The Prisoner's Dilemma

by Sean Stuart O'Connor

  Hume nodded.

  ‘You don’t agree?’

  Adam Smith’s eyes resumed their erratic roaming while he dunked a piece of bread and butter dreamily into his wineglass.

  ‘Why should I?’ he said eventually. ‘Even the most fleeting glance at human behaviour shows that there is little reason for us to suspect that society’s relationships are built on, or maintained by, natural benevolence. All around us in life, in government, in trade and, in fact, in anything we do, it is the opposite that is undeniable. The world is dominated by self-obsession and deceit. Scratch any human and beneath the surface you will find nothing but utter selfishness. Natural benevolence is quite irrelevant. We can explain all human interaction – both the conditions under which it works and the reasons why it sometimes breaks down – without resorting to concepts such as your ‘benevolence’ and ‘trust’. I believe you have fallen into the common trap for moral philosophers of viewing the world through your own eyes only. You have a reputation for being benevolent. You are known to be kind and compassionate. You see good in others. It follows that you view the world’s behaviour shaped in this light. But I have a greater chill to my blood. I turn a cooler eye on people. However pleased we might be to find that benevolence exists, there is little reason to assume that it does.’

  David Hume sat back heavily in his chair. It was a long time since he had been so harshly spoken to and he felt his colour rise as he absorbed the weight of the attack. His hand moved slowly to the comfort of the embroidery at his cuff.

  Smith said nothing. His gaze shifted back to the cornice. Suddenly his eyes darted back to look directly at Hume and he smiled his beautiful smile. In an instant Hume’s heart warmed and he realised that Adam Smith was incapable of wounding. Instead he was obviously in a world of his own intellect, without the usual understanding of the effect his words might have. McLean was right about him: this was a man who so verged on innocence that he simply said what he perceived to be true, not what he deemed to be socially acceptable.

  Hume decided to stay quiet and wait. He now nodded to the younger man, encouraging him to go on.

  ‘Far from benevolence,’ Smith continued after a pause, ‘I start from a different point to explain our natures. My beginning is the observation that humans differ from animals because man alone specialises his labour. I grant you that some animals may divide tasks in a crude fashion for a common end and they may even group themselves into a pack to do so, but only man will actively decide to specialise what he does and then work towards an unseen future. And it is this aspect of his nature, above all else, that drives his behaviour. In every other species each individual is self-contained, complete, reliant only on itself. A cat or a fish, any animal, depends only on itself once it is grown. It is only man that continues to be dependent on the way that others in his company have specialised their labour too.’

  David Hume felt quite recovered and increasingly fascinated as to where the young man’s logic would lead.

  ‘I know it,’ he replied, ‘and surely this is why man has to live in society. By himself he is vulnerable and weak. I say so in my Treatise.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Smith, ‘but specialisation is also the reason for his success, and it is the reason for the bonds that exist in society. I believe this has led to a need for each other and it is this, not benevolence, which holds us together.’

  David Hume put his head on one side and frowned slightly in enquiry. Smith continued.

  ‘Please, let me illustrate what I mean. If you and I were to attempt to make a pin tomorrow, the most simple of objects and amongst the cheapest to buy, we might flounder at it all day and conceivably produce one or two. And no doubt poor things they would be. Yet I have witnessed a collective of ten people in which they produced fifty thousand pins in a single day. To buy one hundred pins costs only one fiftieth of a man’s day. These pin makers have specialised their labour to make a tiny yet vital part of our lives. The customer gets a cheaper pin and the pin maker gets money to exchange for the other goods he needs or wants. He is an expert in the pin trade – he has no need to know how to bake bread or meet his other needs. He buys these other skills from other specialists. But even within this process the pin makers have specialised still further. One man sharpens the points, another has perfected the skill of flattening the heads. And look at the result! By working in this way they have achieved a mighty increase in their collective effort. In fact I call it mass production. And with this effort and organisation has come a great increase in their output and, therefore, in their collective rewards as well.’

