The IMPOSTOR

Radio Record, Volume V, Issue 11, 25 September 1931, Page 1

The IMPOSTOR

By

MARY

SCOTT

("Helen. Gordon")

This play; "The Impostor," by Mary Scott, was awarded premier place of those commended by the judge, Mr. Victor Lloyd. Readers will be interested to know that Mary Scott is identical with "Helen Gordon," the winner of the prize-winning play, that being a pen name adopted by Mary Scott. The literary talent of Mary Scott was called into its latest development by ""The New Zealand Dairy Exporter" in its Home Journal pages. After her graduate days Mrs. Scott entered upon married life in the backblocks, giving up all idea of journalistic or literary work, in which she had dabbled while at college. She was, however, inspired by a chance copy of the "Exporter" to realise that in the backblocks life around her-logs and bush and mud-lay an unexploited field, with not a little romance. This was ‘some four years ago, and from that initial inspiration she has embarked upon a wide field of effort. Contributions from her pen under the nom de plume of "Anon" have appeared in the "New Zealand Herald" and "Weekly News," and in the "Auckland Star" and other papers as M.E.S. Her work has also appeared, in particular, in "Tui’s Annual" and the ‘Artists’ Annual" under various noms de plume. Her initial inspiration was to portray the heroic life of New Zealand backblocks women. On that theme she has written a novel, which is now under consideration in London. This play, "The: Impostor," totally distinct in character trom her winning work, "The Signal," is a further demonstration of her . versatility. ‘

LIST OF OHARAOTERS: MARION NORWOOD ~- MRS. MORTON BHRYL MORTON MRS. ASHMBHAD NORA BENNETT SALLY, the Maid.

SCENE: The drawing-room of @ suburban house. DBvidently the people who lwe here have wealit and position, but also pleasant, homely tastes. There is a table-telephone in one corner, and a large door or French window on to the verandah; also another window and a door leading into the hall of the house. TIMH: A summer afternoon at the present day.

(Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Ashmead are seated in dignified conversation as the curtain rises; they are women in late middle life, both fashionable, both well-preserved. Here the resemblance ends; Mrs. Ashmead is a gentle, kindly soul; Mrs. Morton is what the younger generation irreverently describes as "a holy terror." ) Mrs. Morton (acidly) : Most amazing ! A motor accident, you say? Mrs. Ashmead: Yes, right at the very gate of Sunnymeade. Her steering-gear failed. Mrs. M. (grimly): In other words, she was speeding. Mrs. A. (feebly) : Oh, no; I’m sure it was some horrid little bolt or screw. . . . You know the things. Mrs. M. (siill more grimly) : I know girls. « So Wilfrid was smitten at once? Mrs. A. (defensively): Marion is so charming. . . . Of course, I could not let her go back to be nursed at a boarding-house-for, though she wasn’t much hurt, she was dazed and suffering from shock. | , Mrs. M.: So appealing! And you nursed her back to health, and now she is to marry your only son! Well, Elizabeth, you seem to have been busy during my trip to Australia! Mrs. A. (rather guiltily): I have missed you very much, dear Caroline. Mrs. M.: It would seem so. But who is she, Elizabeth? Norwood? I don’t seem to know the name. Mrs. A. (vaguely); Oh, her people live somewhere in the south. An orphan, you know. She has been living with an old uncle -a wealthy autocrat, I fancy. However, they quarrelled and she came north for a trip,

Mrs. M. Alone? Really, these modern girls! Mrs. A. (hastily): No, Caroline, no. Marion had a chaperone, but she had been called home unexpectedly on the very day of the accident. Mrs. M.: Most fortunate-for all concerned. And is this all you really know of the girl who is going to marry Wilfrid in a fort night? Are you content with that, Elizabeth? Mrs. A. (quite firmly): 1am content with Marion. Mrs. M.: Oh, I don’t deny that she has a certain charm-but modern, very modern! And then Wilfrid is so wealthy! Why, she will be mistress of the largest station in the province-positively an estate! Mrs. A. (hastily) : Here come Marion and Beryl. How pretty Beryl is! I suppose her engagement will be the next. Mrs. M. (with a hauteur that suggests that Marion has spoiled a cherished plan): No doubt. She is much admired. (The girls enter. Marion is young and pretty, but her face is clouded and her manner distraite today. Beryl is so utterly unlike her mother that we can only suppose her to possess a most charming father.) We have been admiring your beautiful wedding-presents, Miss Norwood. Marion (with obvious constraint): Wil frid’s really ; not mine. They’re all his friends. Mrs. A. (kindly): Never mind, dears when you go south for your honeymoon it will be all your friends. Marion (with an enigmatic smile): Perhaps so. Beryl, the (Continued on page 2):

