{"schema_version":1,"access":"public","rights":"Public-domain or compatibly licensed source editions; provenance is retained per record.","work":{"slug":"schopenhauer-basis-of-morality","title":"On the Basis of Morality","author":"Arthur Schopenhauer","tradition":"european","language":"de","genre":"moral philosophy","period":"1840","source_url":"https://archive.org/details/10041828","original":{"text":"### Prize Question\n\nPreisschrift über die Grundlage der Moral,\n\nnicht gekrönt von der Königlich Dänischen Societät der Wissenschaften, zu Kopenhagen, am 30. Januar 1840.\n\nMotto:\n\nMoral predigen ist leicht, Moral begründen schwer.\n(Schopenhauer, Ueber den Willen in der Natur, S. 128.)\n\nDie von der Königl. Societät aufgestellte Frage, nebst vorangeschickter Einleitung, lautet:\n\nQuum primitiva moralitatis idea, sive de summa lege morali principalis notio, sua quadam propria eaque minime logica necessitate, tum in ea disciplina appareat, cui propositum est cognitionem τοῦ ἠθικοῦ explicare, tum in vita, partim in conscientiae judicio de nostris actionibus, partim in censura morali de actionibus aliorum hominum; quumque complures, quae ab illa idea inseparabiles sunt, eamque tanquam originem respiciunt, notiones principales ad τὸ ἠθικὸν spectantes, velut officii notio et imputationis, eadem necessitate eodemque ambitu vim suam exserant, — et tamen inter eos cursus viasque, quas nostrae aetatis meditatio philosophica persequitur, magni momenti esse videatur, hoc argumentum ad disputationem revocare, — cupit Societas, ut accurate haec quaestio perpendatur et pertractetur:\n\n*Philosophiae moralis fons et fundamentum* utrum in idea moralitatis, quae immediate conscientia contineatur, et ceteris notionibus fundamentalibus, quae ex illa prodeant, explicandis quaerenda sunt, an in alio cognoscendi principio?\n\nVerdeutscht:\n\nDa die ursprüngliche Idee der Moralität, oder der Hauptbegriff vom obersten Moralgesetze, mit einer ihr eigenthümlichen, jedoch keineswegs logischen Nothwendigkeit, sowohl in derjenigen Wissenschaft hervortritt, deren Zweck ist, die Erkenntniß des Sittlichen darzulegen, als auch im wirklichen Leben, woselbst sie sich theils im Urtheil des Gewissens über unsere eigenen Handlungen, theils in unserer moralischen Beurtheilung der Handlungen Anderer zeigt; und da ferner mehrere, von jener Idee unzertrennliche und aus ihr entsprungene moralische Hauptbegriffe, wie z. B. der Begriff der Pflicht und der der Zurechnung, mit gleicher Nothwendigkeit und in gleichem Umfang sich geltend machen; — und da es doch bei den Wegen, welche die philosophische Forschung unserer Zeit verfolgt, sehr wichtig scheint, diesen Gegenstand wieder zur Untersuchung zu bringen; — so wünscht die Societät, daß folgende Frage sorgfältig überlegt und abgehandelt werde:\n\n*Ist die Quelle und Grundlage der Moral* zu suchen in einer unmittelbar im Bewußtseyn (oder Gewissen) liegenden Idee der Moralität und in der Analyse der übrigen, aus dieser entspringenden, moralischen Grundbegriffe, oder aber in einem andern Erkenntnißgrunde?\n\n### Section 1\n\nI. Einleitung.\n\nUeber das Problem.\n\nEine von der Königlich *Holländischen* Societät zu Harlem 1810 aufgestellte und von J. C. F. Meister erledigte Preisfrage: „warum die Philosophen in den ersten Grundsätzen der Moral so sehr abweichen, aber in den Folgerungen und den Pflichten, die sie aus ihren Grundsätzen ableiten, übereinstimmen?