  By now Smith was looking dreamily out of the window. Without taking his eyes from some far off point, and in a voice that was anything but dreamy, he continued.

  ‘It is this specialisation that one sees constantly repeated in society. Men who are very capable at one thing but have little or no knowledge of others. And why should they be concerned at this? Their specialism has earned them far more than any direct labouring could ever do. But while this approach may give man his success yet it places him, unlike the animals, in almost constant need of exchange with his brethren. And he will look in vain to expect it from their kindness alone. On the contrary, he’s only likely to succeed and get what he wants if he has something to offer in return, a specialism of his own. He needs to get others to trade with him to further his own interests.’

  Adam Smith came to a halt and the two men sat in silence for a moment as the dining room door opened and the maid came through with a joint of lamb and bowls of vegetables arranged on a tray. Smith didn’t bother to glance in her direction before he continued with his point.

  ‘You see, take this meal. It is not from the benevolence of the butcher and the baker that we expect our dinner but rather from their regard for their own self-interest. By getting the food from them we’ve addressed ourselves not to their humanity but to their self-love – we don’t talk to them of our needs but of the advantages to them. And it’s exactly the kind of specialisms they offer, and the competition that goes with people having the same skills, that allows society to be greater than the sum of its parts.’

  As he finished saying this, Smith fished in his pocket and brought out a small copy of Hume’s Treatise.

  ‘Indeed sir, you say something of this in your own work.’

  He held the book towards the candle’s light and read aloud.

  ‘I learn to do service to another without bearing him any real kindness because I foresee that he will return my service in expectation of another of the same kind.’

  Adam Smith looked up from the book and began to stare into the corner of the room.

  ‘You see, sir, that while I agree with you in the sentiment you have written here, I depart also because my exchange is one of specialisation, with money or barter as the means. It is this that lies at the heart of efficient markets and I have come to the conclusion that such markets have their own unerring logic – it is almost as if an invisible hand were guiding them – in which, for example, too much of one thing leads its price to fall or one specialisation loses value against another. A correction must take place for equilibrium to return. And good markets are in a state of constant flux to achieve this – a flux driven by people acting to further their own self-interests. In many ways it is this movement that keeps them healthy.’

  For the first time in some minutes, Adam Smith glanced quickly at Hume and saw that the older man was gazing intently back at him.

  ‘I have seen that look many times from my tutors,’ he said. ‘I assume you do not agree. Or have I offended you in some way?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Smith,’ replied Hume, ‘but answer me this. I think I understand your view that society is based on self-interest. Or rather the transaction of self-interested specialisations. But why, in that case, is there ever virtue? Or altruism? Why do people ever behave without reward? Why do they sometimes show compassion? And, more importantly, why do they regard such actions and sentiments so highly?’
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  ‘I know,’ said Smith, and for the first time since he’d arrived that evening a doubtful tone entered his voice. ‘A very good question indeed. And I have but a tentative answer. It is my observation that human beings share a taboo against selfishness. Indeed, it is almost the definition of what we would call vice. I agree that finding an answer to your question is vital. The praise people give to virtuous things seems always to be concerned with the welfare of others. I know that there must always be a requirement for sympathy towards one’s fellow beings in our dealings with them but I must confess that I cannot explain virtue in the way that I can explain self-interest.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Hume quickly, ‘you reject my belief in natural benevolence but you’ll accept what you call ‘sympathy’ will you? But surely this sympathy of yours is incompatible with the specialisation and self-interest that you say glues society together. How do you reconcile the two?’

  Smith looked away into the air and seemed to speak more to himself than to Hume.

  ‘Yes, I agree, altruism and compassion don’t fit with my picture of a world based on rational transaction, do they? I’ve often wondered about this; about why people are ever good.’

  He glanced back towards Hume.

  ‘I have given this much thought and I suspect that these actions and feelings spring out of shame for our selfish natures, but I have no evidence to support my view.’