‘Vanes are clamouring to finish that set. Do you mind? ‘ Beryl: All right, ’' go. But I’m in rotten form. . Mrs. M.. (shuddering) : What a yocabulary!.... You don’t Play, Miss Norwood? Marion (vaguely): No; I sprained ‘my wrist in that motor smash, Mrs..A.: Shall we sit under the trees and’watch the game, Caroline? Will you come, Marion? . ms _ Marion: No, thank you, There’s & glare, and my head’s aching. Mrs. A. (fluttering rownd her): Poor child! You look tired. A little aspirin? No? ‘Then lie on the sofa quietly, and close your eyes. Remember, Wilfrid is due at five o’clock. (They go out.)

Marion (sadly): No need to worry about Wilfrid’s coming. He must have had my letter by now. (A8 she talks she walks restlessly up and down, now picking up an ornament, again looking ata book.) What an afternoon! Why on earth did the girls want to turn out for tennis, to-day of all days? And what an old horror that Mrs. Morton is! How did Beryl ever manage to produce such a mother-at least, that’s a’ bit mixed, but I can’t help it. My head feels mixed to-day. .. If only I could have slipped quietly out, as I had planned! Anyway, I’ve got to eatch my train, if ‘Mrs. Morton, or the devil himself, iscalling! (The telephone rings sharply.) Bother that telephone! I suppose I must: answer it... (Takes down receiver.) Mrs, Ashmead’s house.

What? You? But Wilfrid, haven’t you had my letter? Ah, yes, I thought you must have by now. Then what do you want me for?. What? A joke? Of course it wasn’t a joke... I’m exactly what I said-an imposter. I haven’t any money or any rich relatives. It’s all been lies, lies! But it’s over. I cashed my last pound to-day. .. What am I going to do? I’m going home, of course. . .. Going to what? To marry you? Nonsense, don’t try to be funny. ... Goodness, Wilfrid, don’t roar my head _off. . . Not funny, then-chivalrous. Oh, of course you’re only doing what .a gentleman feels he must do... Oh! ‘ Wilfrid, how can you? (Aside.) Gracious, I’d no idea he could swear like that-the darling! (Sternly into . receiver): Don’t be so cross, Wilfred! No, it’s no use; I’m'not going to take advantage of your generosity and have you ashamed of me in six months. Why, I’m not even what Mrs. Morton would call a lady. . . What’s that? Damn’ Mrs. Morton. . . Oh, rather... At least, I mean I’m surprised at you, ‘ Wilfrid Ashmead... Talking like this is only making it worse. ..I tell you, I’m going home, home to the: back.bloeks and the cows. .. What do I do with them? Why, milk them, of course. . . And---some day--I’ll marry a farmer. .. What? You a farmer? Qh, don’t be silly. . . I mean a real farmer-the sort that milks cows and wears. a grey shirt and dungarees.... No, that’s the only kind I would ever marry... Now do you see?. .. Goodbye (She bangs on the receiver and buries her face in her hands as the others enter. Nora is @ modern girl and charming.)

