Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1917-01-12
Among the
Alps
A Singular Story of the
Writing of a Pic
ture Play
By F. A. Mitchell

d literary udck. real literary perSOHS
usually go hungry. I have from the
first made a fair living and, consider
ing that ! am a woman, a 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
AZURE compared with Of ev-
eryday literary fodder are as n to a
million. That is the reason why I, a
person devoid of genius. am enabled to
make a living.
My natural instincts are all for art,
but unfortunately art requires educa-
ton, and when I was thrown on my
own resources for a living I had not
the means to obtain an education.
There are no schools OF ~literatuSe. Any
one who possesses pen, ink and pa
per may scribble, and the p~ecuniary re-
turn Of scribbling is not an index of
the nature of the production. So I took
up my pen and went to work. What I
WIOIC cCCuuCu W lhICiCDL 4OAu, OHCh
and Harry, and since Tom, Dick anti
Harry were in the market for some
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. I have
said that my natural leanings are to-
ward art. l know a thing Of beauty
instinctively, and l can conceive a
thing of beauty. But never having
been educated to produce anything
beautiful, l am unable to do so. One
more element in which what / am go
ing to tell is essential. 1 also have dra-
matte instinct.
Now for the story:
One winter, desiring to take a vaca-
ton during the following summer, I
worked very hard in order to produce
the funds for a 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 I grew worse.
Feeling that 1 needed quiet, 1 went to
Interlaken, In Switzerland, hired a
room with windows opening on several
of the most magnificent views 1 have
ever beheld and settled down to recu-
perate.
I 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 COM
mence her studies. Being two lonely
American women, we agreed to travel
In company and took a room In the
same house at 1~nterlaken.
A few days after arrival there I
collapsed. Something seemed to give
way somewhere within me, and I lost
consciousness. From that time for two
months 1 remained In an abnormal
condition. A part Of the time I was in
bed and a part sitting up in an easy
chair by q window looking out on one
of the many views spread before me.
From my he'd 1 looked out upon that
beautiful mountain, the Jungfrau, as 1t
Is seen lIOlu 1uIcIldhcn TlSU1S Jul VI a
valley made by two nearer mountains.
For months before my departure from
home l had been creating stories, and
they were tumbling about in my brain
In confusion. After a time they shaped
themselves In dreams. While lying in
my bed persons were enacting parts, It
seemed, On their own account, for I
had no power-at least I was conscious
Of none-to compel them to do my bid
ding.
And here let me say that in fiction
OF plays, which are a form of fiction,
q great mistake is made in supposing
that the author controls his characters.
1t is the characters that control the
author. He can force them to do his
bidding, but he will spoil his story.
There are grooves for the emotions as
well as other things, and let him drag
a character out of its groove, and it
will balk at once. Then the author
must get him back where he belongs
or he will stand out from the natural
ness of the play like a sore thumb.
During this abnormal period of mine
I was conscious of Ellen Trowbridge
being in the room, sometimes minister
ing to my wants, sometimes sitting at
a table writing, sometimes at her
easel sketching. These were only
glimpses OF her, which would come
and go as figures in a dream. They
were real enough at times for me to
have a dim consciousness of the fact
that I was fortunate in having an
American companion to take an inter-
est In me.
In the early part of my illness I
was trying to disentangle the many
stories l had written during a long
period and keep all sorts of persons
from chasing one another through my
brain. Later several of my stories
that had been favorites with me SEEM
ed to drive out the rest, and I found