The Prisoner's Dilemma (30 page)

Once the troop had returned to barracks, David Hume saw that even Sophie's great spirit was severely wounded by L'Arquen's attack on her. He now attempted to settle her stretched anxieties.

‘I don't believe you should be too concerned by his threats, my dear,' he said. ‘He may have his suspicions but he has no evidence against you. And, even if he should think further about arresting you, he would soon find out from me that he was trifling with the intended wife of the richest aristocrat in Scotland.'

Adam Smith had joined them in the salon and he now nodded his agreement.

‘And the colonel might not think it would help his prospects if I was to let his superiors know of his attempt on your honour. He would have to reckon with me before I would deny that.'

Hume smiled inwardly at Smith's boyish show of loyalty and turned back to Sophie.

‘No, Miss Kant, I don't think we shall hear more from the man until Lord Dunbeath returns with Captain Zweig. Now, more importantly, you were going to tell me of your plan to warn them of L'Arquen's presence.'

* * * 

Later that afternoon, Sophie and Hume sat happily with Adam Smith by the fire, listening to him as he spoke about their findings on the Prisoner's Dilemma.

‘The most unavoidable conclusion from your games,' Smith was saying to them, ‘seems to me to be also the most shocking. It is that altruism, goodness, generosity, kindness – all the qualities that we hold most dear – can now be seen more clearly as investments in the expectation of a later reward.'

He saw David Hume lift his head.

‘I know, Mr Hume, I know – you will think me too sweeping in my choice of words. Very well, it is the actions that are investments, not the sentiments. And I shall also agree with you, before you wish me to, that many of these sentiments are not done knowingly. They are more to be gathered together under what you would refer to as ‘benevolence'. But allow me, please, to continue with my point. Knowingly or unknowingly, the people behaving in this way want their investment to be returned.

‘What the Dilemma seems to have told you is that the key factor is the timescale. The defector is looking for a short-term gain. The co-operator is looking further out, beyond the immediate choices or exchanges that have to be made. Sophie has told me that you called this process ‘the shadow of the future' and it must be people's ability to make this vision of paramount importance that's driving their co-operative strategies. Or should I say
instincts
rather than strategies because you say that the one has almost become the other as we humans have developed.'

Adam Smith thought for a couple of seconds as he stared wildly about himself.

‘These strategies show themselves,' he continued, ‘because we never know when we shall meet the people we are playing with again. And, because of that, we must constantly be weighing up a present advantage against possible future gains or losses.'

‘Quite so,' said Hume, delighted to have the younger man taking part in their discussions. ‘The underlying conclusion of the Prisoner's Dilemma is that we are all, endlessly, looking for partners that can be trusted. It is a fact of life. In a world of defectors, Tit for Tat works at its best once a co-operator finds another co-operator. Are these not your thoughts too, Sophie?'

Sophie had been frowning slightly but she now looked up.

‘I would go further than that,' she said. ‘I think our ability to identify people who are real co-operators, not just opportunists that might just be pretending to be them, is a huge advantage.
Honesty really is the best policy in finding partners; people who will help you survive. It seems obvious to me now that the most powerful reason to be trustworthy in society is to get other co-operators to play with you! To build a reputation, spoken or believed.'

As she said this, Hume looked steadily at Adam Smith.

‘This is what we spoke of in Edinburgh, is it not? However little we may like it, we have to recognise that we are good for a reason. And that reason is the wish to succeed and rise above our fellow man. If you agree with this then you have to agree that altruism and compassion are just selfishness given new clothes. It is appalling to contemplate but look at it we must. It is the key to understanding our natures. If you are kindly to someone because it makes you feel better, or gets you a reward, then your compassion is selfish, not selfless. Yet for all that I believe it is the act itself that matters, and not the motive.'

‘Ah, here is an argument that I have heard many times,' said Smith quickly. ‘If we are selfless only because it leads to gains for ourselves, should the motive concern us? Does it matter if a man saves a drowning companion because he wants the glory rather than to do good? That it is the deed that counts, not his reason for it? How often have I attended as Professor Hutcheson and his colleagues in Glasgow argued about whether benevolence that was due to vanity or self-interest was still benevolence. That a man may do a good deed, even if he should do it out of pride or self regard? You must be right, Hume – that altruism and virtue are showing themselves to be just selfishness by another name; a subtle and clever expression of it, to be sure, but nonetheless practiced unknowingly for that end.'