Mrs. A.: So glad your headache seems better, dear. Were you practising that recitation the Dean asked for? Marion (quietly): Yes; "The Impostor’s Farewell." Did it.sound econvincing? Nora: Top-hole. Real sob stuff. Beryl: You are a_ ripping actor, Marion. Marion (bitterly): Almost to the life. Here comes Sally with the tea. (Sally enters with @ tray and arranges the tea table. Mrs. «A. Pours out. Marion helping as daughter of the house. All drink tea as they talk.) Have Joan and Val gone? Beryl: Yes, they had to fiy. They've got an aunt and unele coming from the country to-night. Mrs. A. (to Mrs. M.): I understand that the: mother’s people are not-not quite-you understand me? Mrs. A, (kindly): Oh, hardly that, Caroline. These relations live in the Wayback, as the novelists call it. Such a romantic life, I always think! Mrs. M.: Romantic fiddlesticks, my dear! Don’t talk to me about the Wayback! I know all about it. My husband once took me to visit an old servant, a former gardener, who had bought a dairy farm in the backblocks. I cannot think what induced me to go. XY shall certainly never forget it. Beryl (lightly) : Poor Mother! 'They got stuck in the mud and had to stay all night! , Marion. (aside) : Poor dairy-farmer! (To Mrs. M.): What was it like, Mrs, Morton?. Mrs. M. (with conviction) : Terrible! Mud-I could never have believed it possible that such roads existed. As I remarked to Percival, the people who choose to live in such places must be _half-wits, . ’ Marion (quietly) : Not necessarily.

Many good brains have come from tha Wayback. Nora (laughing): Qf course they have. Why, the backblocks farmer is the backbone of the country. At least I’m sure I read that somewhere. Mrs. M. (crushingly): If so, they should remain invisible, as backbones, despite a recent fashion in evening dresses, were intendc.] to do. . . Most repulsive people! Marion: Why exactly repulsive, Mrs. Morton? Mrs. M.: My dear Miss Norwood, they. milked cows. . Isn’t that enough? They lived in a fivé-roomed cottage built of corrugated iron; isn’t that enough? The men wore curious garments, known, I believe, as dungarees, and the women wore guin-boots and aprons. Surely‘that is enough? Marion: And was that all that, yas wrong with them? . Mrs. M.: You speak, Miss Norwdd, with the charming ignorance of the well-to-do and sheltered. Why, it was incredible! There was mud _ everywhere; and,’ where there was no mud, there. was bush; and, where there was neither mud nor bush, there were cows. An appalling prospect! Beryl: Well, I think they’re rather ripping, the’ pioneers. Marion: You're right, ‘Beryl, ‘they are ripping. Mrs, M.: This ridiculous slang! They were in no sense ripping. They lived hard, narrow, low lives, and they were hard and narrow and low. Marion: Their lives are hard, certainly, and perhaps narrow; but there is nothing low about either their lives or themselves. ’ ‘ &

Mrs. A. (placidly) : Dear child. what can you possibly know about it? talk just like those amusing Socialists that go to the Park on Sundays. Marion (wnheeding) : It takes courage. to live in the backblocks-and vision. Mrs. M. Possibly. It is the modern custom to endow all the most unpleasant people with "vision’’---what-ever that may mean. Personally, I have no wish to know them-or their visions. Marion: And yet, is it such a poor thing-this vision of theirs? You humour and applaud the artist who creates, The pioneer creates, too-it is no small achievement to make a farm from a forest, to wring out an honourable living from the soil, . Often the pioneer dies before his is fulfilled, but his children carry it on. (All are watching her in surprise at the quiet earnestness of her tone.) Mrs. M. (acidly): From what..one hears of the creatures, the sons usually despise their fathers and their fa and the daughters rush to the towns and try to forget. that they ever saw a cow. Marion (hit by this): I'm ‘afraid some of them do, Mrs. Morton, and it is very mean of them, But I don’t think they do it because they are ashamed of their people. . Théy do it because they are hungry" ‘tor life, hungry for pleasure, Nora: And small blame to them! Marion:. Surely it’s natural enough to want some fun, while you’re young? -But to be ashamed of your why, that would ‘be horrible! (With sudden resolve.) I'm so glad you talked as you did, Mrs. Morton; if you hadn't, I should have gone without a word, and you'd all have thought it was because I was ashamed, too. (Continued *on page 29.)

