GUINEVERE THE MYSTERIOUS 125 



There are idols all about me or so it would ap- 

 pear to a missionary; for my part, I can think 

 only of the wonderful face of the old Lama who 

 sits near me, a face peaceful with the something 

 for which most of us would desert what we are 

 doing, if by that we could attain it. Near him 

 are two young priests, sitting as motionless as 

 the Buddha in front of them. 



After a half -hour of the strange thing that we 

 call time, the Lama speaks, very low and very 

 softly: 



"The surface of the mirror is clouded with a 

 breath." 



Out of a long silence one of the neophytes re- 

 plies, "The mirror can be wiped clear." 



Again the world becomes incense and doves, 

 in the silence and peace of that monastery, it 

 may have been a few minutes or a decade, and 

 the second Tibetan whispers, "There is no need 

 to wipe the mirror." 



When I have left behind the world of inhar- 

 monious colors, of polluted waters, of soot- 

 stained walls and smoke-tinged air, the green of 

 jungle comes like a cooling bath of delicate tints 

 and shades. I think of all the green things I have 

 loved of malachite in matrix and table-top; of 



