original and independent, and that the feeling of its originality and
absoluteness must accompany its acts in self-consciousness, though here
they are already determined, there arises the illusion of an empirical
freedom of the will (instead of the transcendental freedom which alone is
to be attributed to it), and thus a freedom of its particular actions,
from that attitude of the intellect towards the will which is explained,
separated, and subordinated in the nineteenth chapter of the supplement,
especially under No. 3. The intellect knows the conclusions of the will
only _a posteriori_ and empirically; therefore when a choice is presented,
it has no data as to how the will is to decide. For the intelligible
character, by virtue of which, when motives are given, only _one_ decision
is possible and is therefore necessary, does not come within the knowledge
of the intellect, but merely the empirical character is known to it
through the succession of its particular acts. Therefore it seems to the
intellect that in a given case two opposite decisions are possible for the
will. But this is just the same thing as if we were to say of a
perpendicular beam that has lost its balance, and is hesitating which way
to fall, “It can fall either to the right hand or the left.” This _can_
has merely a subjective significance, and really means “as far as the data
known to us are concerned.” Objectively, the direction of the fall is
necessarily determined as soon as the equilibrium is lost. Accordingly,
the decision of one’s own will is undetermined only to the beholder, one’s
own intellect, and thus merely relatively and subjectively for the subject
of knowing. In itself and objectively, on the other hand, in every choice
presented to it, its decision is at once determined and necessary. But
this determination only comes into consciousness through the decision that
follows upon it. Indeed, we receive an empirical proof of this when any
difficult and important choice lies before us, but only under a condition
which is not yet present, but merely hoped for, so that in the meanwhile
we can do nothing, but must remain passive. Now we consider how we shall
decide when the circumstances occur that will give us a free activity and
choice. Generally the foresight of rational deliberation recommends one
decision, while direct inclination leans rather to the other. So long as
we are compelled to remain passive, the side of reason seems to wish to
keep the upper hand; but we see beforehand how strongly the other side
will influence us when the opportunity for action arises. Till then we are
eagerly concerned to place the motives on both sides in the clearest
light, by calm meditation on the _pro et contra_, so that every motive may
exert its full influence upon the will when the time arrives, and it may
not be misled by a mistake on the part of the intellect to decide
otherwise than it would have done if all the motives had their due
influence upon it. But this distinct unfolding of the motives on both
sides is all that the intellect can do to assist the choice. It awaits the
real decision just as passively and with the same intense curiosity as if
it were that of a foreign will. Therefore from its point of view both
decisions must seem to it equally possible; and this is just the illusion
of the empirical freedom of the will. Certainly the decision enters the
sphere of the intellect altogether empirically, as the final conclusion of
the matter; but yet it proceeded from the inner nature, the intelligible
character, of the individual will in its conflict with given motives, and
therefore with complete necessity. The intellect can do nothing more than
bring out clearly and fully the nature of the motives; it cannot determine
the will itself; for the will is quite inaccessible to it, and, as we have
seen, cannot be investigated.
If, under the same circumstances, a man could act now one way and now
another, it would be necessary that his will itself should have changed in
the meantime, and thus that it should lie in time, for change is only
possible in time; but then either the will would be a mere phenomenon, or
time would be a condition of the thing-in-itself. Accordingly the dispute
as to the freedom of the particular action, the _liberum arbitrium
indifferentiæ_, really turns on the question whether the will lies in time
or not. If, as both Kant’s doctrine and the whole of my system
necessitates, the will is the thing-in-itself outside time and outside
every form of the principle of sufficient reason, not only must the
individual act in the same way in the same circumstances, and not only
must every bad action be the sure warrant of innumerable others, which the
individual _must_ perform and _cannot_ leave, but, as Kant said, if only
the empirical character and the motives were completely given, it would be
possible to calculate the future conduct of a man just as we can calculate
an eclipse of the sun or moon. As Nature is consistent, so is the
character; every action must take place in accordance with it, just as
every phenomenon takes place according to a law of Nature: the causes in
the latter case and the motives in the former are merely the occasional
causes, as was shown in the Second Book. The will, whose phenomenon is the
whole being and life of man, cannot deny itself in the particular case,
and what the man wills on the whole, that will he also will in the
particular case.