“ — war eine gar leichte Aufgabe, im Vergleich mit der vorliegenden. Denn:\n\n1) Die gegenwärtige Frage der Königlichen Societät ist auf nichts Geringeres gerichtet, als auf das objektiv wahre Fundament der Moral und folglich auch der Moralität. Eine Akademie ist es, welche die Frage aufwirft: sie will, als solche, keine auf praktische Zwecke gerichtete Ermahnung zur Rechtlichkeit und Tugend, gestützt auf Gründe, deren Scheinbarkeit man hervorhebt und deren Schwäche man verschleiert, wie dies bei Vorträgen für das Volk geschieht: sondern, da sie als Akademie nur theoretische und nicht praktische Zwecke kennt, will sie die rein philosophische, d. h. von allen positiven Satzungen, allen unbewiesenen Voraussetzungen und sonach von allen metaphysischen, oder auch mythischen Hypostasen unabhängige, objektive, unverschleierte und nackte Darlegung des letzten Grundes zu allem moralischen Wohlverhalten. — Dies aber ist ein Problem, dessen überschwängliche Schwierigkeit dadurch bezeugt wird, daß nicht nur die Philosophen aller Zeiten und Länder sich daran die Zähne stumpf gebissen haben, sondern sogar alle Götter des Orients und Occidents demselben ihr Daseyn verdanken. Wird es daher bei dieser Gelegenheit gelöst; so wird fürwahr die Königliche Societät ihr Gold nicht übel angelegt haben.\n\n2) Ueberdies unterliegt die theoretische Untersuchung des Fundaments der Moral dem ganz eigenen Nachtheil, daß sie leicht für ein Unterwühlen desselben, welches den Sturz des Gebäudes selbst nach sich ziehen könnte, gehalten wird. Denn das praktische Interesse liegt hier dem theoretischen so nahe, daß sein wohlgemeinter Eifer schwer zurückzuhalten ist von unzeitiger Einmischung. Nicht Jeder vermag das rein theoretische, allem Interesse, selbst dem moralisch-praktischen, entfremdete Forschen nach objektiver Wahrheit deutlich zu unterscheiden vom frevelhaften Angriff auf geheiligte Herzensüberzeugung. Daher muß, wer hier Hand ans Werk legt, zu seiner Ermuthigung, sich allezeit gegenwärtig erhalten, daß vom Thun und Treiben der Menschen, wie vom Gewühl und Lerm des Marktes, nichts weiter abliegt, als das in tiefe Stille zurückgezogene Heiligthum der Akademie, wohin kein Laut von Außen dringen darf, und wo keine andere Götter ein Standbild haben, als ganz allein die hehre, nackte Wahrheit.\n\nDie Konklusion aus diesen beiden Prämissen ist, daß mir eine völlige Parrhesia, nebst dem Recht Alles zu bezweifeln, gestattet seyn muß; und daß, wenn ich, selbst so, nur irgend etwas in dieser Sache wirklich leiste, — es viel geleistet seyn wird.\n\nAber noch andere Schwierigkeiten stehen mir entgegen. Es kommt hinzu, daß die Königliche Societät das Fundament der Ethik allein für sich, abgesondert, in einer kurzen Monographie dargelegt, folglich außer seinem Zusammenhange mit dem gesammten System irgend einer Philosophie, d. h. der eigentlichen Metaphysik, verlangt. Dies muß die Leistung nicht nur erschweren, sondern sogar nothwendig unvollkommen machen. Schon Christian Wolf sagt: „Tenebrae in philosophia practica non dispelluntur, nisi luce metaphysica affulgente“ (Phil. pract., P. II. §. 28), und Kant: „Die Metaphysik muß vorangehen, und ohne sie kann es überall keine Moralphilosophie geben.