FAILURE; embarrassment; scandal; humiliation; rumour and accusation . . . adversity, in all its forms, can tell us much of men in public life when things go badly wrong. But it can also tell them much about themselves. And, observing such situations, it tells us much of our world, our present society, and the mores of our day.

As I write, the Chief Constable of Grampian police, Dr Ian Oliver, is besieged by his enemies. Dr Oliver is presently off work with stress. A few weeks ago, Henry McLeish at the Scottish Office threw Oliver to the wolves, making most public his anger that Oliver had been out of the country the day a report was published critical of some aspects of

the force's investigation of a vicious

paedophile murder.

Last week one of our nastiest papers published what it insisted were compromising pictures of Dr Oliver with a woman not his wife. (He and the woman involved have denied any undue intimacy). Meanwhile, in an astonishing display of personal feeling, member upon member of the Grampian Police Board have trashed Dr Oliver's character to the press, demanded his resignation, predicted his resignation, called for his head on a charger should there be no resignation.

Dr Oliver's crime, it seems, is but to be controversial: a blunt, shoot-from-the-hip character. The Aberdeen witch-hunt, bluntly, stinks; but the Chief Constable is not the only man on the public stage presently besieged. President Clinton is still in a measure of trouble - though I hope he survives and am confident he will. Robin Cook, Foreign Secretary, has been badly damaged by revelations about his private life and office appointments. In a year's time, I dare say, we will have forgotten these cases; we will be watching, half-gleeful, the lynching of others.

Oliver, Clinton, and Cook are - in their own realms - public figures, in high, lonely positions of authority. Men do not attain such heights without making enemies. And when a man is elevated that far, he sits there alone. He bears the responsibility; he must make onerous decisions. He is in the public eye; when he speaks, he is news. But all the times he is under scrutiny. And around him are many, many lesser people, be they councillors or civil servants or White House interns, only too delighted to tear him down.

When the going gets tough, how do the tough get going? Cook provides one or two object lessons of how not to proceed. So far he has made two dreadful mistakes. A Foreign Secretary does not use a press-conference overseas to make strong and personalised statements about a personal embarrassment. Worse if you must tell your wife that your marriage is finished, you do not ring from a VIP lounge in an international airport. Cook has survived this disgrace. But he will never transcend it; never be Prime Minister.

Dr Oliver, to my mind, has also made two errors; it is only fair to point out he and his family are under the most vicious pressure. First: he has left his desk. If

people are calling for your resignation, or removal, in such manifestly unjust circumstances, you stay on the job. To take leave of absence suggests, immediately, concession, defeat. Worse: it allows the most delightful speculation: that you are physically broken, mentally ill, depressed, on the booze, or whatever nasty notion tickles nasty minds.

Dr Oliver has also, it seems - through associates - indicated the possibility of legal action. If true, he is well within his rights. But, again, it suggests a man on the run. And the nasty minds can also portray it as another response: how much gold can I walk away with?

Clinton, of our troubled trio, has handled his present mess with typical bravura. He has kept working. He has kept his statements on the Lewinsky farce to a minimum. When he has appeared in public, he has risen to the occasion with considerable monarchical skill. Clinton has maintained his dignity and, perhaps, the media frenzy has outsmarted itself. We know that a good few salacious details retailed as fact a fortnight ago were, in truth, error, or invention.

And the American public (not nearly as judgmental as we like to think) have made plain their disgust and irritation. Clinton's ratings are presently the highest in his Presidency. And rightly so.

We all, naturally, dread pain; especially this sort of public high-profile anguish. And you need not be a statesman or Chief Constable to be in that sort of situation: a charge of drink-driving, or a girl you have ''got into trouble'' has a horror no less

bitter - a personal, want-to-crawl-under-a-stone-and-die quality.

But adversity is not without advantage. For one, it builds character. When bad times come, and you survive them, and good times come again, you have learned something of survival. It boosts confidence. The next time darkness descends, when your enemies come drooling, you are more ready for it. You know you can come through.

For another, it tests the character you have already. There are situations entirely our fault. The wise man admits it, and offers full and fair amends. You admit quickly. You apologise absolutely. You do all you can, and get on with living. To deny fault - to bluster, to lie - prolongs the agony and warps you inside. You might get away with your lie. People may believe it - or most of them. But you will know the truth; that is how we die in our souls. But there are also situations not in the least our fault. There are times when we are set up, falsely accused, the victims of malice or inquisition. Then we have a right to defend ourselves. It can require great strength. At times it may be near-impossible, especially when you see disbelief in the eyes of some you love and trust.

I mention inquisition deliberately; in these stories we have heard much talk about lying. Did Clinton, or did he not? Is he telling the truth, or not? I think, in our rush to demand answers to certain questions, we forget there are questions which deserve no answer. My pal up the road might turn and ask: ''John how much are you paid?'' But he has no right to know, and I am under no obligation to tell him.

Adversity has two other great benefits. It humbles a man; and enlarges him. You gain perspective, humanity, gentleness. You begin to grasp the frailty of human nature and the complexity of modern life. When someone falls, or blunders, you stand apart from the righteous mob.

And this. You learn who your friends are. The ones who care. Those who publicly support you (and, in private, tell you the home truths you need to hear). It was disturbing to me, how widely criticised Tony Blair was in our own press for so strongly supporting Clinton. Editorials bewailed the risk to Blair's standing if Clinton should be utterly exposed and ruined. I saw a man standing up for his friend; doing what he believed to be right, and not just what was expedient. Much as I dislike this Government, there is the stuff of greatness in our Prime Minister.

But Clinton, himself, has that class. Early in his Presidency he invited to the White House one who had once lived there; who had been ostracised by his four successors (including three of his own party); who had never returned since the day he left it. President Clinton asked him; befriended him; and took his counsel on certain matters of high policy.

That man was Richard Nixon, who knew adversity on a Shakespearean scale. But in that catharsis he learned, and grew.

''We think that when we suffer defeat, that all is ended,'' he declared as he left office, a pariah, in August 1974.

''Not true. It is only a beginning, always. It must always sustain us, because the greatness comes not when things go always good for you, but the greatness comes when you are really tested and you take some knocks, some disappointments, when sadness comes, because only if you have been in the deepest valley can you ever know how magnificent it is to be on the highest mountain.''