TRANSITION FROM THE COMMON RATIONAL KNOWLEDGE OF MORALITY TO THE
PHILOSOPHICAL
Nothing can possibly be conceived in the world, of even out of it,
which can be called good without qualification, except a Good Will
Intelligence, wit, judgment, and the other talents of the mind,
however they may be named, or courage, resolution, perseverance, as
qualities of temperament, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many
respects; but these gifts of nature may also become extremely bad
and mischievous if the will which is to make use of them, and which,
therefore, constitutes what is called character, is not good. It is
the same with the gifts of fortune. Power, riches, honour, even
health, and the general well-being and contentment with one's
condition which is called happiness, inspire pride, and often
presumption, if there is not a good will to correct the influence of
these on the mind, and with this also to rectify the whole principle
of acting, and adapt it to its end. The sight of a Deing who is not
adorned with a single feature of a pure and good will, enjoying
unbroken prosperity, can never give pleasure to an impartial
rational spectator. Thus a good will appears to constitute the
indispensable condition even of being worthy of happiness.
There are even some qualities which are of service to this good will
itself, and may facilitate its action, yet which have no intrinsic
unconditional value, but always presuppose a good will, and this
qualifies the esteem that we justly have for them, and does not
permit us to regard them as absolutely good. Moderation in the
affections and passions, self-control and calm deliberation are not
only good in many respects, but even seem to constitute part of the
intrinsic worth of the person; but they are far from deserving to be
called good without qualification, although they have been so
unconditionally praised by the ancients. For without the principles
of a good will, they may become extremely bad, and the coolness of a
villain not only makes him far more dangerous, but also directly
makes him more abominable in our eyes than he would have been
without it.
A good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not
by its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply
by virtue of the volition, that is, it is good in itself, and
considered by itself is to be esteemed much higher than all that can
be brought about by it in favour of any inclination, nay, even of
the sum total of all inclinations. Even if it should happen that,
owing to special disfavour of fortune, or the niggardly provision of
a stepmotherly nature, this will should wholly lack power to
accomplish its purpose, if with its greatest efforts it should yet
achieve nothing, and there should remain only the good will (not, to
be sure, a mere wish, but the summoning of all means in our power),
then, like a jewel, it would still shine by its own light, as a
thing which has its whole value in itself. Its usefulness or
fruitfulness can neither add to nor take away anything from this
value. It would be, as it were, only the setting to enable us to
handle it the more conveniently in common commerce, or to attract to
it the attention of those who are not yet connoisseurs, but not to
recommend it to true connoisseurs, or to determine its value.
There is, however, something so strange in this idea of the absolute
value of the mere will, in which no account is taken of its utility,
that notwithstanding the thorough assent of even common reason to
the idea, yet a suspicion must arise that it may perhaps really be
the product of mere high-flown fancy, and that we may have
misunderstood the purpose of nature in assigning reason as the
governor of our will. Therefore we will examine this idea from this
point of view.
In the physical constitution of an organized being, that is, a being
adapted suitably to the purposes of life, we assume it as a
fundamental principle that no organ for any purpose will be found
but what is also the fittest and best adapted for that purpose. Now
in a being which has reason and a will, if the proper object of
nature were its conservation, its welfare, in a word, its happiness,
then nature would have hit upon a very bad arrangement in selecting
the reason of the creature to carry out this purpose. For all the
actions which the creature has to perform with a view to this
purpose, and the whole rule of its conduct, would be far more surely
prescribed to it by instinct, and that end would have been attained
thereby much more certainly than it ever can be by reason. Should
reason have been communicated to this favoured creature over and
above, it must only have served it to contemplate the happy
constitution of its nature, to admire it, to congratulate itself
thereon, and to feel thankful for it to the beneficent cause, but
not that it should subject its desires to that weak and delusive
guidance, and meddle bunglingly with the purpose of nature. In a
word, nature would have taken care that reason should not break
forth into practical exercise, nor have the presumption, with its
weak insight, to think out for itself the plan of happiness, and of
the means of attaining it. Nature would not only have taken on
herself the choice of the ends, but also of the means, and with wise
foresight would have entrusted both to instinct.