“ (Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten. Vorrede.) Denn, wie jede Religion auf Erden, indem sie Moralität vorschreibt, solche nicht auf sich beruhen läßt, sondern ihr eine Stütze giebt an der Dogmatik, deren Hauptzweck gerade dies ist; so muß in der Philosophie das ethische Fundament, welches es auch sei, selbst wieder seinen Anhaltspunkt und seine Stütze haben an irgend einer Metaphysik, d. h. an der gegebenen Erklärung der Welt und des Daseyns überhaupt; indem der letzte und wahre Aufschluß über das innere Wesen des Ganzen der Dinge nothwendig eng zusammenhangen muß mit dem über die ethische Bedeutung des menschlichen Handelns, und jedenfalls Dasjenige, was als Fundament der Moralität aufgestellt wird, wenn es nicht ein bloßer abstrakter Satz, der, ohne Anhalt in der realen Welt, frei in der Luft schwebt, seyn darf, irgend eine, entweder in der objektiven Welt, oder im menschlichen Bewußtseyn gelegene Thatsache seyn muß, die, als solche, selbst wieder nur Phänomen seyn kann und folglich, wie alle Phänomene der Welt, einer ferneren Erklärung bedarf, welche dann von der Metaphysik gefordert wird. Ueberhaupt ist die Philosophie so sehr ein zusammenhängendes Ganzes, daß es unmöglich ist, irgend einen Theil derselben erschöpfend darzulegen, ohne alles Uebrige mitzugeben. Daher sagt Plato ganz richtig: Ψυχῆς οὖν φύσιν ἀξίως λόγου κατανοῆσαι οἴει δυνατὸν εἶναι, ἄνευ τῆς τοῦ ὅλου φύσεως; (Animae vero naturam absque totius natura sufficienter cognosci posse existimas? — Phaedr., p. 371, Bip.) Metaphysik der Natur, Metaphysik der Sitten und Metaphysik des Schönen setzen sich wechselseitig voraus und vollenden erst in ihrem Zusammenhange die Erklärung des Wesens der Dinge und des Daseyns überhaupt. Daher, wer eine von diesen dreien bis auf ihren letzten Grund durchgeführt hätte, zugleich die andern in seine Erklärung mit hineingezogen haben müßte; gleichwie, wer von irgend *einem* Dinge in der Welt ein erschöpfendes, bis auf den letzten Grund klares Verständniß hätte, auch die ganze übrige Welt vollkommen verstanden haben würde.\n\nVon einer gegebenen und als wahr angenommenen Metaphysik aus, würde man auf synthetischem Wege zum Fundament der Ethik gelangen; wodurch dieses selbst von unten aufgebaut seyn würde, folglich die Ethik fest gestützt aufträte. Hingegen bei der durch die Aufgabe nothwendig gemachten Sonderung der Ethik von aller Metaphysik, bleibt nichts übrig, als das *analytische* Verfahren, welches von Thatsachen, entweder der äußern Erfahrung, oder des Bewußtseyns ausgeht. Diese letztern kann es zwar auf ihre letzte Wurzel im Gemüthe des Menschen zurückführen, welche dann aber als Grundfaktum, als Urphänomen, stehen bleiben muß, ohne weiter auf irgend etwas zurückgeführt zu werden; wodurch denn die ganze Erklärung eine bloß *psychologische* bleibt. Höchstens kann noch accessorisch ihr Zusammenhang mit irgend einer allgemeinen metaphysischen Grundansicht angedeutet werden. Hingegen würde jenes Grundfaktum, jenes ethische Urphänomen, selbst wieder begründet werden können, wenn man, die Metaphysik zuerst abhandelnd, aus ihr, synthetisch verfahrend, die Ethik ableiten dürfte. Dies hieße aber ein vollständiges System der Philosophie aufstellen; wodurch die Gränze der gestellten Frage weit überschritten würde. Ich bin also genöthigt, die Frage innerhalb der Gränzen zu beantworten, welche sie, durch ihre Vereinzelung, selbst gezogen hat.