+" The Impostor (Continued. from page 2.). Mrs. A.: Gone? Gone? What are you talking about, Marion? Mrs. M. (aside): I knew there was some mystery about the affair. Beryl: Wake up, old girl; you look as if you were seeing a ghost. Marion: I am-the ghost of three happy months. . . But I’m not asleep, Beryl. . . I’ve just wakened up properly. . .. Mrs, Ashmead, I’ve got to eatch a train in half-an-hour; may I see you for a moment alone? Mrs. A. (deeply distressed) : A train! What can you mean? Caroline, please

Beryl (rising hurriedly): Of course; come along, Mother. ‘Nora (in great haste): I’m shockingly late. Cheerio, everybody! Mrs. M. (with wmmmense firmness): I will remain. As your oldest friend, Wlizabeth, I must remain and protect you. Mrs."A. (very agitated) : Oh, no; oh, no, Caroline! Beryl: Come along Mother; can't you see ...? ' Mrs. M.: I see a great deal, Beryl; and I see that this is the moment for firmness. Nora (persuasively) : But, Mrs. Morton, Marion says she must catch a train. Marion (intervening): Never mind . , After all, everyone must know soon-and I deserve it. Please stay, Beryl and Nora. It won’t take long. It’s really-really just the confession , of an Impostor. Mrs. A.: Marion! Beryl: What? Nora: Oh, what rot! Mrs. A. (in triumph): I knew it! (All together.) Marion: Dear Mrs. Ashmead, try to forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you so much. Yes, it is all quite true. I am a backblocks girl. I’ve lived all my life in a corrugated iron shack. I've milked cows and worn gum-boots. (Viciously-to Mrs. M.): Yes, and the mud has oozed right over the top of them. Mrs. M.: Kindly spare us the revolt ing details. Mrs. A. (very agitated) : Marion, you have a touch of the sun. You are talking wildly.

Marion (taking the centre of the stage): I am perfectly calm, Mrs. Ashmead, and I’m telling the truth. It’s mths truth I’ve told for nearly three Mrs. A.: What do you mean? Does Wilfrid know this? Marion: Yes, but only this afternoon. I wrote it all to him, as I had meant to write it for you to find after I had gone. But now T see that this was the coward’s way. Mrs, A. (very distresscd): Murion, What is all this? Am I dreaming or are you? Marion (going to her and taking her hond): Dear, I am so sorry. .. If is only a foolish, ordinary little storyA I must tell it quickly, because very soon my taxi will be here. I had just left myself time to write, but now I see that I can explain better. I want to show you that it is not that I am ashamed of my people-only that I am ashamed of myself. Mrs, A.: Ashamed? Ob, Marion, what haye you done?

Marion: Nothing so very dreadfulonly this. . . . I don’t belong to any Southern family. I haven’t any position, and-what is the word you all use?-any "social background." My home is a little bush farm, only a hundred and fifty miles from here, right up on the ranges. It’s all logs and bush and cows-and mud. But there’s love there, and courage, and-and visionand I’m going back. Mrs. A. (dazed and relieved): A farmer’s daughter! But why not tell us? Oh, Marion, why have you done this? ‘ Mrs. M.: My dear Blizabeth, need you ask? A most successful move! Beryl (sharply) : Mother, don’t!

Nora (gently) : Were you just sick of it, Marion? Marion (eagerly): ‘That was it, Nora-I was so sick of it; tired of the cows and the loneliness and hard work. Yes, and tired of mud and the bush. I did want some fun so dreadfully. You see, I was only twenty-one. . . And besides, my head was stuffed full of silly ideas and dreams out of books. I read every spare minute. I got books from the library in the nearest town; they came up in the cream lorry three at a time, once a week. I spent all my money in that-in that and one other thing. In every art union that was adyertised, I bought a whole bookful of tickets. Mrs. M. (aside) : The gambling spirit: is rife in the lower classes. I’ve always heard that. Beryl: And then you won a prize! Llow perfectly thrilling, old dear! Marion: Yes, at last. Oh, not one of the big ones, only three hundred pounds. (Smiles sadly.) I say "only" now, because I have come to think, as you all do, that three hundred pounds is nothing. It was everything to me then. It gave me my chance. Mrs. M. (very significantly): Your

chance--exactly : Beryl: Mother! Never mind, Marion, ve understand-your chance of a spree. Marion (eagerly): Yes, just thatOh, I did mean it to be only that! (Pauses--then continues quietly): They were all so sweet and unselfish about it, though that money could have done just everything on the farm. They said I was to please myself, but they didv’t like my coming alone-so, in the end, I ran away. Mrs. M.: And now you are running away again! Quite a habit! Mrs. A. (sadly): Your poor mother! You did a very cruel thing, Marion. Marion: Yes, und it has led to many other eruel things. Mrs. M.: But why come here?) Why should we be specially favoured? Marion (eagerly): That was chance, pure chance; I swear it. I bought that little car for a hundred pounds, and spent another hundred on clothes; and then T thought I'd go for a trip. But I'd only just learnt to drive. You see, my books had taught me a lot, but they