And, in fact, we find that the more a cultivated reason applies
itself with deliberate purpose to the enjoyment of life and
happiness, so much the more does the man fail of true satisfaction.
And from this circumstance there arises in many, if they are candid
enough to confess it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred
of reason, especially in the case of those who are most experienced
in the use of it, because after calculating all the advantages they
derive, I do not say from the invention of all the arts of common
luxury, but even from the sciences (which seem to them to be after
all only a luxury of the understanding), they find that they have,
in fact, only brought more trouble on their shoulders, rather than
gained in happiness; and they end by envying, rather than despising,
the more common stamp of men who keep closer to the guidance of mere
instinct, and do not allow their reason much influence on their
conduct. And this we must admit, that the judgment of those who
would very much lower the lofty eulogies of the advantages which
reason gives us in regard to the happiness and satisfaction of life,
or who would even reduce them below zero, is by no means morose or
ungrateful to the goodness with which the world is governed, but
that there lies at the root of these judgments the idea that our
existence has a different and far nobler end, for which, and not for
happiness, reason is properly intended, and which must, therefore,
be regarded as the supreme condition to which the private ends of
man must, for the most part, be postponed. For as reason is not
competent to guide the will with certainty in regard to its objects
and the satisfaction of all our wants (which it to some extent even
multiplies), this being an end to which an implanted instinct would
have led with much greater certainty; and since, nevertheless,
reason is imparted to us as a practical faculty, i. e. as one which
is to have influence on the will, therefore, admitting that nature
generally in the distribution of her capacities has adapted the
means to the end, its true destination must be to produce a will,
not merely good as a means to something else, but good in itself,
for which reason was absolutely necessary. This will then, though
not indeed the sole and complete good, must be the supreme good and
the condition of every other, even of the desire of happiness. Under
these circumstances, there is nothing inconsistent with the wisdom
of nature in the fact that the cultivation of the reason, which is
requisite for the first and unconditional purpose, does in many ways
interfere, at least in this life, with the attainment of the second,
which is always conditional, namely, happiness. Nay, it may even
reduce it to nothing, without nature thereby failing of her purpose.
For reason recognises the establishment of a good will as its
highest practical destination, and in attaining this purpose is
capable only of a satisfaction of its own proper kind, namely, that
from the attainment of an end, which end again is determined by
reason only, notwithstanding that this may involve many a
disappointment to the ends of inclination.
We have then to develop the notion of a will which deserves to be
highly esteemed for itself, and is good without a view to anything
further, a notion which exists already in the sound natural
understanding, requiring rather to be cleared up than to be taught,
and which in estimating the value of our actions always takes the
first place, and constitutes the condition of all the rest. In order
to do this we will take the notion of duty, which includes that of a
good will, although implying certain subjectve restrictions and
hindrances. These, however, far from concealing it, or rendering it
unrecognisable, rather bring it out by contrast, and make it shine
forth so much the brighter.
I omit here all actions which are already recognised as inconsistent
with duty, although they may be useful for this or that purpose, for
with these the question whether they are done from duty cannot arise
at all, since they even conflict with it. I also set aside those
actions which really conform to duty, but to which men have no
direct inclination, performing them because they are impelled
thereto by some other inclination. For in this case we can readily
distinguish whether the action which agrees with duty is done from
duty, or from a selfish view. It is much harder to make this
distinction when the action accords with duty, and the subject has
besides a direct inclination to it. For example, it is always a
matter of duty that a dealer should not overcharge an inexperienced
purchaser, and wherever there is much commerce the prudent tradesman
does not overcharge, but keeps a fixed price for everyone, so that a
child buys of him as well as any other. Men are thus honestly
served; but this is not enough to make us believe that the tradesman
has so acted from duty and from principles of honesty: his own
advantage required it; it is out of the question in this case to
suppose that he might besides have a direct inclination in favour of
the buyers, so that, as it were, from love he should give no
advantage to one over another. Accordingly the action was done
neither from duty nor from direct inclination, but merely with a
selfish view.