\n\nUnd nun endlich noch wird das Fundament, auf welches ich die Ethik zu stellen beabsichtige, sehr schmal ausfallen: wodurch von dem Vielen, was an den Handlungen der Menschen legal, billigungs- und lobenswerth ist, nur der kleinere Theil als aus rein moralischen Bewegungsgründen entsprungen sich ergeben, der größere Theil aber anderartigen Motiven anheimfallen wird. Dies befriedigt weniger und fällt nicht so glänzend in die Augen, wie etwan ein kategorischer Imperativ, der stets zu Befehl steht, um selbst wieder zu befehlen, was gethan und was gelassen werden soll; anderer, materieller Moralbegründungen gar zu geschweigen. Da bleibt mir nichts übrig, als an den Spruch des Koheleth (4, 6) zu erinnern: „Es ist besser eine Hand voll mit Ruhe, denn beide Fäuste voll mit Mühe und Eitelkeit.“ Des Aechten, Probehaltigen und Unzerstörbaren ist in aller Erkenntniß stets wenig; wie die Erzstufe wenige Unzen Gold in einem Centner Stein verlarvt enthält. Aber ob man nun wirklich mit mir den *sichern Besitz* dem *großen*, das wenige Gold, welches im Tiegel zurückbleibt, der ausgedehnten Masse, die herangeschleppt wurde, vorziehen, — oder ob man vielmehr mich beschuldigen werde, der Moral ihr Fundament mehr entzogen als gegeben zu haben, sofern ich nachweise, daß die legalen und lobenswerthen Handlungen der Menschen oft gar keinen und meistens nur einen *kleinen* Theil rein moralischen Gehalts besitzen, im Uebrigen aber auf Motiven beruhen, deren Wirksamkeit zuletzt auf den Egoismus des Handelnden zurückzuführen ist; — dies Alles muß ich dahingestellt seyn lassen, nicht ohne Besorgniß, ja, mit Resignation; da ich schon längst dem *Ritter von Zimmermann* beistimme, wenn er sagt: „Denke im Herzen, bis in den Tod, nichts sei in der Welt so selten, wie ein guter Richter.“ (Ueber die Einsamkeit, Th. I, Cap. 3, S. 93.) Ja, ich sehe schon im Geiste meine Darstellung, welche für alles ächte, freiwillige Rechtthun, für alle Menschenliebe, allen Edelmuth, wo sie je gefunden seyn mögen, nur eine so schmale Basis aufzuweisen hat, neben denen der Kompetitoren, welche breite, jeder beliebigen Last gewachsene und dabei jedem Zweifler, mit einem drohenden Seitenblick auf seine eigene Moralität, ins Gewissen zu schiebende Fundamente der Moral zuversichtlich hinstellen, — so arm und kleinlaut dastehen, wie vor dem König Lear die Kordelia, mit der wortarmen Versicherung ihrer pflichtmäßigen Gesinnung, neben den überschwänglichen Betheuerungen ihrer beredteren Schwestern. — Da bedarf es wohl einer Herzstärkung durch einen gelehrten Waidspruch, wie: magna est vis veritatis, et praevalebit, — der doch den, der gelebt und geleistet hat, nicht sehr mehr ermuthigt. Inzwischen will ich es ein Mal mit der Wahrheit wagen: denn was mir begegnet, wird ihr mit begegnet seyn.\n\n### Section 2\n\nAllgemeiner Rückblick.\n\nDem Volke wird die Moral durch die Theologie begründet, als ausgesprochener Wille Gottes. Die Philosophen hingegen, mit wenigen Ausnahmen, sehen wir sorgfältig bemüht, diese Art der Begründung ganz auszuschließen, ja, um nur sie zu vermeiden, lieber zu sophistischen Gründen ihre Zuflucht nehmen. Woher dieser Gegensatz? Gewiß läßt sich keine wirksamere Begründung der Moral denken, als die theologische: denn wer würde so vermessen seyn, sich dem Willen des Allmächtigen und Allwissenden zu widersetzen? Gewiß Niemand; wenn nur derselbe auf eine ganz authentische, keinem Zweifel Raum gestattende, so zu sagen offizielle Weise verkündigt wäre. Aber diese Bedingung ist