The last dishes were cleared away. Sparks lit a cheroot and warmed the honeyed nectar of his brandy over a candle. "So ..." he said, gaveling the proceedings back to order, "... as to my brother."
Doyle had not expected him to open with that trump card, but he was more than willing to accept candor from the man as he found it. He nodded, betraying no impatience, willing his mind to focus in again, as he meditatively rolled the Benedictine around in his snifter.
"Do you find it as troubling as I that the corpus of human hope is pegged so directly to the concept of our social progress?" asked Sparks. His tone was open and inviting, far from rhetorical. What this nonsequiturial tack had to do with his brother, well, Doyle had waited out far more tortuous tangents than this with far less expectation of return.
"Yes, Jack, I do," said Doyle, warming to the task. "I look around at this golden room, the pleasure it gives me, all these fine, handsome people, the meal we've just enjoyed, and I am tempted to say ... this is the best civilization has to offer us: the human harvest of education, scientific advancement, social evolution.
"But these are transitory satisfactions. An illusion. And how infinitesimal a percentage of the people alive in our
world this sample represents. As we sit here priding ourselves on our refinement, not a stone's throw from these windows there is a surfeit of human suffering and misery as terrible as any human being has ever endured. And I am forced to consider: If so many are left behind, do our achievements count for nothing? What value does our passing through this life leave behind us? What gifts, if any, will our age bequeath to the generations that follow?"
"That question's not for us to answer," replied Sparks. "Following generations make up their own minds about our contributions. And how is any age remembered? By the work of man's hand or of his mind? The Elizabethans left us poetry that speaks to us because we share a language. The Egyptians built the pyramids, but we can't know their secret thoughts. Their greatest discoveries may be beyond recovery. Perhaps it's simply a matter of what survives."
"But which is more important? Will our age be judged by our monuments, our bridges and train stations, or by our science and arts?"
"Our expanding knowledge of medicine has certainly succeeded in prolonging the physical span of human life," said Sparks.
"Yes, but the conditions imposed by our prosperity have necessitated most of those discoveries. I won't dispute that the convenience and comfort of life, for some, even many, are greatly enhanced by the objects we're now able to mass-produce. But weigh against it the cost, the by-products of industry: subhuman labor conditions, scarring of the earth, poisonous air. Without these medical advances, most of us might not long survive our 'prosperity.' And for many of the lower classes that do survive, even if their physical lives are lengthened, what value does that surplus provide if that life is stripped of joy, of kindness, or the time to enjoy the fruits of their labor?"
"The suffering of the unfortunate aside—and all men suffer, don't they, each to his measure, in his own way—doesn't it seem clear that science has us on the cusp of a new epoch? Think of the marvelous inventions they say we'll soon enjoy: electricity in every house, the motorized car. Telephone, typewriter. Enhanced communication, freedom to travel. Warmth and light in the home. Ignorance banished by education."
"You assume that surrounding ourselves with these new, arguably liberating devices will fundamentally change some persistent qualities in the human character." "Which qualities are those?"
"The will to power. The impulse to hoard. The instinct to fend for ourselves at the expense of others."
"The instinct to survive," said Sparks, as if Doyle were taking him exactly where he wished to go. "Ensuring the survival of the strong." "At the expense of the weak."
"Just as in nature—like as a competition, Doyle, a fight: for air, light, for strong, attractive mating partners, for space or food. Nature does not announce to its components, 'Life requires of you no aggression, for I have provided on this earth an abundance, an embarrassment of riches,' " Sparks said, vehemently tapping his fingers, rattling the glasses on the table.
"And when those same powerful impulses are expressed by the human animal, as in every other kingdom of nature—" "Dominion. Domination. Material greed. The root of human conflict."
"We are in agreement," said Doyle. Sparks nodded, his eyes hot with discovery. "It's inescapable. Man is compelled to obey the instinct to dominate, because of our unconscious imperative to survive. And this message is so persuasive and commanding it overrides every other biological impulse—compassion, sympathy, love, any of the niceties sacred to the privileged lives in this room— well after our physical safety has been secured and every serious threat to our existence completely eliminated."
"A paradox, then," said Doyle. "Does man's will to live present the single greatest danger to our survival?"
"If human nature does not soon demonstrate the ability to willfully change its course, I submit to you that it does," said Sparks, leaning forward, lowering his voice, holding Doyle taut in his gaze. "I offer in evidence the life of one Alexander Sparks. Born to wealthy parents, a beloved first child, indulged and cosseted through early childhood by every creature comfort known to man. Nurtured and protected to a fault, a world of privilege and possession opening to him as generously as the petals of an evening primrose. Quite independent
of these influences, the boy soon demonstrates a remarkably headstrong native character. An insatiable curiosity. An intellect of cold and calculating genius. A will like tempered steel. By anyone's standards, an exceptional child.
"Through his first years, he remains blissfully unaware of the vagaries of fortune flesh is heir to. With his father stationed half a world away on diplomatic assignment, the boy grows up surrounded by women who want nothing more than to pamper and indulge his every waking whim. The jewel set in the center of that adoring circle is the child's mother: a celebrated beauty, a woman of style, strong moral fiber, and fierce intelligence. She dotes slavishly on her boy, devotes herself to him without limit. He comes to perceive himself as God's chosen one, an infant Sun King, with absolute power over a domain extending in every direction as far as his eye can see. A boy who wanders the woods of his estate feeling command not only of the people around him, whom he regards as his subjects, but the wind, water, and trees as well. His world is a paradise, and he its undisputed master.
"Then, one day, in his fifth summer, the adored and loving mother of the king disappears from sight, gone a second and then a third day, without explanation. Even the boy's tempestuous rages, the most potent weapons in his considerable arsenal, are not sufficient to effect her reappearance. None of his subjects offers any reasons for her absence, only winks and Gioconda smiles. Until the fourth day, when he is once again allowed access to her bedchamber, and discovers, to his astonishment and horror, that in her arms lies a hideous usurper. Helpless, wrinkled, crimson-faced, pissing and mewling like a cat. A baby. In an instant, the boy sees through the fiend's pathetically transparent, manipulative deceptions, but is stunned to discover his mother has fallen completely in thrall to his tiny demon. This monster has the temerity to lie before him on his mother's breast, mocking him, demanding and receiving her loving ministrations that in his clear understanding of the world were intended solely for him and him alone."