Private Lives: How Relevant?

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Here we go again. Last week two New York City tabloids, the Post and the Daily News, suddenly front-paged some old allegations about past extramarital activities by Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton, the media-crowned Democratic front runner. And thus, with a heartfelt squeamishness that outsiders will find hard to credit, the American press takes up some unfinished business from four years ago: deciding what to publish about presidential candidates' private lives.

The Gary Hart follies of the 1987-88 campaign left the issue unresolved. But the particulars of that episode established a standard few future candidate sex scandals could hope to match: the misbehavior was current. The perpetrator was virtually caught with his pants down. He had specifically invited scrutiny of his private life: "Follow me around, I don't care." And the behavior was deemed to be specifically relevant to pre-existing questions about the , candidate's "character." Since Hart was widely suspected of philandering, evidence that he actually did philander was admissible to the public debate. Evidence of philandering by a candidate not previously suspected of it presumably would fail this odd test.

Many journalists hoped the Gary Hart standard would stick and thereby excuse them from further contemplation of this distressing subject. They hoped especially for an unwritten rule that only ongoing goings-on count. But it's probably not going to be that easy. Nor should it be.

Musings on this ripe topic often muddle three distinct questions: First, what level of proof is required of stories about marital infidelity? Second, should such stories be suppressed, even if provably true, out of respect for the candidate's privacy? And third, are past extramarital affairs (to take the meat-and-potatoes issue here) relevant to a candidate's qualifications for office?

Question One is simple, in theory. Sexual allegations should meet the same standard of proof as allegations on any other subject. By their nature, sexual allegations are often furtive and hard to prove. That is a perfectly good reason not to publish them.

But there is a genuine dilemma. Rumors can become so thick and widespread that not to report their existence -- even if they cannot be proved -- becomes a kind of dishonesty. The Washington Post once got in trouble for publishing a rumor without proof it was true, and defended itself editorially on grounds that, well, it's true there was a rumor. Much chortling and indignation at that. But it's not a worthless point. Past profiles of Clinton, in TIME and elsewhere, have reported vague rumors about marital infidelity as exactly that, and rightly so.

The specific accusations published last week have been peddled for more than a year by a disgruntled former state employee Clinton had fired. The purveyor has zero evidence, and Clinton and the women allegedly involved all deny it. But the stories were published in the Star, a supermarket tabloid, picked up by the two New York papers, and thus became fair game for everyone else.