es, die sich nicht erfüllen läßt. Vielmehr sucht man, umgekehrt, das als Wille Gottes verkündigte Gesetz dadurch als solches zu beglaubigen, daß man dessen Uebereinstimmung mit unsern anderweitigen, also natürlichen, moralischen Einsichten nachweist, appellirt mithin an diese als das Unmittelbarere und Gewissere. Hiezu kommt noch die Erkenntniß, daß ein bloß durch angedrohte Strafe und verheißene Belohnung zu Wege gebrachtes moralisches Handeln, mehr dem Scheine, als der Wahrheit nach ein solches seyn würde; weil es ja im Grunde auf Egoismus beruhte, und was dabei in letzter Instanz den Ausschlag gäbe, die größere oder geringere Leichtigkeit wäre, mit der Einer vor dem Andern aus unzureichenden Gründen glaubte. Seitdem nun aber gar *Kant* die bis dahin für fest geltenden Fundamente der *spekulativen Theologie* zerstört hat, und dann diese, welche bisher die Trägerin der Ethik gewesen war, jetzt, umgekehrt, auf die Ethik stützen wollte, um ihr so eine, wenn auch nur ideelle Existenz zu verschaffen; da ist weniger, als jemals, an eine Begründung der Ethik durch die Theologie zu denken, indem man nun nicht mehr weiß, welche von beiden die Last und welche die Stütze seyn soll, und am Ende in einen circulus vitiosus geriethe.\n\nEben durch den Einfluß der *Kantischen Philosophie*, sodann durch die gleichzeitige Einwirkung der beispiellosen Fortschritte sämmtlicher Naturwissenschaften, in Hinsicht auf welche jedes frühere Zeitalter gegen unseres als das der Kindheit erscheint, und endlich durch die Bekanntschaft mit der Sanskritlitteratur, mit dem Brahmaismus und Buddhaismus, diesen ältesten und am weitesten verbreiteten, also der Zeit und dem Raume nach vornehmsten Religionen der Menschheit, welche ja auch die heimathliche Urreligion unseres eigenen, bekanntlich Asiatischen Stammes sind, der jetzt, in seiner fremden Heimath, wieder eine späte Kunde von ihnen erhält; — durch alles dieses, sage ich, haben im Laufe der letzten funfzig Jahre die philosophischen Grundüberzeugungen der Gelehrten Europa's eine Umwandlung erlitten, welche vielleicht Mancher sich nur zögernd eingesteht, die aber doch nicht abzuleugnen ist. In Folge derselben sind auch die alten Stützen der Ethik morsch geworden: doch ist die Zuversicht geblieben, daß diese selbst nie sinken kann; woraus die Ueberzeugung hervorgeht, daß es für sie noch andere Stützen, als die bisherigen, geben müsse, welche den vorgeschrittenen Einsichten des Zeitalters angemessen wären. Ohne Zweifel ist es die Erkenntniß dieses mehr und mehr fühlbar werdenden Bedürfnisses, welche die Königliche Societät zu der vorliegenden, bedeutsamen Preisfrage veranlaßt hat. —\n\nZu allen Zeiten ist viele und gute Moral gepredigt worden; aber die Begründung derselben hat stets im Argen gelegen. Im Ganzen ist bei dieser das Bestreben sichtbar, irgend eine objektive Wahrheit zu finden, aus welcher die ethischen Vorschriften sich logisch ableiten ließen: man hat dieselbe in der Natur der Dinge, oder in der des Menschen gesucht; aber vergebens. Immer ergab sich, daß der Wille des Menschen nur auf sein eigenes Wohlseyn, dessen Summe man unter dem Begriff *Glücksäligkeit* denkt, gerichtet sei; welches Streben ihn auf einen ganz andern Weg leitet, als den die Moral ihm vorzeichnen möchte. Nun versuchte man die *Glücksäligkeit* bald als *identisch* mit der Tugend, bald aber als eine *Folge* und *Wirkung* derselben