Evening Star Newspaper, December 13, 1931, Page 97

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., DECEMBER 13, 1931. BVERSS /) e L homas Burke If the Way Is Dark and the World Seems Nothing but Trouble This Winter, Here Are Words of Courage From an English Author of ““Liimehouse” Fame Who Has Devoted His Life to Study of Humanity Among the Poverty- Stricken of London. BY BETTY ROSS. ARRIAGE based on friend- l/ ship is much better than the marriage of passionate love. Young people don’t like to be told that. I didn’t believe it when I was young. But the Jriendship marriages seldom end in divorce. I people will just look around at the results of passionate marriages, they will see they are not the happy ones. Most broken lives are the discards of such unions.” HOMAS BURKE, famcus author of “Lime- house Nights” and other stories depicting London life in all the stark nudity of primitive emotions, was in a mellow, reminiscent mood that sunny morning when he was sought out in his flat in Tavistock square, a cubicle in a long row of white stone houses overlooking a verdant garden in the heart of Bloomsbury, in the west-central part of London. Perhaps the sun, the first after weeks of chill rain, had thawed him out, for this morning the usually reticent, retiring writer was sharing his thoughts as well as his moods as they flitted from one human problem to another. “I think first love is the one love in life,” he continued reflectively; ““the only beautiful one. Every man, whatever woman he marries, is still thinking or seeing the little girl with whom he first fell in love. The impressions made by this first experience are those we always re- member, whatever happens later. Yet very few marry their first love.” “Why is that?” he was asked. He shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Life often causes them to separate and never meet again.” E was silent again, and for a moment it seemed he would withdraw into his shell of reserve. Thomas Burke and Charlie Chaplin were born in the same section of London and to this day are great friends. Something of the shyness of the film star clings about his author-friend. Something of his wistfulness, too, and reticence. The objects cn the mantel- piece over the fireplace seemed like “props” that had stepped out of his fantastic tales. There were Chinese idols, an opium pipe and a sinister-sounding gong. An array of dag- gers with carved Ori>nlal hilts, some sheathed, some gleaming in cold steel, covered one entire wall “Limehouse?” I asked, pointing to them. He nodded, and a smile flitted to his lips, as though very fond recolleztions had been awzkened. “Limehouse,” he uttered the word tenderly, as though speaking of an old, tried friend, “can give a valuable lesson in Nving to every woman, from your Park avenne ladies to our Duchess of Mayfair.” “Limehouse?” I asked, amazed, for that is one of London’s noted poorest quarters. Har- boring on East and West India docks, it is the habitat of a checkered p-pulation, made up of the families of tailors, lnng}mnvmen, Chinese tea-house keepers and the dregs of London town “A valuable lesson—one they need,” repeated the suthor, whose famous “Limehouse Nights” stories for years have bared to the world life and love in that section where the cold fatal- ism of the Orient meets the wistful dubiety of the West. Perhaps best remembered for its haunting loveliness is Burke's “The Chink and the Child,” produced in our cinemas as “Broken Blossoms”; “A Tea Shop in Lime- house” and “The Wind and the Rain.” “What is the lesson?” I asked, all curiosity “To face life, and make out of it the best you can. Life is hand-to-mouth there,” he hastened to explain. “At the end of the week not a penny is left over. Yet these poor people, leading awful lives, find moments when it is beautiful. That is because they make the best of what they have. That is the finest thing that can happen to any one. A veritable golden rule for happiness is not merely to put up with things, but to make from what you have the best that it will yield. Prom this, the women in poor circumstances have arrived at the secret of living, which their upper-class sisters may well eny: " ORK is the only shing in life, the one thing that makes it worth while,” the author continued “You never find a poor women who is restless, dissatisfied and full of nerves. Perhaps she could use a little more money. But then, so could every rich woman. The poor woman knows she has work to do and gets her fun out of that. Rich women 1 Life is worth living, happens. whatever II Work is the only thing in life that makes it worthwhile. You never find a poor woman who is restless, dissatisfied and full of nerves, III A golden rule for happiness is not merely to put up with things, but to make from what you have the best that it will yield. v Trouble develops women spirit- ually more than any other one thing. Conflicts develop charac- ter. v You cannot pursue pleasure, and wealth is not commensurate with happiness. VI Chasing after love is futile; it comes to you. VII Once you achieve serenity, every- thing else follows: VIII To find yourself, you must be alone at eertain times. In facing yourself, you see where you are and what is wrong. IX No life is ever devoid of beauty. X The best prayer any person can make is to thank God for life. are beginning to understand this, too. That’s