it and the principal witness to it all, first to last.nThe other two must speak for themselves. Believe themnas much as you care to, bearing in mind that even thoughnthere were saints living and dying then, in my time, as therenmay well be, no surely must be some true saints alive innyours, there are no saints to be found in this story. Comingnfrom anyone less than a saint, or a truly innocent good heartn(of which there are none to be mentioned here either), thentruth, even if it accepts an invitation to be present, is likely tonbe somewhat tainted and confused. At the very least it willnbe twisted into strange shapes by whoever tells it.nWell now.nOne of these is a common player. Need I say more?nTruth is not dear to his heart. Or, if I may put it to younsomewhat more precisely: truth is dear to his heart mainlynbecause it is so much of a stranger to him. Plain truth is suchna stranger that he often might not even recognize it, thoughnit should come, transformed into a large, barking watchdog,nto snarl and snap at his running heels.nSomething of a clown, then. You see what I am getting at.nPray remember, though, that like every other fool and clownnsince old Adam, himself, crouched down with Eve amongstnthe leaves and hoped, thereby, to be hidden from thenburning eyes of God, he sees and takes himself mostnseriously. At times most solemnly. His life’s no comedy. Hisnaches and pains hurt, him as much, perhaps more thannHector’s. His rages at Fortune’s blessings of bad luck andninjustice are, in their own way, the equal to those of proudnAchilles. And he is like unto neither one of these. Not noblenhero nor kin to any, although — and give him this muchnwith full acknowledgment that it is much more than most ofnus will ever have the privilege to claim — he has played thenparts of both of them and of many other great and proudnmen also. In his time, the best of his times, he has hushednunruly crowds to attentive silence and aroused their enthusiasticnapplause. He has moved fellow sufferers to shed tears.nOh, to be sure, he has failed at it also. Has earned his fullnshare of hoots and jeers and other rude noises. He has beennpelted with orange rinds and nutshells and gnawed bones.nHe has run, fleeing from the stage — though that stage maynhave been no more than a piece of yard, of green grass at thenedges of a church fair or, maybe, the far end of a smoky hallnin some draughty castle or crumbling mansion in the farncountry — has left the stage in a hurry and with tears in hisneyes. Deeply wounded and ashamed. Well, tell me, hownelse can you learn and practice a mystery, a craft, except bynthe constant doing of it and sometimes doing it all wrong? Ifnthere have been plenty of bad times, there have also beennmoments of pure glory. Those times when he left the tiringnroom of inn or playhouse, surrounded by smiles and goodnwishes, his hand swelling from warm, firm handclasps, andnhimself secure in the certainty that the magical sound ofnapplause which has just sent him on his way like a shipnrunning with a fair wind behind her, has now at last andnonce and for all, as in some child’s tale, transformed himnfrom common anonymity into a very prince among ournEnglish players. Never again to be ignored or to be relegatednto stand, rigid with envy, in the shabby shadows well beyondnthe pools of brightness wherein his luckier betters do splashnand dance in all the joy and shine of this world’s goodnfortune. ,n18/CHRONICLESnnnI have to be first to tell you (as you may, in worldlynwisdom, already have guessed) that at just such a triumphantntime, in triumphant and joyous mood, head held high,nshoulders back, his best pair of shoes shining, he is almostncertainly liable to step down firmly into some fresh dog s—tnor the steaming droppings of a cart horse. As well as henknows and is sure of anything, he knows this will happen. Itntends to take the keen edge off even his finest hours. He isnmost apprehensive when he is most content.nYou see what I am saying. Bad luck is his constant, dearnold companion. Dame Fortune may love him well enoughn(who can tell?), but, love or not, she has chosen him to benher faithful clown in cap and bells.nSo often so unlucky in life and in love, he possesses onengreat strength, one kind of magic. Whether it may be foolishnor not, he chooses not (not yet anyway) to allow himself tonsurrender to despair. In his heart of hearts he knows that thisnworld, with himself in it and of it, is beyond all possiblenredemption and so is well lost. Because he knows that, henknows also that to win the world would be, then, to comeninto possession of nothing worth having.nIn his most secret heart, he can see himself clearly, nakednas God made him. And to see himself thus, a poor creature,npale and sad as a winter root, is to know beyond anyndoubting that he is a fool. But, don’t you see?, he still lovesnthis tired world, worthless as it has been and may be. Andncalling upon St. Paul and St. Augustine and any and allnothers he can think of, he tries hard to learn to love himself,ntoo. Which is why he is always so busily seeking the love ofnothers (especially the ministrations of fair women), as if henneeded to confirm his own best aspirations.nYet it is these lies, falsehoods and very present frailties,nwhich give to his life, his sometimes desperate and alwaysnanxious life, its power and its energy. And it is from hisndeepest falsehoods that his finest moments as a costumednplayer and performer, in life as much as on the boards, arenslowly and surely drawn out of deep and dark and into light.nLike the sweetest and coldest well water which can assuagenthe most burning thirst even as it sets your teeth on edge.nThe other one is not outwardly and visibly much likenhim at all. A creature of fire and ice, blood andnthunder, he is, a rusty, much-wounded soldier home fromnthe wars. Still in one piece to be sure. And thanks be to Godnfor that, he’ll be the first to tell you. For all his best friendsnhave left behind chunks and pieces, the best parts ofnthemselves, in many far and forlorn places. But he is bitterlynscarred in both flesh and spirit. And he is so poor from thenweight of his hard experience that he will do anything henthinks necessary to remedy this distressful condition. Whichnis to say he can be ruthless, completely merciless if need be,nyet without pride in himself for that.nDespair is the way that he walks in. He would not admitnand confess that, not under brutal duress, even to himself.nHe denies it. He simply allows that he is not and never willnbe a seriously (foolishly) hopeful man. He believes that henhas lost much of his faith and, with that loss, has shed thenfear of hellfire. Thinking: “How could Hell be anythingnmore terrible, any worse than so many things I have alreadynseen and felt?” And yet knowing, in his soldier’s hard heart,nthat there can always be worse. More than that. It is moren