The assertion of an empirical freedom of the will, a _liberum arbitrium
indifferentiæ_, agrees precisely with the doctrine that places the inner
nature of man in a _soul_, which is originally a _knowing_, and indeed
really an abstract _thinking_ nature, and only in consequence of this a
_willing_ nature—a doctrine which thus regards the will as of a secondary
or derivative nature, instead of knowledge which is really so. The will
indeed came to be regarded as an act of thought, and to be identified with
the judgment, especially by Descartes and Spinoza. According to this
doctrine every man must become what he is only through his knowledge; he
must enter the world as a moral cipher come to know the things in it, and
thereupon determine to be this or that, to act thus or thus, and may also
through new knowledge achieve a new course of action, that is to say,
become another person. Further, he must first know a thing to be _good_,
and in consequence of this will it, instead of first _willing_ it, and in
consequence of this calling it _good_. According to my fundamental point
of view, all this is a reversal of the true relation. Will is first and
original; knowledge is merely added to it as an instrument belonging to
the phenomenon of will. Therefore every man is what he is through his
will, and his character is original, for willing is the basis of his
nature. Through the knowledge which is added to it he comes to know in the
course of experience _what he is_, _i.e._, he learns his character. Thus
he _knows_ himself in consequence of and in accordance with the nature of
his will, instead of _willing_ in consequence of and in accordance with
his knowing. According to the latter view, he would only require to
consider how he would like best to be, and he would be it; that is its
doctrine of the freedom of the will. Thus it consists really in this, that
a man is his own work guided by the light of knowledge. I, on the
contrary, say that he is his own work before all knowledge, and knowledge
is merely added to it to enlighten it. Therefore he cannot resolve to be
this or that, nor can he become other than he is; but he _is_ once for
all, and he knows in the course of experience _what_ he is. According to
one doctrine he _wills_ what he knows, and according to the other he
_knows_ what he wills.
The Greeks called the character ηθος, and its expression, _i.e._, morals,
ηθη. But this word comes from εθος, custom; they chose it in order to
express metaphorically the constancy of character through the constancy of
custom. Το γαρ ηθος απο του εθους εχει την επωνυμιαν. ηθικε γαρ καλειται
δια το εθιζεσθαι (_a voce_ ηθος, _i.e._, _consuetudo_ ηθος _est
appellatum: ethica ergo dicta est_ απο του εθιζεσθαι, _sivi ab
assuescendo_) says Aristotle (Eth. Magna, i. 6, p. 1186, and Eth. Eud., p.
1220, and Eth. Nic., p. 1103, ed. Ber.) Stobæus quotes: οἱ δε κατα Ζηνωνα
τροπικως; ηθος εστι πηγη βιου αφ᾽ ἡς αἱ κατα μερος πραξεις ρεουσι (_Stoici
autem, Zenonis castra sequentes, metaphorice ethos definiunt vitæ fontem,
e quo singulæ manant actiones_), ii. ch. 7. In Christian theology we find
the dogma of predestination in consequence of election and non-election
(Rom. ix. 11-24), clearly originating from the knowledge that man does not
change himself, but his life and conduct, _i.e._, his empirical character,
is only the unfolding of his intelligible character, the development of
decided and unchangeable natural dispositions recognisable even in the
child; therefore, as it were, even at his birth his conduct is firmly
determined, and remains essentially the same to the end. This we entirely
agree with; but certainly the consequences which followed from the union
of this perfectly correct insight with the dogmas that already existed in
Jewish theology, and which now gave rise to the great difficulty, the
Gordian knot upon which most of the controversies of the Church turned, I
do not undertake to defend, for even the Apostle Paul scarcely succeeded
in doing so by means of his simile of the potter’s vessels which he
invented for the purpose, for the result he finally arrived at was nothing
else than this:—
“Let mankind
Fear the gods!
They hold the power
In everlasting hands:
And they can use it
As seems good to them.”
Such considerations, however, are really foreign to our subject. Some
explanation as to the relation between the character and the knowledge in
which all its motives lie, will now be more to the point.