‘That still leaves us, Mr Smith,' continued Hume, ‘with the question of why people are ever truly, deeply, perhaps even secretly, altruistic. Sophie's view is that it springs from the urge in them to feel better. I agree, that may be so for many of us. On the other hand, it may simply be that some people do things in
life to a greater excess than his fellows. Some are more intelligent, others can run faster.

‘Perhaps what we are seeing in them is just the instinct for virtue as a survival strategy exaggerated in some people more than in others? After all, do not some of us speak too much or laugh too heartily? Why not give too much as well?'

Hume looked away, pleased with his conclusion, and then lumbered to his feet.

‘Now, Mr Smith,' he puffed, ‘perhaps I can tempt you to fill your Edinburgh lungs with some of this wonderful sea air? There are superb views to be had from the headland. Will you walk with me out there?'

* * * 

Zweig was at the helm while Dunbeath munched on an apple he'd found at the bottom of the bag of food that Annie had put out for him. There had been a silence for some time with just the sound of the boat slicing through the choppy water for company. Makepeace continued to snore in the cabin below.

Zweig glanced over towards Dunbeath. He had been judging the right moment to bring up the subject.

‘You mentioned something interesting to me that day on the dunes when we first met,' he said gently. ‘This was before we learnt something of our natures and found that we could trust each other. You said we were in ‘…another damned Prisoner's Dilemma' your words were to me. What did you mean by that?'

Dunbeath gave a short laugh.

‘Ah, the Dilemma. I had quite forgotten about it. How long ago that all seems. Well, if you're interested, let me explain.'

And Dunbeath began to outline his great game and the different views that the Castle of Beath had heard so hotly debated.

* * * 

The market town of Northallerton lay comfortably in the Vale of Mobray, east of the great stretch of the Pennines and to the west of the open moorland of North Yorkshire. To the weary rider it had always made a welcome sight, prosperous and busy.

For many years the army base there controlled the road to Scotland and sharp eyes were now wide open, alert to the warlike noises coming down from the north.

A soldier in a grey uniform led his horse wearily towards the warmth of the blacksmith's fire, directed inside by one of the sentries that had stopped him on the road.

‘Hey,' the guard called out to the farrier, ‘King's Messenger needs assistance here. Carrying an urgent letter from Prince von Brunswick-Something or Somesuch. He'll leave you this horse for shoeing. Needs a fresh one quickly though.

‘Poor bugger's ridden all the way up from London and he's still got hundreds of miles to go.'

* * * 

Smith and Hume were about to set off for their walk. Sophie stood at the door with them and, as she waved them on their way, she looked down the drive to where two of the Craigleven redcoats were standing guard. She wandered down to where they stood, watching her in an embarrassed silence.

‘Good day to you, men. You seem in need of warm soup.'

The soldiers looked about themselves, terrified that Sharrocks, or even worse, L'Arquen, was about to see them talking to her. They saw nothing and both of them nodded gratefully. A few minutes later Sophie emerged again with a good lunch on a tray.

They fell on the vegetable broth and bread with a ravening hunger. Now they slowed their manic eating with a large hunk of cheese each and a flagon of spring water.

‘You are too good to us, ma'am. We are not used to such kindness,' said one.

‘I am sorry for your trouble,' said the other. ‘His lordship must be in terrible trouble if our colonel is after him. I fear he is not a man to cross, ma'am. His reputation goes before him.'

* * * 

Dunbeath was coming to the end of his description of the many discussions and conclusions on the Prisoner's Dilemma that Hume and Sophie had been having before he had left for London.

‘Sophie was very convincing in her analysis that co-operation wins in life,' he said. ‘She laid much merit on this Tit for Tat instinct and its odd child, a subsidiary strategy that she referred to as Generous. David Hume found it fitted well with many of his own thoughts and they spent hours together filling each other's heads with the idea that any good there may be in us has a rational basis. I did not like to argue with her too greatly. You and I are men of the world, Zweig, and we know only too well the evil that lurks in us all. Sophie has such a kind and caring nature that I could not bring myself to argue that her views on the world were just so many mathematical theories.'

‘I heard from others that she was a promising mathematician, my lord' replied Zweig. ‘That was before we left Königsberg.'

‘There is no doubt of that, captain. She will be of great benefit to me in my researches. Once this war is won.'

Zweig said nothing in reply but just looked ahead into the wind. Then he turned to Dunbeath.

