My First Lie, and How I Got Out of It
by Mark Twain
As I understand it, what you desire is information about 'my first lie,
and how I got out of it.' I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my
memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked about my first truth it
would have been easier for me and kinder of you, for I remember that
fairly well. I remember it as if it were last week. The family think it
was week before, but that is flattery and probably has a selfish project
back of it. When a person has become seasoned by experience and has
reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age of discretion, he likes a
family compliment as well as ever, but he does not lose his head over it
as in the old innocent days.
I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back; but I remember my
second one very well. I was nine days old at the time, and had noticed
that if a pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the usual fashion,
I was lovingly petted and coddled and pitied in a most agreeable way and
got a ration between meals besides.
It was human nature to want to get these riches, and I fell. I lied about
the pin—advertising one when there wasn't any. You would have done
it; George Washington did it, anybody would have done it. During the first
half of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise about that
temptation and keep from telling that lie. Up to 1867 all the civilised
children that were ever born into the world were liars—including
George. Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game. But is that
reform worth anything? No; for it is reform by force and has no virtue in
it; it merely stops that form of lying, it doesn't impair the disposition
to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle application of conversion by fire and
sword, or of the temperance principle through prohibition.
To return to that early lie. They found no pin and they realised that
another liar had been added to the world's supply. For by grace of a rare
inspiration a quite commonplace but seldom noticed fact was borne in upon
their understandings—that almost all lies are acts, and speech has
no part in them. Then, if they examined a little further they recognised
that all people are liars from the cradle onwards, without exception, and
that they begin to lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it up
without rest or refreshment until they go to sleep at night. If they
arrived at that truth it probably grieved them—did, if they had been
heedlessly and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers; for why
should a person grieve over a thing which by the eternal law of his make
he cannot help? He didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to
obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy and keep so still
that he shall deceive his fellow-conspirators into imagining that he
doesn't know that the law exists. It is what we all do—we that know.
I am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can tell it without
saying a word, and we all do it—we that know. In the magnitude of
its territorial spread it is one of the most majestic lies that the
civilisations make it their sacred and anxious care to guard and watch and
For instance. It would not be possible for a humane and intelligent person
to invent a rational excuse for slavery; yet you will remember that in the
early days of the emancipation agitation in the North the agitators got
but small help or countenance from any one. Argue and plead and pray as
they might, they could not break the universal stillness that reigned,
from pulpit and press all the way down to the bottom of society—the
clammy stillness created and maintained by the lie of silent assertion—the
silent assertion that there wasn't anything going on in which humane and
intelligent people were interested.
From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end of it all France, except
a couple of dozen moral paladins, lay under the smother of the
silent-assertion lie that no wrong was being done to a persecuted and
unoffending man. The like smother was over England lately, a good half of
the population silently letting on that they were not aware that Mr.
Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a war in South Africa and was
willing to pay fancy prices for the materials.
Now there we have instances of three prominent ostensible civilisations
working the silent-assertion lie. Could one find other instances in the
three countries? I think so. Not so very many perhaps, but say a billion—just
so as to keep within bounds. Are those countries working that kind of lie,
day in and day out, in thousands and thousands of varieties, without ever
resting? Yes, we know that to be true. The universal conspiracy of the
silent-assertion lie is hard at work always and everywhere, and always in
the interest of a stupidity or a sham, never in the interest of a thing
fine or respectable. Is it the most timid and shabby of all lies? It seems
to have the look of it. For ages and ages it has mutely laboured in the
interest of despotisms and aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and
military slaveries, and religious slaveries, and has kept them alive;
keeps them alive yet, here and there and yonder, all about the globe; and
will go on keeping them alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from
business—the silent assertion that nothing is going on which fair
and intelligent men are aware of and are engaged by their duty to try to
What I am arriving at is this: When whole races and peoples conspire to
propagate gigantic mute lies in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why
should we care anything about the trifling lies told by individuals? Why
should we try to make it appear that abstention from lying is a virtue?