The motives which determine the manifestation of the character or conduct
influence it through the medium of knowledge. But knowledge is changeable,
and often vacillates between truth and error, yet, as a rule, is rectified
more and more in the course of life, though certainly in very different
degrees. Therefore the conduct of a man may be observably altered without
justifying us in concluding that his character has been changed. What the
man really and in general wills, the striving of his inmost nature, and
the end he pursues in accordance with it, this we can never change by
influence upon him from without by instruction, otherwise we could
transform him. Seneca says admirably, _velle non discitur_; whereby he
preferred truth to his Stoic philosophers, who taught διδακτην ειναι την
αρετην (_doceri posse virtutem_). From without the will can only be
affected by motives. But these can never change the will itself; for they
have power over it only under the presupposition that it is precisely such
as it is. All that they can do is thus to alter the direction of its
effort, _i.e._, bring it about that it shall seek in another way than it
has hitherto done that which it invariably seeks. Therefore instruction,
improved knowledge, in other words, influence from without, may indeed
teach the will that it erred in the means it employed, and can therefore
bring it about that the end after which it strives once for all according
to its inner nature shall be pursued on an entirely different path and in
an entirely different object from what has hitherto been the case. But it
can never bring about that the will shall will something actually
different from what it has hitherto willed; this remains unchangeable, for
the will is simply this willing itself, which would have to be abolished.
The former, however, the possible modification of knowledge, and through
knowledge of conduct, extends so far that the will seeks to attain its
unalterable end, for example, Mohammed’s paradise, at one time in the real
world, at another time in a world of imagination, adapting the means to
each, and thus in the first case applying prudence, might, and fraud, and
in the second case, abstinence, justice, alms, and pilgrimages to Mecca.
But its effort itself has not therefore changed, still less the will
itself. Thus, although its action certainly shows itself very different at
different times, its willing has yet remained precisely the same. _Velle
non discitur._
For motives to act, it is necessary not only that they should be present,
but that they should be known; for, according to a very good expression of
the schoolmen, which we referred to once before, _causa finalis movet non
secundum suum esse reale; sed secundum esse cognitum_. For example, in
order that the relation may appear that exists in a given man between
egoism and sympathy, it is not sufficient that he should possess wealth
and see others in want, but he must also know what he can do with his
wealth, both for himself and for others: not only must the suffering of
others be presented to him, but he must know both what suffering and also
what pleasure is. Perhaps, on a first occasion, he did not know all this
so well as on a second; and if, on a similar occasion, he acts
differently, this arises simply from the fact that the circumstances were
really different, as regards the part of them that depends on his knowing
them, although they seem to be the same. As ignorance of actually existing
circumstances robs them of their influence, so, on the other hand,
entirely imaginary circumstances may act as if they were real, not only in
the case of a particular deception, but also in general and continuously.
For example, if a man is firmly persuaded that every good action will be
repaid him a hundredfold in a future life, such a conviction affects him
in precisely the same way as a good bill of exchange at a very long date,
and he can give from mere egoism, as from another point of view he would
take from egoism. He has not changed himself: _velle non discitur._ It is
on account of this great influence of knowledge upon action, while the
will remains unchangeable, that the character develops and its different
features appear only little by little. Therefore it shows itself different
at every period of life, and an impetuous, wild youth may be succeeded by
a staid, sober, manly age. Especially what is bad in the character will
always come out more strongly with time, yet sometimes it occurs that
passions which a man gave way to in his youth are afterwards voluntarily
restrained, simply because the motives opposed to them have only then come
into knowledge. Hence, also, we are all innocent to begin with, and this
merely means that neither we nor others know the evil of our own nature;
it only appears with the motives, and only in time do the motives appear
in knowledge. Finally we come to know ourselves as quite different from
what _a priori_ we supposed ourselves to be, and then we are often
terrified at ourselves.
