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where, in some far-away Orient of our spirit, there is a philosophy and a Way (as Lao-Tse would say) that views with smiling bland composure the sad antics of men under the pressure of conflicting desires. In all hearts there is this lurking minified Mandarin whose mockery is more potent because it is serene and hopeless. My own particular Mandarin was born, as I say, in a rolltop desk; by which I mean in a newspaper office. It is a favorable place for such cheerfully wistful wraiths to arise, for nowhere so instantly as in a newspaper office does one necessarily scrutinize the gallant frenzy of the race.
So my Mandarin gradually became a very real Familiar, and sometimes I see him peering out of a pigeon-hole, mocking me in his suave fashion. The odd thing is that his scoffing frequently changes into moods of pity or ecstasy that are even more disconcerting. In spite of his great age and his disillusion, he has moments that are truly boyish. We all like to say, of a man we admire greatly, that he "has the heart of a child." Certainly there is a naif appealing youthfulness in some of my Mandarin's simplicities. Occasionally, late in a winter afternoon, when I have been (after a whole day of random interruptions) trying to get a few hurried paragraphs written for the newspaper, I have quietly become aware of him standing by the window at my elbow. He looks out at that astounding vista of great buildings, terraced in golden tiers, one above another into the transparent dusk. "Why don't you get some of that into your writing?"