hadn’t taught me how to drive a car or to play tennis. ~ Mrs. M. (viciously): They had taught you, however, how to fall out at the gate of the wealthiest bachelor in the district-a more valuable lesson! Marion (furiously) : How dare you! Do you think I actually planned that? Why, I had never even heard of Wilfrid’s name! Mrs. A. (with an inmense effort, breaking @ life-long habit): Caroline, how can you? Go on, Marion-I believe you. Beryl: We all believe you, Marion. You see, we know you. Marion: You darlings! But you are making it too easy-I must be honest. When you were so good to me, Mrs. Ashmead, when you took me in and gave me such a splendid time; it all seemed just heaven-sent. ; Mrs. M. Personally, I should have attributed the favours to another locality. Marion (unheeding): But there was one thing I hadn’t reckoned on. (Hesitates.) Nora (very kindly): Someone you mean-- Wilfrid. Beryl: Of course. Don’t mind owning up, old girl. We all think him rather a pet. : Marion (softly): Yes-Wilfrid-and so I am going away. I would have slipped off quietly, but for Mrs. Morton, (With @ wan smile): Thank you, Mrs. Morton! Mrs. M. (grimly): Do not let me detain you further, Miss Norwood. Nora But it’s a real King Cophetua story, Marion. Why spoil the ending? Mrs. M. (who cannot be expected to stand this): What, Wilfrid Ashmead marry a-a cow-girl! (Zo Murion): L presume that is the feminine of cowboy, Miss Norwood? Marion (denvurely): We are usually called cow-spankers, Mrs. Morton. The gender is common. Mrs. M. (shuddering) : It is, indeed. Marion: And so-thank you a thousand times, dear Mrs. Ashmead; I shall always love you for my perfect holiday. Try some day to forgive me. (Mrs. A. is crying quietly.) Iam going home.

Nora: But won't it be awful, Marion? Marion: Awful? Oh, no. Of course I shall miss you all just terribly, and all ‘the fun and the good times. | But they’re my people. I bélong there. Mrs. A. (sadly): You seemed to belong here so perfectly. Why have you done all this? When it had gone so far why didn't you marry Wilfrid? He cares for you so much. Marion: I know-and I too. That’s why. How could I marry him after all my lies? (Then with brave gaiety and a mischievous glance at Mrs. M.): Besides, think what a stain it would be on all your friends! (Gravely): And then, how can I ever know that Wilfrid would have fallen in love with me if he had met me in my own surroundings? How do I ‘know that he would not be awkward and __ self-conscious with my father and mother-even, perhaps, a little bit ashamed of those dear people who are pure gold? Mrs. A. (softly).: But he loves you -and you love him, dear child. Marion (bravely): And if I do-if I did-it is all part of the dream, the play-just one of the stories that I used to read. It will always be my happiest memory. But this is life, and in real life I shall marry a farmer in dungarees and a grey shirt--and some day I shall be happy again. (Starts and ‘looks at her watch.) And now I must go. Dear Mrs. Ashmead, I can’t ask you to forgive me. Mrs. A. (very sadly) : How can I let you go, dear child? (Clings to her.) Mrs. M. (loudly): Elizabeth, how can you? This is deplorable weakness. (Marion struggles with her tears. The girls gather round her.) Beryl: Give me your address, Marion. I swear I’ll write often. Nora: And in the summer we'll run up and see you. It'll be no end of a lark. Marion: No, we won’t mix life and fiction. This is where the villain departs, alone... I won’t ask you to say goodbye to the Impostor, Mrs. Morton. Mrs. M. (with grim humour): On the contrary, it is the one thing that I could say to you that would give me complete satisfaction.

On September 28 a further group of Classical Dances Will be presented from 2YA, in | continuation of the "Musical Portrait" series, by Gladys Watkins .. Pianist Nancie Holloway . Violinist