Why should we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why should we without
shame help the nation lie, and then be ashamed to do a little lying on our
own account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honourable, and lie every time
we get a chance? That is to say, why shouldn't we be consistent, and
either lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help the nation lie
the whole day long and then object to telling one little individual
private lie in our own interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment
of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our mouth.
Here in England they have the oddest ways. They won't tell a spoken lie—nothing
can persuade them. Except in a large moral interest, like politics or
religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get even the poorest little
personal advantage out of it is a thing which is impossible to them. They
make me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are so bigoted. They will not
even tell a lie for the fun of it; they will not tell it when it hasn't
even a suggestion of damage or advantage in it for any one. This has a
restraining influence upon me in spite of reason, and I am always getting
out of practice.
Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies, just like anybody;
but they don't notice it until their attention is called to it. They have
got me so that sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except in a
modified form; and even in the modified form they don't approve of it.
Still, that is as far as I can go in the interest of the growing friendly
relations between the two countries; I must keep some of my self-respect—and
my health. I can live on a pretty low diet, but I can't get along on no
sustenance at all.
Of course, there are times when these people have to come out with a
spoken lie, for that is a thing which happens to everybody once in a
while, and would happen to the angels if they came down here much.
Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the lies I speak of are
self-sacrificing ones told for a generous object, not a mean one; but even
when these people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them and
unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to see, and shows that they
are all insane. In fact, it is a country which is full of the most
I have an English friend of twenty-five years' standing, and yesterday
when we were coming down-town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a
lie—a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a mulatto; I can't seem
to tell any other kind now, the market is so flat. I was explaining to him
how I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year. I do not know what
might have become of me if I hadn't happened to remember to tell the
police that I belonged to the same family as the Prince of Wales. That
made everything pleasant and they let me go; and apologised, too, and were
ever so kind and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much for me, and
explained how the mistake came to be made, and promised to hang the
officer that did it, and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not say
anything about it; and I said they could depend on me. My friend said,
'You call it a modified lie? Where is the modification?'
I explained that it lay in the form of my statement to the police. 'I
didn't say I belonged to the Royal Family; I only said I belonged to the
same family as the Prince—meaning the human family, of course; and
if those people had had any penetration they would have known it. I can't
go around furnishing brains to the police; it is not to be expected.'
'How did you feel after that performance?'
'Well, of course I was distressed to find that the police had
misunderstood me, but as long as I had not told any lie I knew there was
no occasion to sit up nights and worry about it.'
My friend struggled with the case several minutes, turning it over and
examining it in his mind, then he said that so far as he could see the
modification was itself a lie, it being a misleading reservation of an
explanatory fact, and so I had told two lies instead of only one.
'I wouldn't have done it,' said he; 'I have never told a lie, and I should
be very sorry to do such a thing.'
Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful of surprised and
delighted smiles down at a gentleman who was passing in a hansom.
'Who was that, G—-?'
'I don't know.'
'Then why did you do that?'
'Because I saw he thought he knew me and was expecting it of me. If I
hadn't done it he would have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him
before the whole street.'
'Well, your heart was right, G—-, and your act was right. What you
did was kindly and courteous and beautiful; I would have done it myself;
but it was a lie.'
'A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you make it out?'
'I know you didn't speak, still you said to him very plainly and
enthusiastically in dumb show, "Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see you,
old fellow; when did you get back?" Concealed in your actions was what you
have called "a misleading reservation of an explanatory fact"—the
act that you had never seen him before. You expressed joy in encountering
him—a lie; and you made that reservation—another lie. It was
my pair over again. But don't be troubled—we all do it.'
Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other matters were being discussed,
he told how he happened along once just in the nick of time to do a great
service for a family who were old friends of his. The head of it had
suddenly died in circumstances and surroundings of a ruinously disgraceful
character. If know the facts would break the hearts of the innocent family
and put upon them a load of unendurable shame. There was no help but in a
giant lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.
'The family never found out, G—-?'