On the other hand, it is a duty to maintain one's life; and, in
addition, everyone has also a direct inclination to do so. But on
this account the often anxious care which most men take for it has
no intrinsic worth, and their maxim has no moral import. They
preserve their life as duty requires, no doubt, but not because duty
requires. On the other hand, if adversity and hopeless sorrow have
completely taken away the relish for life; if the unfortunate one,
strong in mind, indignant at his fate rather than desponding or
dejected, wishes for death, and yet preserves his life without
loving it--not from inclination or fear, but from duty--then his
maxim has a moral worth.
To be beneficent when we can is a duty; and besides this, there are
many minds so sympathetically constituted that, without any other
motive of vanity or self-interest, they find a pleasure in spreading
joy around them and can take delight in the satisfaction of others
so far as it is their own work. But I maintain that in such a case
an action of this kind, however proper, however amiable it may be,
has nevertheless no true moral worth, but is on a level with other
inclinations, e. g. the inclination to honour, which, if it is
happily directed to that which is in fact of public utility and
accordant with duty, and consequently honourable, deserves praise
and encouragement, but not esteem. For the maxim lacks the moral
import, namely, that such actions be done from duty, not from
inclination. Put the case that the mind of that philanthropist were
clouded by sorrow of his own, extinguishing all sympathy with the
lot of others, and that while he still has the power to benefit
others in distress, he is not touched oy their trouble because he is
absorbed with his own; and now suppose that he tears himself out of
this dead insensibility, and performs the action without any
inclination to it, but simply from duty, then first has his action
its genuine moral worth. Further still; if nature has put little
sympathy in the heart of this or that man; if he, supposed to be an
upright man, is by temperament cold and indifferent to the
sufferings of others, perhaps because in respect of his own he is
provided with the special gift of patience and fortitude, and
supposes, or even requires, that others should have the same--and
such a man would certainly not be the meanest product of nature--but
if nature had not specially framed him for a philanthropist, would
he not still find in himself a source from whence to give himself a
far higher worth than that of a good-natured temperament could be?
Unquestionably. It is just in this that the moral worth of the
character is brought out which is incomparably the highest of all,
namely, that he is beneficent, not from inclination, but from duty.
To secure one's own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly; for
discontent with one's condition, under a pressure of many anxieties
and amidst unsatisfied wants, might easily become a great temptation
to transgression of duty. But here again, without looking to duty,
all men have already the strongest and most intimate inclination to
happiness, because it is just in this idea that all inclinations are
combined in one total. But the precept of happiness is often of such
a sort that it greatly interferes with some inclinations, and yet a
man cannot form any definite and certain conception of the sum of
satisfaction of all of them which is called happiness. It is not
then to be wandered at that a single inclination, definite both as
to what it promises and as to the time within which it can be
gratified, is often able to overcome such a fluctuating idea, and
that a gouty patient, for instance, can choose to enjoy what he
likes, and to suffer what he may, since, according to his
calculation, on this occasion at least, he has [only] not sacrificed
the enjoyment of the present moment to a possibly mistaken
expectation of a happiness which is supposed to be found in health.
But even in this case, if the general desire for happiness did not
influence his will, and supposing that in his particular case health
was not a necessary element in this calculation, there yet remains
in this, sas in all other cases, this law, namely, that he should
promote his happiness not from inclination but from duty, land by
this would his conduct first acquire true moral worth.
It is in this manner, undoubtedly, that we are to understand those
passages of Scripture also in which we are commanded to love our
neighbour, even our enemy. For love, as an affection, cannot be
commanded, but beneficence for duty's sake may; even though we are
not impelled to it by any inclination--nay, are even repelled by a
natural and unconquerable aversion. This is practical love, and not
pathological--a love which is seated in the will, and not in the
propensions of sense--in principles of action and not of tender
sympathy; and it is this love alone which can be commanded.