why they have b:gun dashing about on com- mittees, organizing societies and joining clubs. They're playing at work—taking it in mild doses.” Those serious blue eyes of his smiled from behind rimless gasses as the slight, sparsely built author paced to the fireplace and halted before it in brown study. Youthiul in appearance, rcseived in manner, the per- petual student of human nature is written in the steadfast gaze of his blue eyes. His brown First love is the only love in life. Every man, whatever woman he marries, ig still thinking of seeing the girl with whom he first fell in love. hair is parted in the middle and combed back in a long pompadour. He wears a blue serge suit, pongee shirt and black leather house slip- pers. “A woman's wealth is not commensurate with her happiness. Too often the means that permit her varied activities bring her unhap- piness. She becomes restless—never satisfied. Her whole life is an idiotic pursuit of pleas- ure.” He lit a cigarette and puffed away re- fle_tively. “You cannot pursue pleasure. It is nct in front of you nor around the corner. The poor woman hasn’t the means to chase after it, so she finds herself in work. The woman who uces her riches to dash after happiness makes of bher entire life a vain chase.” Burke’s latest book, “The Flower of Life,” depicts the crisis of a poor woman from child- hcol to old age in the work house. After a bleak, dreary lifetime, her closing reflections are “life is worth living, whatever happens.” THE scars left by life on this specimen of un- fortunate womanhood prompted my asking the English author: “What phase of life, in your opinion, leaves the deepest impressions on & woman'’s soul?” “Trouble,” he answered, without a moment’s hesitation, “develops women spiritually more than any other one thing. Wealthy women in New York and London are unhappy because they have no worries. Conflicts in life, of what~ ever nature they are, develop character. In- stead of bemoaning her afflictions, she should realize they enrich her spiritually and unfold her emotionally. In the measure that she haw known sadness can she also experience joy. Society women are restless and find life empiy because they have nothing to fight. Life to them has no conflicts.” Thomas Burke, noted author, says that friendsiip marriages are more stable, than passionate matings, “And in-this measure of emotions that mold a woman, where does love fali?” came my next query. “Love?” He laid aside his cigarette and sank his bhands deep into his pockets before answering. “What is love?” he asked, and, without waiting for a reply to his rhetorical question, continued: “Pecple use that word. And yet six different persons mean six differ- ent things by it. I suopose the society women who change husbands frequently think they know what love is—and so, obviously, do not. A woman who chases from man to man, each time thinking she has found the real thing— each time she has not. Chasing after love is futile. It comes to you. You cannot get any of the good things in life by running after them. They come to you or they don’t—the real things.” “How? By the winds chance?” Burke shook his head. ‘““As merited by the life one leads—inwardly. Once you achieve serenity, everything else follows. I{ American women are like ours—and, from what I hear about them, they are—I think serenity is sadly lacking from their mental make-up. All woman'’s exeravagancies, her mad dashings, her ventures into matrimony and into bu p would be elimited if she could find serenity thought.” “Is there a way a woman can work toward that end?” I asked. of destiny? By E snuffed out the cigarette and once more began his restless pacing of that simply furnished sitting room, with rich brown tones predominating in the furniture coverings, the rug, the silken draperies, and even the leather manuscript folder on his oak desk, which, save for an inkstand, was barren, presenting an alr of detachment borrowed from the writer him= self. By commenting that this was one of the neatest desks I had ever seen in an author’s workshop, I learned that although Burke was & Fleet street journalist, he, nevertheless, clings \ to the old literary style of writing out his monuseripts by hand. Sinking into the low sofa beside my soft chair, he picked up the threads of our discussion. “The easiest way for a man or a woman to find serenity is to do what so many people dislike doing—being alone,” he pointed out. “You certainly cannot find peage within youre self by going to parties. To find yourself, you must be alone at certain times. Otherwise you will lose yourself. All parties and night club Vvisits arise from a person’s desire to run away from himself, “In facing yourself, you see where you are and what is wrong. Some people who. take mental inventory like this are so shocked at what they see in themselves that they n away. The thing to do is face yourself fid see if you can right your problems.” “Do you interpret woman'’s dashing into oute side work as running away from herself?” asked. He shook his head. “No, that's a good sign. Work outside the home is not an escape, but natural—typical of the new woman. She is still in the transitorial stage. In about two more generations she will be developed.” “What will she be like?” came my speculas tion. “A better creature,” wos Burke's reply. “fan Continued on Severteenth Page