'Never. In all these years they have never suspected. They were proud of
him and had always reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to them
his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful.'
'They had a narrow escape, G—-.'
'Indeed they had.'
'For the very next man that came along might have been one of these
heartless and shameless truth-mongers. You have told the truth a million
times in your life, G—-, but that one golden lie atones for it all.
Some may think me not strict enough in my morals, but that position is
hardly tenable. There are many kinds of lying which I do not approve. I do
not like an injurious lie, except when it injures somebody else; and I do
not like the lie of bravado, nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy; the latter
was affected by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.
Mr. Bryant said, 'Truth crushed to earth will rise again.' I have taken
medals at thirteen world's fairs, and may claim to be not without
capacity, but I never told as big a one as that. Mr. Bryant was playing to
the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in substance, this—I do not
remember the exact words: 'This gospel is eternal—that a lie shall
not live.' I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books, and have read
his 'Revelation' eight times; and so I prefer to think he was not entirely
at himself when he told that one. To me it is plain that he said it in a
moment of excitement, when chasing Americans out of his back-yard with
brickbats. They used to go there and worship. At bottom he was probably
fond of it, but he was always able to conceal it. He kept bricks for them,
but he was not a good shot, and it is matter of history that when he fired
they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as a nation we like relics,
and so long as we get them we do not much care what the reliquary thinks
about it. I am quite sure that when he told that large one about a lie not
being able to live he had just missed an American and was over excited. He
told it above thirty years ago, but it is alive yet; alive, and very
healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive any fact in history. Carlyle was
truthful when calm, but give him Americans enough and bricks enough and he
could have taken medals himself.
As regards that time that George Washington told the truth, a word must be
said, of course. It is the principal jewel in the crown of America, and it
is but natural that we should work it for all it is worth, as Milton says
in his 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.' It was a timely and judicious truth,
and I should have told it myself in the circumstances. But I should have
stopped there. It was a stately truth, a lofty truth—a Tower; and I
think it was a mistake to go on and distract attention from its sublimity
by building another Tower alongside of it fourteen times as high. I refer
to his remark that he 'could not lie.' I should have fed that to the
marines; or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his style. It would have
taken a medal at any European fair, and would have got an honourable
mention even at Chicago if it had been saved up. But let it pass; the
Father of his Country was excited. I have been in those circumstances, and
With the truth he told I have no objection to offer, as already indicated.
I think it was not premeditated but an inspiration. With his fine military
mind, he had probably arranged to let his brother Edward in for the cherry
tree results, but by an inspiration he saw his opportunity in time and
took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could astonish his father;
his father would tell the neighbours; the neighbours would spread it; it
would travel to all firesides; in the end it would make him President, and
not only that, but First President. He was a far-seeing boy and would be
likely to think of these things. Therefore, to my mind, he stands
justified for what he did. But not for the other Tower; it was a mistake.
Still, I don't know about that; upon reflection I think perhaps it wasn't.
For indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one live. If he hadn't
said 'I cannot tell a lie' there would have been no convulsion. That was
the earthquake that rocked the planet. That is the kind of statement that
lives for ever, and a fact barnacled to it has a good chance to share its
To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with things the way they are. There
is a prejudice against the spoken lie, but none against any other, and by
examination and mathematical computation I find that the proportion of the
spoken lie to the other varieties is as 1 to 22,894. Therefore the spoken
lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth while to go around fussing
about it and trying to make believe that it is an important matter. The
silent colossal National Lie that is the support and confederate of all
the tyrannies and shams and inequalities and unfairnesses that afflict the
peoples—that is the one to throw bricks and sermons at. But let us
be judicious and let somebody else begin.
And then—But I have wandered from my text. How did I get out of my
second lie? I think I got out with honour, but I cannot be sure, for it
was a long time ago and some of the details have faded out of my memory. I
recollect that I was reversed and stretched across some one's knee, and
that something happened, but I cannot now remember what it was. I think
there was music; but it is all dim now and blurred by the lapse of time,
and this may be only a senile fancy.