The second [Footnote: The first proposition was that to have moral
worth an action must be done from duty.] proposition is: That an
action done from duty derives its moral worth, not from the purpose
which is to be attained by it, but from the maxim by which it is
determined, and therefore does not depend on the realization of the
object of the action, but merely on the principle of volition by
which the action has taken place, without regard to any object of
desire. It is clear from what precedes that the purposes which we
may have in view in our actions, or their effects regarded as ends
and springs of the will, cannot give to actions any unconditional or
moral worth. In what, then, can their worth lie, if it is not to
consist in the will and in reference to its expected effect? It
cannot lie anywhere but in the principle of the will without regard
to the ends which can be attained by the action. For the will stands
between its a priori principle, which is formal, and its a
posteriori spring, which is material, as between two roads, and as
it must be determined by something, it follows that it must be
determined by the formal principle of volition when an action is
done from duty, in which case every material principle has been
withdrawn from it.
The third proposition, which is a consequence of the two preceding,
I would express thus: Duty is the necessity "of acting from respect
for the law." I may have inclination for an object as the effect of
my proposed action, but I cannot have respect for it, just for this
reason, that it is an effect and not an energy of will. Similarly, I
cannot have respect for inclination, whether my own or another's; I
can at most, if my own, approve it; if another's, sometimes even
love it; i.e. look on it as favourable to my own interest. It is
only what is connected with my will as a principle, by no means as
an effect--what does not subserve my inclination, but overpowers it,
or at least in case of choice excludes it from its calculation--in
other words, simply the law of itself, which can be an object of
respect, and hence a command. Now an action done from duty must
wholly exclude the influence of inclination, and with it every
object of the will, so that nothing remains which can determine the
will except objectively the LAW, and subjectively PURE RESPECT for
this practical law, and consequently the maxim [Footnote: A MAXIM is
the subjective principle of volition. The objective principle (i. e.
that which would also serve subjectively as a practical principle to
all rational beings if reason had full power over the faculty of
desire) is the practical LAW.] that I should follow this law even to
the thwarting of all my inclinations.
Thus the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect
expected from it, nor in any principle of action which requires to
borrow its motive from this expected effeet. For all these effects--
agreeableness of one's condition, and even the promotion of the
happiness of others--could have been also brought about by other
causes, so that for this there would have been no need of the will
of a rational being; whereas it is in this alone that the supreme
and unconditional good can be found. The pre-eminent good which we
call moral can therefore consist in nothing else than THE CONCEPTION
OF LAW in itself, WHICH CERTAINLY IS ONLY POSSIBLE IN A RATIONAL
BEING, in so far as this conception, and not the expected effect,
determines the will. This is a good which is already present in the
person who acts accordingly, and we have not to wait for it to
appear first in the result. [Footnote: It might be here objected to
me that I take refuge behind the word RESPECT in an obscure feeling,
instead of giving a distinct solution of the question by a concept
of the reason. But although respect is a feeling, it is not a
feeling RECEIVED through influence, but is SELF-WROUGHT by a
rational concept, and, therefore, is specifically distinct from all
feelings of the former kind, which may be referred either to
inclination or fear, What I recognise immediately as a law for me, I
recognise with respect. This merely signifies the consciousness that
my will is SUBORDINATE to a law, without the intervention of other
influences on my sense. The immediate determination of the will by
the law, and the consciousness of this is called RESPECT, so that
this is regarded as an EFFECT of the law on the subject, and not as
the CAUSE of it. Respect is properly the conception of a worth which
thwarts my self-love. Accordingly it is something which is
considered neither as am object of inclination nor of fear, although
it has something analogous to both. The OBJECT of respect is the LAW
only, and that, the law which we impose on OURSELVES, and yet
recognise as necessary in itself. As a law, we are subjected to it
without consulting self-love; as imposed by us on ourselves, it is a
result of our will. In the former aspect it has an analogy to fear,
in the latter to inclination. Respect for a person is properly only
respect for the law (of honesty, &c.), of which he gives us an
example. Since we also look on the improvement of our talents as a
duty, we consider that we see in a person of talents, as it were,
the EXAMPLE OF A LAW (viz. to become like him in this by exercise),
and this constitutes our respect. All so-called moral INTEREST
consists simply in RESPECT for the law.]