Repentance never proceeds from a change of the will (which is impossible),
but from a change of knowledge. The essential and peculiar in what I have
always willed I must still continue to will; for I myself am this will
which lies outside time and change. I can therefore never repent of what I
have willed, though I can repent of what I have done; because, led by
false conceptions, I did something that was not in conformity with my
will. The discovery of this through fuller knowledge is _repentance_. This
extends not merely to worldly wisdom, to the choice of the means, and the
judgment of the appropriateness of the end to my own will, but also to
what is properly ethical. For example, I may have acted more egotistically
than is in accordance with my character, led astray by exaggerated ideas
of the need in which I myself stood, or of the craft, falseness, and
wickedness of others, or because I hurried too much, _i.e._, acted without
deliberation, determined not by motives distinctly known _in abstracto_,
but by merely perceived motives, by the present and the emotion which it
excited, and which was so strong that I had not properly the use of my
reason; but the return of reflection is thus here also merely corrected
knowledge, and from this repentance may proceed, which always proclaims
itself by making amends for the past, as far as is possible. Yet it must
be observed that, in order to deceive themselves, men prearrange what seem
to be hasty errors, but are really secretly considered actions. For we
deceive and flatter no one through such fine devices as ourselves. The
converse of the case we have given may also occur. I may be misled by too
good an opinion of others, or want of knowledge of the relative value of
the good things of life, or some abstract dogma in which I have since lost
faith, and thus I may act less egotistically than is in keeping with my
character, and lay up for myself repentance of another kind. Thus
repentance is always corrected knowledge of the relation of an act to its
special intention. When the will reveals its Ideas in space alone, _i.e._,
through mere form, the matter in which other Ideas—in this case natural
forces—already reign, resists the will, and seldom allows the form that is
striving after visibility to appear in perfect purity and distinctness,
_i.e._, in perfect beauty. And there is an analogous hindrance to the will
as it reveals itself in time alone, _i.e._, through actions, in the
knowledge which seldom gives it the data quite correctly, so that the
action which takes place does not accurately correspond to the will, and
leads to repentance. Repentance thus always proceeds from corrected
knowledge, not from the change of the will, which is impossible. Anguish
of conscience for past deeds is anything but repentance. It is pain at the
knowledge of oneself in one’s inmost nature, _i.e._, as will. It rests
precisely on the certainty that we have still the same will. If the will
were changed, and therefore the anguish of conscience mere repentance, it
would cease to exist. The past could then no longer give us pain, for it
exhibited the expressions of a will which is no longer that of him who has
repented. We shall explain the significance of anguish of conscience in
detail farther on.
The influence which knowledge, as the medium of motives, exerts, not
indeed upon the will itself, but upon its appearance in actions, is also
the source of the principal distinction between the action of men and that
of brutes, for their methods of knowledge are different. The brute has
only knowledge of perception, the man, through reason, has also abstract
ideas, conceptions. Now, although man and brute are with equal necessity
determined by their motives, yet man, as distinguished from the brute, has
a complete _choice_, which has often been regarded as a freedom of the
will in particular actions, although it is nothing but the possibility of
a thoroughly-fought-out battle between several motives, the strongest of
which then determines it with necessity. For this the motives must have
assumed the form of abstract thoughts, because it is really only by means
of these that deliberation, _i.e._, a weighing of opposite reasons for
action, is possible. In the case of the brute there can only be a choice
between perceptible motives presented to it, so that the choice is limited
to the narrow sphere of its present sensuous perception. Therefore the
necessity of the determination of the will by the motive, which is like
that of the effect by the cause, can be exhibited perceptibly and directly
only in the case of the brutes, because here the spectator has the motives
just as directly before his eyes as their effect; while in the case of man
the motives are almost always abstract ideas, which are not communicated
to the spectator, and even for the actor himself the necessity of their
effect is hidden behind their conflict. For only _in abstracto_ can
several ideas, as judgments and chains of conclusions, lie beside each
other in consciousness, and then, free from all determination of time,
work against each other till the stronger overcomes the rest and
determines the will. This is the complete _choice_ or power of
deliberation which man has as distinguished from the brutes, and on
account of which freedom of the will has been attributed to him, in the
belief that his willing is a mere result of the operations of his
intellect, without a definite tendency which serves as its basis; while,
in truth, the motives only work on the foundation and under the
presupposition of his definite tendency, which in his case is individual,
_i.e._, a character. A fuller exposition of this power of deliberation,
and the difference between human and brute choice which is introduced by
it, will be found in the “Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics” (1st
edition, p. 35, _et seq._; 2d edition, p. 34, _et seq._), to which I
therefore refer. For the rest, this power of deliberation which man
possesses is one of those things that makes his existence so much more
miserable than that of the brute. For in general our greatest sufferings
do not lie in the present as ideas of perception or as immediate feelings;
but in the reason, as abstract conceptions, painful thoughts, from which
the brute, which lives only in the present, and therefore in enviable
carelessness, is entirely free.
It seems to have been the dependence, which we have shown, of the human
power of deliberation upon the faculty of abstract thinking, and thus also
of judging and drawing conclusions also, that led both Descartes and
Spinoza to identify the decisions of the will with the faculty of
asserting and denying (the faculty of judgment). From this Descartes
deduced the doctrine that the will, which, according to him, is
indifferently free, is the source of sin, and also of all theoretical
error. And Spinoza, on the other hand, concluded that the will is
necessarily determined by the motives, as the judgment is by the
reasons.(70) The latter doctrine is in a sense true, but it appears as a
true conclusion from false premises.