The Lakeland evening telegram. (Lakeland, Fla.) 1911-1922, 1916-09-14
Among the
Alps
A Singular Story OF the
Writing of a Pic.
ture Play
By F. A. mitchell

am considered a literary woman,
though l am really nothing more than
a literary hack. Real literary persons
usually go hungry. 1 have from the
first made fair living and. consider
ing that l am a woman, very good
living. The reason for this is that do
my part in supplying that perennial
flow Of reading matter that Is quaffed
by the masses, whose literary taste Is
negligible The readers of classic liter
allure compared with consumers Of ev-
eryday literary fodder are as one to q
million. That is the reason why l, a
person devoid of genius, am enabled to
make living.
My natural instincts are all for art,
but unfortunately art requires educa-
ton, and when l was thrown on my
own resources for a living l had not
the means to obtain an education.
There are no schools of literature. Any
one who possesses pen, ink and pa
per may scribble, and the pecuniary re-
turn of scribbling is not an index of
the nature of the production. SO took
up my pen and went to work. What
wrote seemed to interest Tom, Dick
and Harry, and since Tom, Dick and
thing to read l began at once to make a
living.
While these preliminary remarks are
perhaps essential to my story, there Is
In them but one statement that the
story is intended to bring out. have
said that my natural leanings are to-
ward art. know a thing Of beauty
instinctively, and I can conceive
thing of beauty. But never having
been educated to produce anything
beautiful, am unable to do so. One
more element in which what am 60
ing to tell is essential. also have dra-
matte instinct.
Now for the story:
One winter, desiring to take vaca.
ton during the following summer,
the funds for trip abroad. The re-
suit was that my nerves broke down
under the strain. l took my vacation,
but instead of travelling for enjoyment
Travelled for my health. Furthermore.
instead Of improving | grew worse.
Feeling that l needed quiet, went to
Interlaken, in Switzerland hired a
room with windows opening on several
of the most magnificent views l have
ever beheld and settled down to recu
perate.
had met during the ocean voyage a
young woman-Ellen Trowbridge-who
was trying to make an artist of her.
self. She was on her way to Switzer-
land for the hot season, after which
she was going down into Italy to CON-
mence her studies. Being two lonely
American women, we agreed to travel
In company and took room In the
same house at Interlaken.
A few days after our arrival there /
collapsed. Something seemed to give
way somewhere within me, and lost
consciousness. From that time for two
months / remained in an abnormal
condition. A part of the time l was In
bed and a part sitting up in an easy
chair by window looking out on one
Of the many views spread before me
From my bed l looked out upon that
beautiful mountain, the Jungfrau, as il
Is seen from Interlaken rising out of a
valley made by two nearer mountains
For months before my departure from
home l had been creating stories. anC
they were tumbling about in my brair
in confusion. After time they shapet
themselves In dreams. While lying II
my bed persons We're enacting parts, Il
seemed, on their own account, for
had no power-at least was conscious
of none-to compel them to do my bid
ding.
And here let me say that in fictioI
or plays, which are form Of fiction
a great mistake is made In supposin,
that the author controls his characters
1t is the characters that control tn,
author. He can force them to do hi
bidding, but he will spoil his story
There are grooves for the emotions a
well as other things, and let him dra,
a character out of Its groove. and |
will balk at once. Then the autho
must get him back where he belong
or he will stand out from the natural
ness Of the play like sore thumb.
During this abnormal period Of min
was conscious Of Ellen Trowbridg
being in the room, sometimes minister
ing to my wants, sometimes sitting a
a table writing, sometimes at he
easel sketching These were onl
glimpses Of her. which would com
and go as figures In a dream. The
were real enough at times for me t
have dim consciousness Of the fac
that l was fortunate in having a
American companion to take an Inter
est In me.
In the early part of my illness
was trying to disentangle the man
stories l had written during a lon
period and keep all sorts of person
from chasing one another through m
brain. Later several of my storie
that had been favorites with me seen
ed to drive out the rest, and I foun
myself linking them together. It wa
hard work, but better than having 8