But what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must
determine the will, even without paying any regard to the effect
expected from it, in order that this will may be called good
absolutely and without qualification? As I have deprived the will of
every impulse which could arise to it from obedience to any law,
there remains nothing but the universal conformity of its actions to
law in general, which alone is to serve the will as a principle, i.
e. I am never to act otherwise than so THAT _I_ COULD ALSO WILL THAT
MY MAXIM SHOULD BECOME A UNIVERSAL LAW. Here now, it is the simple
conformity to law in general, without assuming any particular law
applicable to certain actions, that serves the will as its
principle, and must so serve it, if duty is not to be a vain
delusion and a chimerical notion. The common reason of men in its
practical judgments perfectly coincides with this, and always has in
view the principle here suggested. Let the question be, for example:
May I when in distress make a promise with the intention not to keep
it? I readily distinguish here between the two significations which
the question may have. Whether it is prudent, or whether it is
right, to make a false promise. The former may undoubtedly often be
the case. I see clearly indeed that it is not enough to extricate
myself from a present difficulty by means of this subterfuge, but it
must be well considered whether there may not hereafter spring from
this lie much greater inconvenience than that from which I now free
myself, and as, with all my supposed CUNNING, the consequences
cannot be so easily foreseen but that credit once lost may be much
more injurious to me than any mischief which I seek to avoid at
present, it should be considered whether it would not be more
prudent to act herein according to a universal maxim, and to make it
a habit to promise nothing except with the intention of keeping it.
But it is soon clear to me that such a maxim will still only be
based on the fear of consequences. Now it is a wholly different
thing to be truthful from duty, and to be so from apprehension of
injurious consequences. In the first case, the very notion of the
action already implies a law for me; in the second case, I must
first look about elsewhere to see what results may be combined with
it which would affect myself. For to deviate from the principle of
duty is beyond all doubt wicked; but to be unfaithful to my maxim of
prudence may often be very advantageous to me, although to abide by
it is certainly safer. The shortest way, however, and an unerring
one, to discover the answer to this question whether a lying promise
is consistent with duty, is to ask myself, Should I be content that
my maxim (to extricate myself from difficulty by a false promise)
should hold good as a universal law, for myself as well as for
others? and should I be able to say to myself, "Every one may make a
deceitful promise when he finds himself in a difficulty from which
he cannot otherwise extricate himself"? Then I presently become
aware that while I can will the lie, I can by no means will that
lying should be a universal law. For with such a law there would be
no promises at all, since it would be in vain to allege my intention
in regard to my future actions to those who would not believe this
allegation, or if they overhastily did so, would pay me back in my
own coin. Hence my maxim, as soon as it should be made a universal
law, would necessarily destroy itself.
I do not, therefore, need any far-reaching penetration to discern
what I have to do in order that my will may be morally good.
Inexperienced in the course of the world, incapable of being
prepared for all its contingencies, I only ask myself: Canst thou
also will that thy maxim should be a universal law? If not, then it
must be rejected, and that not because of a disadvantage accruing
from it to myself or even to others, but because it cannot enter as
a principle into a possible universal legislation, and reason
extorts from me immediate respect for such legislation. I do not
indeed as yet discern on what this respect is based (this the
philosopher may inquire), but at least I understand this, that it is
an estimation of the worth which far outweighs all worth of what is
recommended by inclination, and that the necessity of acting from
pure respect for the practical law is what constitutes duty, to
which every other motive must give place, because it is the
condition of a will being good in itself, and the worth of such a
will is above everything.