‘I wonder about your game, my lord. Perhaps it's possible that too much digging can spoil a garden? I should not like to think that the gift of trust and the way we deal with each other are so many scribbles on a piece of paper. And where is the beauty of love? Where was that in Sophie's view of the world?'

Hume and Smith had walked some two miles along the coast. They were comfortable in each other's company, largely silent because the noise of the wind had limited their conversation. Now they turned back for the castle as the breeze dropped.

‘You were quite right in your opinion of Miss Kant,' said Smith. ‘I do not believe I have ever met a more sinuous, inventive mind.'

‘Yes, she is extraordinary, isn't she?' replied Hume. ‘I have told her about your ideas, of course, and we have spoken much about how your pin makers and their specialisations fit into the results that the Dilemma points us to. It seems to me that there is a great deal of similarity in the two views. They both show us that social benefits can derive from what could be regarded as individual selfishness. That what we see as progress in society stems from self-interest and from that into benevolence. As she has said often, it is hard to distinguish between these in our developed state, so firmly are the principles of co-operation set in the very elements of our instincts.'

‘Quite so,' replied Smith, looking into the sky, ‘although I am troubled by her description of the impact of what she called free riders. As I understand it she explains them almost as a constant reminder to society of what a defector looks like – and therefore an example of what trusting people should avoid and organise against. But one has to ask what happens when free riders cease to be peripheral in society and become so numerous that even the most co-operative of people have to behave in the same fashion to protect their interests and even sometimes their very survival.'

‘How very interesting, Mr Smith, can you please explain what you mean a little further?'

‘Well let me give you an example,' continued Adam Smith, gazing out at the grey surface of the sea, ‘I have been reading much recently about the arguments for enclosing common land.
I find this fascinating because these commons seem to be almost societies in miniature. Why do I say that? Well, because there are often no laws at all to govern their use and instead the people that put their animals out on them have evolved intricate systems and mutual understandings that give them each a fair return without the guidance of an authority. This shouldn't work in theory but clearly it does in practice. Is this not what the Greeks might have called a democracy? Those who wish to enclose the commons see it differently. They speak of peasants as being unable to control their greed, and of how the more rapacious of them would easily take more than their rightful share. The argument runs that if a man were to graze more cattle on the common than was considered to be his right, then his neighbours would respond by grazing more themselves out of understandable self-protection.

‘Indeed, you might say that it would be a foolish man who sat idly by while his neighbour took so much of the available pasture that it was to his own detriment. The logical outcome of this is that he would be bound to respond. He, too, would put out more cattle, the rest of the commoners would also respond until – of course, you can see where I am going with this argument – the land collapses. It becomes overgrazed and can't recover. And then everyone in society suffers. Selfishness has led to the downfall of the whole community. Indeed, I have heard this phenomenon described as the ‘Tragedy of the Commons'.

‘I'm sure you can see the reasoning: when individuals act independently of each other and rationally consult their own self-interest then they will ultimately deplete a limited resource, even when it is clearly not in their interest to do so. In fact, one can imagine that after a certain point where the depletion is advanced, people will behave in an increasingly selfish manner to snatch at whatever is left. They'd be fools not to.'

‘How intriguing,' said Hume when Smith finally brought his gaze back from the sea and had begun once more to see where
his feet were landing. ‘I must say that in that case it's hard to escape the conclusion that where an end is in sight – a finite resource is a good example – then people's behaviour would be viewed by society as a series of
one-time
Prisoner's Dilemmas. Just like Lord Dunbeath's original game. And, like that, defection would be the only conceivable option. The benefits of co-operation would have broken down. The strategy no longer works.'

There was a silence while Smith was evidently thinking this through.

‘In fact, I think the same mechanism works everywhere. Even the educated classes fall victim – the very people who would look to govern the peasants and commoners. Didn't we see exactly the same deranged behaviour twenty years or so ago with what was called The South Sea Bubble? Wasn't that caused because there were a limited number of shares available and a kind of madness overcame people to acquire them – whatever the price?'

He paused and stared at his feet again.

‘I would say there could be another way of looking at this,' he said at last. ‘I remember you telling me of the early games with Dunbeath and of how you were close to returning to Edinburgh. Perhaps there is an equivalent in society? Where a whole section of co-operators – or at least people who would think of themselves as co-operators – simply leaves the others to what they regard as their errors, and remove themselves.'

