Commentary : PERSPECTIVE ON POLITICS : He Told the Unvarnished Truth : History shows that when public figures answer forthrightly, public judgment is positive.

The presidential candidate had a secret buried deep in his past. He probably had never expected that the events could remain completely concealed, since his friends and family all knew about it. There had always been at least a possibility that a reporter or political opponent might try to exploit the story, but the subject had not come up at all during his successful campaign for governor. Still, presidential campaigns were different--more intense, more dramatic and much more subject to acute scrutiny. So he should not have been startled when a reporter for Time magazine put the question to him quite bluntly. Did you really do it? the reporter asked.

There was never a doubt as to how the candidate would respond. His father and grandfather both had been elected to high office, and he would follow their examples of honesty and probity. “You know,” he said to the reporter, “you are the first person who has ever asked me about that . . . and this is the first time I have ever spoken of it to anyone.” Then he proceeded to explain all of the details in a quiet matter-of-fact way.

The reporter listened, somewhat embarrassed at evoking the obviously painful memories. He thanked the candidate for his candor, and he never ran the story. Neither did any other reporter. From that moment of unflinching forthrightness right through to election day, the question was never raised again.

The candidate was Adlai E. Stevenson II, running for president against Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1952. Forty years earlier, shortly before his 13th birthday, Stevenson attended a Christmas party in his hometown of Bloomington, Ill. During the party, a group of slightly older boys used a presumably empty rifle to demonstrate the manual of arms. At one point, Adlai took the weapon and pointed it in the direction of a friend, Ruth Merwin. Suddenly, it discharged, killing the young girl instantly.

An inquest was held, and the death was declared accidental. Of course, the Merwins and Stevensons were devastated, but apart from a brief report in the local newspaper, the incident was never again publicly mentioned until Time reporter William Glasgow began researching a projected cover story.

Was the shooting relevant to Stevenson’s campaign for president? An opportunistic reporter certainly could have given it that spin, perhaps by insinuating a cover-up or worse. The Stevensons, after all, were the most prominent family in Bloomington. Adlai’s father, Lewis, had been elected Illinois secretary of state. His grandfather and namesake, Adlai E. Stevenson I, had served as vice president under Grover Cleveland. Cynical minds might have suspected that they had used their influence to protect a boy who had taken another’s life. At least one eyewitness said that Adlai had aimed the rifle in Ruth’s direction and had actually squeezed the trigger. That account was not reported in the Bloomington Pantagraph, which happened to have been owned by the Stevensons.

But the Time reporter did not attempt to contrive a lurid expose. Impressed by Stevenson’s sincerity, he had no desire to be responsible for the pain that would be caused by dredging up the incident.

A more evasive response from Stevenson, however, could easily have led to a different result. If he had denied the shooting or ducked Glasgow’s questions, the reporter might well have decided to run the story. While youthful recklessness may have no bearing on one’s qualifications to be president, the public does have a right to know about a tendency to deception or equivocation.

In the case of Adlai Stevenson, there was never a question about telling the entire truth. And though he lost the 1952 election to Gen. Eisenhower, he so impressed his colleagues in the Democratic Party that they nominated him again in 1956. John F. Kennedy later appointed Stevenson as ambassador to the United Nations, where his reputation for integrity continued to serve our country well. Though he died in 1965, to this day many regard it an honor to be described as a “Stevenson Democrat.”

Readers may suspect that this story is a parable. If so, is it about George W. Bush or William Jefferson Clinton? To be sure, neither comparison is exact. Stevenson’s accident is not really comparable to Bush’s possible cocaine use or Clinton’s many artifices. But even in light of the “gotcha” politics of our day, the lesson seems clear: Honesty is the best policy.