On the Decay of the Art of Lying | Page 4

see what the philosophers say. Note that venerable proverb:
Children and fools always speak the truth. The deduction is
plain--adults and wise persons _never_speak it. Parkman, the historian,
says, "The principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." In
another place in the same chapters he says, "The saying is old that truth
should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick conscience
worries into habitual violation of the maxim are imbeciles and
nuisances." It is strong language, but true. None of us could live with an
habitual truth-teller; but thank goodness none of us has to. An habitual
truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does not exist; he never
has existed. Of course there are people who think they never lie, but it
is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very things that shame our
so-called civilization. Everybody lies--every day; every hour; awake;
asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning; if he keeps his tongue
still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his attitude, will convey
deception--and purposely. Even in sermons--but that is a platitude.
In a far country where I once lived the ladies used to go around paying
calls, under the humane and kindly pretence of wanting to see each
other; and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad
voice, saying, "We made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them
out"--not meaning that they found out anything important against the

fourteen--no, that was only a colloquial phrase to signify that they were
not at home--and their manner of saying it expressed their lively
satisfaction in that fact. Now their pretence of wanting to see the
fourteen--and the other two whom they had been less lucky with--was
that commonest and mildest form of lying which is sufficiently
described as a deflection from the truth. Is it justifiable? Most certainly.
It is beautiful, it is noble; for its object is, not to reap profit, but to
convey a pleasure to the sixteen. The iron-souled truth-monger would
plainly manifest, or even utter the fact that he didn't want to see those
people--and he would be an ass, and inflict totally unnecessary pain.
And next, those ladies in that far country--but never mind, they had a
thousand pleasant ways of lying, that grew out of gentle impulses, and
were a credit to their intelligence and an honor to their hearts. Let the
particulars go.
The men in that far country were liars, every one. Their mere howdy-do
was a lie, because they didn't care how you did, except they were
undertakers. To the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made
no conscientious diagnostic of your case, but answered at random, and
usually missed it considerably. You lied to the undertaker, and said
your health was failing--a wholly commendable lie, since it cost you
nothing and pleased the other man. If a stranger called and interrupted
you, you said with your hearty tongue, "I'm glad to see you," and said
with your heartier soul, "I wish you were with the cannibals and it was
dinner-time." When he went, you said regretfully, "Must you go?" and
followed it with a "Call again;" but you did no harm, for you did not
deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have
made you both unhappy.
I think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and should
be cultivated. The highest perfection of politeness is only a beautiful
edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and gilded forms
of charitable and unselfish lying.
What I bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth. Let us do
what we can to eradicate it. An injurious truth has no merit over an
injurious lie. Neither should ever be uttered. The man who speaks an
injurious truth lest his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should
reflect that that sort of a soul is not strictly worth saving. The man who
tells a lie to help a poor devil out of trouble, is one of whom the angels

doubtless say, "Lo, here is an heroic soul who casts his own welfare in
jeopardy to succor his neighbor's; let us exalt this magnanimous liar."
An injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the
same degree, is an injurious truth--a fact that is recognized by the law
of libel.
Among other common lies, we have the silent lie--the deception which
one conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth. Many
obstinate truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if
they speak no lie, they lie not at all. In that far country where I once
lived, there was a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always
high