Long ago, a Greek village boy was accused of throwing a stone at a classmate. When charged with this offence, he opened his innocent eight-year-old eyes wide, and said, ‘I didn’t do it. The devil did it: he pushed me with his tail.’ There is an old saying in English, so old that sixteenth-century preacher Hugh Latimer himself mentioned it as being old in his time. Tell the truth and shame the devil. In the incident I recall, the devil was not shamed, but blamed. And the child had not told the truth.
Statesman and philosopher Francis Bacon, also of the sixteenth century, is probably most famous for his collection of essays, one of which is called ‘Of Truth’. The opening of the essay has always been very quotable: ‘What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.’ I’ve often thought how wise jesting Pilate was, for even then the question of the nature of truth was a thorny one. And Bacon was under no illusions about the limitations of human nature. He thought that most people had ‘a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself,’ and that ‘a mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure.’
It seems that Bacon was right then, and right now. But the attitude towards truth has changed, I think. Now we accept the idea that there are different sorts of truth: the phrases historical truth, narrative truth and emotional truth come trippingly off the lips of vast numbers of people. Then there are the complex notions of fantasy and fiction: we have long subscribed to the notion of novelists making up various ‘lies’ or fantasies in order to tell underlying truths about human nature. But we also have to accept, I think, that a gentleman’s word is no longer his bond.
I can remember a time when truth was closely bound up with the concepts of honour and shame. I was very young when the so-called Profumo case rocked Britain and contributed to the discrediting and eventual fall of the Conservative government. John Profumo, then Secretary of State for War, came from a privileged background and had had ‘a good war,’ having fought in and survived the D-Day landings. At the end of the conflict, he held the rank of Brigadier and had been awarded the British OBE and the American Bronze Star.
But in 1961, the 46-year-old Profumo began an extra-marital affair with the beautiful showgirl Christine Keeler, who was only 19. This lapse might have gone unnoticed had it not been for the strong rumour in 1963 that Keeler had been simultaneously involved with one Yevgeny Ivanov, the Soviet naval attaché. It seemed obvious, even at the time, that political capital was being made: the 1960s were the years of the Cold War, and the Profumo Affair, as the press dubbed it, was seen to be a grave security risk.
'A certain leader was asked what his favourite lie was. ‘I never lie,’ came the facile reply. ‘That’s my favourite one, too,’ riposted the interviewer.'
My grannies used to intone the Biblical warning regularly: Be sure your sin will find you out. I’ve always assumed this meant that your secret wrongdoing would not remain secret forever. My more light-hearted mother used to refer to what she called The Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not be found out. Both notions were certainly applicable to the Profumo case. In March 1963 John Profumo told Parliament he had never had an improper connection with Christine Keeler, but ten weeks of rumour later, he admitted, expressing his deep remorse, that he had lied to the House of Commons. The admission signalled the end of his political career.
Profumo resigned, but lived for another 43 years. During much of that time he redeemed himself via his philanthropic work and was helped by the wife who stood by him, famous British actress Valerie Hobson. One of the great and the good who applauded him during the second half of his life was Lord Longford, Catholic convert, Labour politician, and fervent advocate of penal reform, who said he admired Profumo more than anybody he had ever met.
How times have changed: it seems we can no longer rely on public figures to have integrity, and it is hard to imagine a Profumo-like scene of repentance taking place in western parliaments today. In 1963, Profumo’s lie to the House was considered unforgivable, for example, yet now lying seems to be a way of political life. During an interview on television, a certain leader was asked what his favourite lie was. ‘I never lie,’ came the facile reply. ‘That’s my favourite one, too,’ riposted the interviewer, quick as a flash.
Things have surely come to a pretty pass, or even to a stage of evident moral decline, when one world leader accuses a close ally of lying, as happened recently in the case of French president Emmanuel Macron and Prime Minister Scott Morrison regarding the cancelled $90 billion dollar submarine contract. There are many ways of obscuring the truth: Morrison shifted sideways, so to speak, declaring that he would not have Australians ‘sledged,’ ignoring the point that Macron had accused him and him alone. My grannies, who always set a high store by honesty, would have expected Morrison to make some sort of admission or concession at least. But that is not the way of politics in today’s world.
As for the eight-year-old, he might have been early impressed by Bacon’s idea that the candle-lights of lies are more attractive than the naked daylight of truth, but I imagine he now agrees with Bacon’s final thought that the knowledge and belief in truth is ‘the sovereign good of human nature.’
Gillian Bouras is an expatriate Australian writer who has written several books, stories and articles, many of them dealing with her experiences as an Australian woman in Greece.
Main image: Hand resting on a book, taking an oath. (Getty images)