded on the lounges of weekend hotels. The arch is not quite in the centre of the wall. There is more wall to its right than to its left, and this space is occupied by a hat rack and umbrella stand in which tennis rackets, white parasols, caps, Panama hats, and other summery articles are bestowed. Just through the arch at this corner stands a new portable Turkish bath, recently unpacked, with its crate beside it, and on the crate the drawn nails and the hammer used in unpacking. Near the crate are open boxes of garden games: bowls and croquet. Nearly in the middle of the glass wall of the pavilion is a door giving on the garden, with a couple of steps to surmount the hot-water pipes which skirt the glass. At intervals round the pavilion are marble pillars with specimens of Viennese pottery on them, very flamboyant in colour and florid in design. Between them are folded garden chairs flung anyhow against the pipes. In the side walls are two doors: one near the hat stand, leading to the interior of the house, the other on the opposite side and at the other end, leading to the vestibule.

There is no solid furniture except a sideboard which stands against the wall between the vestibule door and the pavilion, a small writing table with a blotter, a rack for telegram forms and stationery, and a wastepaper basket, standing out in the hall near the sideboard, and a lady’s worktable, with two chairs at it, towards the other side of the lounge. The writing table has also two chairs at it. On the sideboard there is a tantalus, liqueur bottles, a syphon, a glass jug of lemonade, tumblers, and every convenience for casual drinking. Also a plate of sponge cakes, and a highly ornate punch bowl in the same style as the ceramic display in the pavilion. Wicker chairs and little bamboo tables with ash trays and boxes of matches on them are scattered in all directions. In the pavilion, which is flooded with sunshine, is the elaborate patent swing seat and awning in which Johnny reclines with his novel. There are two wicker chairs right and left of him.

Bentley Summerhays, one of those smallish, thinskinned youths, who from 17 to 70 retain unaltered the mental airs of the later and the physical appearance of the earlier age, appears in the garden and comes through the glass door into the pavilion. He is unmistakably a grade above Johnny socially; and though he looks sensitive enough, his assurance and his high voice are a little exasperating.

Johnny	Hallo! Where’s your luggage?
Bentley	I left it at the station. I’ve walked up from Haslemere. He goes to the hat stand and hangs up his hat.
Johnny	Shortly. Oh! And who’s to fetch it?
Bentley	Don’t know. Don’t care. Providence, probably. If not, your mother will have it fetched.
Johnny	Not her business, exactly, is it?
Bentley	Returning to the pavilion. Of course not. That’s why one loves her for doing it. Look here: chuck away your silly weekend novel, and talk to a chap. After a week in that filthy office my brain is simply blue-mouldy. Lets argue about something intellectual. He throws himself into the wicker chair on Johnny’s right.
Johnny	Straightening up in the swing with a yell of protest. No. Now seriously, Bunny, I’ve come down here to have a pleasant weekend; and I’m not going to stand your confounded arguments. If you want to argue, get out of this and go over