  At this Hume smiled broadly. Then he laughed and reached inside his coat pocket and brought out the paper he had put there earlier.

  ‘By the most remarkable coincidence, Mr Smith, I have just received a letter on this precise subject,’ he said. ‘In fact, I was reading it when you arrived. It is from an old university friend of mine, the Earl of Dunbeath. Perhaps you will permit me to read you what he has to say?’

  Adam Smith sat more upright in his chair and nodded in interest. Hume picked up the candle and, holding it to the letter, he read aloud.

  ‘Hume,

  I understand you are to be called ‘The Father of the Enlightenment!’

  ‘I do beg your pardon, Mr Smith,’ Hume said quickly, putting the letter to one side with an embarrassed grimace. ‘I should have omitted that ridiculous comment. I’m afraid one must expect such a slash of irony from Lord Dunbeath to open with. Pray ignore it and permit me to continue.’

  But your cause is the same as mine – to be empirical. To find evidence! Mine is to unlock the secret perfection of the planets, just as yours is to understand the secrets of our human natures.

  Stony as my path may be, I would rather have my burden than yours.

  But I have recently witnessed an event here that I believe would interest you.

  It has set me thinking and I believe I have created a game – yes, a game (but what is life if not a deadly game with all its competition, strategy, bluff and self-interest?) that will prove to you mathematically and empirically the interaction of good and ill, of co-operation and selfishness.

  Come and play my game of life with me! I call it The Prisoner’s Dilemma.

  I see nobody here and have only paltry help. So expect little to feed your body, but much to feed your mind.

  Beware, you may not like the conclusions!

  I remain etc,

  Dunbeath.’

  As David Hume finished reading, Smith lifted his eyes from the table. Hume had been delighted to see how deeply his objection to Smith’s reasoning was received by him and the total absorption that the young man had brought to listening to the letter. So many of Hume’s friends seemed to feel obliged to defend their views with an exuberant and noisy passion that it was refreshing for him to see someone be so open to a counter argument.

  But now Smith smiled openly as Hume set down the letter.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I am due to be back in Dumfries with the Marquis of Annandale tomorrow. I am supposed to be tutoring him but I might as well be speaking to a sheep.’

  ‘I heard his lordship was judged to be a lunatic.’

  ‘Indeed he is. But should I exchange one certain madman that pays me well for an uncertain madman that I can be quite sure will not?’

  David Hume beamed at Smith as he finished, turning over the problem in his mind.

  ‘Perhaps I can do both?’ he said finally.

  Then he rose and strode to the door. He opened it with a theatrical flourish and called out for his maid. As she appeared he spoke loudly to her, half turning in the doorway so that Adam Smith could hear his answer.

  ‘Elizabeth. Please tell Lord Dunbeath’s messenger that I am obliged to travel south to the Borders for a short time but that I shall come up to Caithness when I am free after that.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Please have him pass on my compliments to the earl and let him know that I should be with him in a month or so to play his new game with him.’

  * * *

  James McLeish had walked to a high point in the dunes before he turned to look back at the lighted observatory. By moving away he had given himself a better angle from which he could see some of the room and he now watched as Dunbeath’s head moved about it, bending forward occasionally as if searching a table top.

  Was he looking for something, James thought bitterly to himself? A telescope, perhaps? His lips moved in a muttered vow as he looked again at Dunbeath.

  ‘You bastard. I shall never forget you. Never. Not a day nor an hour will go by that I shall not be thinking of you. Believe me, the time will come when I shall pay you out in your own coin. Though I may have to wait fifty years, you will know me yet.’

  Then he turned and walked back towards the village.

  * * *

  Elizabeth tripped briskly back to where Gordon McKay was finishing the supper she’d given him and passed on the reply that he should take back to the Castle of Beath the following morning. She then returned to the dining room with the port and fruit and removed the cloth.