‘Do you have an example of what you mean?' replied Hume.

‘Well, do you recall the Pilgrim Fathers?' continued Adam Smith. ‘Instead of continuing their conflict with a society they disagreed with, they left and set up afresh in the American colony. How appropriate that they should have called it the New World!'

‘How good it is to have you here, Smith,' Hume smiled when he heard this. ‘You have set your finger on a sore I have been avoiding. And it is this …how does society control itself while
the Dilemma's internal forces are working themselves through? If you recall, the immortal Thomas Hobbes faced up to this in that great work of his,
Leviathan
. His view was that man's selfish nature needed laws to stop him from descending into evil. That he needed the guiding hand of kings or religion or legal restraint to stop him from destroying himself. Do you remember the famous words he used to describe what would happen if this didn't happen? “No arts. Continual fear and danger of violent death. And the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”'

Hume shook his head, smiling to himself at the power of the words.

‘But can we say that he was wrong?' he continued. ‘Is the Dilemma telling us that all man needs to do is to trust? That the Dilemma's natural forces will prevail? Can we really believe that when defectors occur they will ultimately fail because, just as the hawks thrived for a time but then declined because they had to end up meeting each other, their very nature leads to their mutual destruction?'

Smith nodded in agreement.

‘Yes, I think something like this must be happening,' he said. ‘You told me how Miss Kant's theory was that the early Christians undermined the very Hobbesian nature of the Roman empire. But it took centuries. In just the same way I imagine that the underlying success of co-operation will always win. However, it takes a very long time. In the meantime, there is much repression, unfairness, tyranny and death. Oppressive regimes may fail but they do so only at a huge price to the people in that society. And also in giving people the accepted wisdom that man is essentially bad.

‘I must say that your work on the Dilemma has made me completely revise my outlook on the nature of society in general. I had thought at first that individuals had enough common interest in the future to make them combine to create a society
that excluded people they thought were destructive.'

Adam Smith had come to a stop on the path and he now turned to Hume.

‘But when I heard from you about the findings from the Prisoner's Dilemma,' he continued, ‘I thought that what was really going on was not that people were protecting society in this way but that society itself was the result of individuals striving in their own self-interests. Society, if you like, was a by-product of an efficient market.

‘However, I must confess that since I have arrived here I have thought again. I now see that the underlying principle of the Dilemma is the search for the right partners, people that one can trust. Once people have found these new partners they are then able to precipitate out of a society of hawks leaving these so-called selfish rationalists to their fate. They avoid them. In other words, rather than have retaliator doves, the doves simply leave the hawks to their own fate and go off to form a new society.

‘Perhaps the virtuous are virtuous for no other reason than that it enables them to join forces with others who are virtuous – to their mutual benefit. Because they have defined themselves in that way and are convinced that it suits them to get together. They have stopped being individuals and have become a group!'

Hume stroked the embroidery on his coat sleeve and laughed as a great wave of satisfaction swept through him.

‘Mr Smith! I've rarely heard anything so elegant!'

They walked on until they reached the headland, each of them deep in their own thoughts. As they looked out to sea Hume turned once again to Adam Smith.

‘Well, you've certainly given me a way through the tangle I was in such difficulties with. Then light my way, please, through one last problem. Let us take one of these societies you describe as having broken away. Precipitated out as you called it. A society of doves. Very well, according to you, everyone in it is trusting each other and indulging in constant three point relationships.
My question is this – does such a society not stultify? Good lord, doesn't this utopia of theirs suffer from a lack of challenge? How would anything ever change if there were no unreasonable or ambitious men to make it do so? Wouldn't it decline in ambition if everyone was co-operative? Just as actions have reactions I rather think that it must be inevitable that this general goodness should come under pressure from time to time. After all, do people ever behave better or become more inventive than when they are in danger? Or are having their lives threatened?'

‘Hmm,' murmured Smith, the challenge Hume had put making him stare madly about himself. ‘I would like to ponder on that. There must be much in what you say.'

* * * 

Zweig was at the helm with Makepeace when Dunbeath came up from sleeping below. The boat was creaming through the waves and Dunbeath looked forward with the wind in his face.

He turned to look at Zweig, who smiled back at him.

Dunbeath looked towards the horizon again, his eyes squinting and his face gleaming. He felt completely secure with Zweig. He was quite sure of where he was going. He felt strange. He felt happy.