Thus, then, without quitting the moral knowledge of common human
reason, we have arrived at its principle. And although, no doubt,
common men do not conceive it in such an abstract and universal
form, yet they always have it really before their eyes, and use it
as the standard of their decision. Here it would be easy to show
how, with this compass in hand, men are well able to distinguish,
in every case that occurs, what is good, what bad, conformably to
duty or inconsistent with it, if, without in the least teaching
them anything new, we only, like Socrates, direct their attention
to the principle they themselves employ; and that therefore we do
not need science and philosophy to know what we should do to be
honest and good, yea, even wise and virtuous. Indeed we might well
have conjectured beforehand that the knowledge of what every man
is bound to do, and therefore also to know, would be within the
reach of every man, even the commonest. [Footnote: Compare the note
to the Preface to the Critique of the Practical Reason, p. 111. A
specimen of Kant's proposed application of the Socratic method may
be found in Mr. Semple'a translation of the Metaphysic of Ethics,
p. 290.] Here we cannot forbear admiration when we see how great
an advantage the practical judgment has over the theoretical in
the common understanding of men. In the latter, if common reason
ventures to depart from the laws of experience and from the
perceptions of the senses it falls into mere inconceivabilities and
self-contradictions, at least into chaos of uncertainty, obscurity,
and instability. But in the practical sphere it is just when the
common understanding excludes all sensible springs from practical
laws that its power of judgment begins to show itself to advantage.
It then becomes even subtle, whether it be that it chicanes with
its own conscience or with other claims respecting what is to
be called right, or whether it desires for its own instruction to
determine honestly the worth of actions; and, in the latter case,
it may even have as good a hope of hitting the mark as any philosopher
whatever can promise himself. Nay, it is almost more sure of doing
so, because the philosopher cannot have any other principle, while
he may easily perplex his judgment by a multitude of considerations
foreign to the matter, and so turn aside from the right way. Would
it not therefore be wiser in moral concerns to acquiesce in the
judgment of common reason or at most only to call in philosophy
for the purpose of rendering the system of morals more complete
and intelligible, and its rules more convenient for use (especially
for disputation), but not so as to draw off the common understanding
from its happy simplicity, or to bring it by means of philosophy
into a new path of inquiry and instruction?
Innocence is indeed a glorious thing, only, on the other hand, it is
very sad that it cannot well maintain itself, and is easily seduced.
On this account even wisdom--which otherwise consists more in
conduct than in knowledge--yet has need of science, not in order to
learn from it, but to secure for its precepts admission and
permanence. Against all the commands of duty which reason represents
to man as so deserving of respect, he feels in himself a powerful
counterpoise in his wants and inclinations, the entire satisfaction
of which he sums up under the name of happiness. Now reason issues
its commands unyieldingly, without promising anything to the
inclinations, and, as it were, with disregard and contempt for these
claims, which are so impetuous, and at the same time so plausible,
and which will not allow themselves to be suppressed by any command.
Hence there arises a natural dialectic, i. e. a disposition, to
argue against these strict laws of duty and to question their
validity, or at least their purity and strictness; and, if possible,
to make them more accordant with our wishes and inclinations, that
is to say, to corrupt them at their very source, and entirely to
destroy their worth--a thing which even common practical reason
cannot ultimately call good.
Thus is the common reason of man compelled to go out of its sphere,
and to take a step into the field of a practical philosophy, not to
satisfy any speculative want (which never occurs to it as long as it
is content to be mere sound reason), but even on practical grounds,
in order to attain in it information and clear instruction
respecting the source of its principle, and the correct
determination of it in opposition to the maxims which are based on
wants and inclinations, so that it may escape from the perplexity of
opposite claims, and not run the risk of losing all genuine moral
principles through the equivocation into which it easily falls.
Thus, when practical reason cultivates itself, there insensibly
arises in it a dialectic which forces it to seek aid in philosophy,
just as happens to it in its theoretic use; and in this case,
therefore, as well as in the other, it will find rest nowhere but in
a thorough critical examination of our reason.