  David Hume and his new friend sat in a comfortable silence as they cracked walnuts and sipped their port. These were the moments that Hume treasured most. To sit with a questioning and intelligent companion and press each other on the workings of the human mind was the greatest of his many pleasures. He looked at Adam Smith’s ingenuous face, apparently turning over some stray thought in his mind. He looked at the good fire in the grate as it flickered its frantic shadows over the daub green of the panelling. He saw the deep red of the port, the peel of the oranges where the long loops had fallen amongst the dark shells of the nuts. He saw the light catching his fine crystal and the candles the colour of aged beef fat, all set against the patina of the table’s surface. He loved these scenes with their rich palette of soft tones. They reminded him of the paintings of the Flemish masters that he had studied so closely in France and he saw in them all the flashes of insight and dark mysteries that so fascinated him when he looked at the twists and turns of human nature.

  Adam Smith broke the silence.

  ‘This Earl of Dunbeath, Mr Hume, did you know him well at the university?’

  Hume nodded.

  ‘Neither of us was there for long but indeed there was a time when I would have said I knew him as well as any. He was a great trial to his professors. A very fine mind indeed, but a troubled one. No doubt you know he is the clan chief of the Urquhain? A strange tribe of men they are too. He was much affected by the curse he had inherited from his ancestors, a great weakness of character known as the Urquhain Rage, a mania that was much admired in battle but leads to trouble in peace. Many people view it as little more than arrogance and impatience, however, and I’m afraid it’s true that my friend suffers greatly from both.

  ‘You’ll have heard of the family, of course, hugely rich but constantly at war with the world. And themselves. The earl hadn’t inherited when I knew him. He was known as the Master of Somewhere-or-Other, some ancient title, and he was as wild as they come. There was much drinking and fighting, I’m afraid, and the authorities
despaired of him. For a time he was brought to a calmer state by the daughter of one of his tutors but she rejected him and this seemed to bring on some kind of mental collapse. He went back to his family and never returned to the university. I left soon afterwards myself.

  ‘A few years ago I heard that his father had died and that he’d inherited. And then no word but a series of sad rumours about his increasing bitterness and isolation. He retired to a gloomy castle he has in the far north of Caithness, the old family seat. Apparently he lives there alone and without servants. The richest man in Scotland and no servants! He is never seen at his other houses. God knows there are enough of them – many of them have come through the fabulous marriages the Urquhain have always made. Glenlochlan is his. And the great house at Nairn. That huge palace you’ll no doubt know at the far end of the Royal Mile, near to Holyrood, that is an Urquhain house too. A great mansion in St James’s in London, of course. All staffed, yet he never goes to any of them. His factors’ letters go unanswered and the estates, some people say they run to two hundred thousand acres, are all in a sorry state.’

  Adam Smith had listened to Hume’s story with great interest.

  ‘I have heard something of this earl. Is he not involved with astronomy?’

  ‘Involved, Mr Smith?’ replied Hume. ‘He’s obsessed. It is his ambition to unlock the clockwork of the universe. He intends to be the first person to accurately determine longitude at sea. In the process he is set on winning the greatest scientific prize of this and, I’d wager, any other generation, the secret of navigation.’

  ‘And no doubt win the Government’s Longitude Prize,’ said Smith drily, ‘and the £20,000 that goes with it.’

  ‘Very true, Mr Smith, very true. But the Prize means much more to him than the money. Dunbeath must be worth twenty times that already. No, the real prize for him is glory. Glory for himself, glory for the Urquhain clan and glory for Scotland. I never met a man with a greater dislike of the English. I know Dunbeath and I know he won’t rest until he’s won this prize. He can see a day when the start point for all navigation, the prime meridian, will run through the home city of the person that solves the problem. And for Dunbeath that has to be Edinburgh. It would be where East meets West, where half the world shakes hands with the other. Where else should that be but Edinburgh, the greatest centre of learning of our age? He would rather die than see the honour go to London.’