darzustellen: beides ist allezeit mißlungen; obwohl man die Sophismen dabei nicht gespart hat. Man versuchte es sodann mit rein objektiven, abstrakten, bald a posteriori, bald a priori gefundenen Sätzen, aus denen das ethische Wohlverhalten sich allenfalls folgern ließe: aber diesen gebrach es an einem Anhaltspunkt in der Natur des Menschen, vermöge dessen sie die Macht gehabt hätten, seinem egoistischen Hange entgegen, seine Bestrebungen zu leiten. Alles dieses durch Aufzählung und Kritik aller bisherigen Grundlagen der Moral hier zu erhärten, scheint mir überflüssig; nicht nur weil ich die Meinung des Augustinus theile non est pro magno habendum quid homines senserint, sed quae sit rei veritas; sondern auch weil es hieße γλαῦκας εἰς Ἀθήνας κομίζειν, indem der Königlichen Societät die früheren Versuche die Ethik zu begründen, genugsam bekannt sind, und sie durch die Preisfrage selbst zu erkennen giebt, daß sie auch von der Unzulänglichkeit derselben überzeugt ist. Der weniger gelehrte Leser findet eine zwar nicht vollständige, aber doch in der Hauptsache genügende Zusammenstellung der bisherigen Versuche in *Garve's* „Uebersicht der vornehmsten Principien der Sittenlehre“, ferner in *Stäudlins* „Geschichte der Moralphilosophie“ und ähnlichen Büchern. —\n\nNiederschlagend ist freilich die Betrachtung, daß es der Ethik, dieser das Leben unmittelbar betreffenden Wissenschaft, nicht besser gegangen ist, als der abstrusen Metaphysik, und sie, seit Sokrates sie gründete, stets betrieben, doch noch ihren ersten Grundsatz sucht. Aber dagegen ist auch in der Ethik weit mehr, als in irgend einer andern Wissenschaft, das Wesentliche in den ersten Grundsätzen enthalten; indem die Ableitungen hier so leicht sind, daß sie sich von selbst machen. Denn zu *schließen* sind Alle, zu *urtheilen* Wenige fähig. Daher eben sind lange Lehrbücher und Vorträge der Moral so überflüssig, wie langweilig. Daß ich inzwischen alle die früheren Grundlagen der Ethik als bekannt voraussetzen darf, ist mir eine Erleichterung. Denn wer überblickt, wie sowohl die Philosophen des Alterthums, als die der neuern Zeit (dem Mittelalter genügte der Kirchenglaube) zu den verschiedensten, mitunter wunderlichsten Argumenten gegriffen haben, um für die so allgemein anerkannten Forderungen der Moral ein nachweisbares Fundament zu liefern, und dies dennoch mit offenbar schlechtem Erfolg; der wird die Schwierigkeit des Problems ermessen und danach meine Leistung beurtheilen. Und wer gesehen hat, wie alle bisher eingeschlagenen Wege nicht zum Ziele führten, wird williger mit mir einen davon sehr verschiedenen betreten, den man bisher entweder nicht gesehen hat, oder aber verächtlich liegen ließ; vielleicht weil er der natürlichste war.[1] In der That wird meine Lösung des Problems Manchen an das Ei des Kolumbus erinnern.\n\nGanz allein dem *neuesten* Versuche die Ethik zu begründen, dem *Kantischen*, werde ich eine kritische Untersuchung und zwar eine desto ausführlichere widmen; theils weil die große Moralreform *Kants* dieser Wissenschaft eine Grundlage gab, die wirkliche Vorzüge vor den früheren hatte; theils weil sie noch immer das letzte Bedeutende ist, das in der Ethik geschehen; daher *Kants* Begründung derselben noch heut zu Tage in allgemeiner Geltung steht und durchgängig gelehrt wird, wenn auch durch einige Aenderungen in der Darstellung und den Ausdrücken anders aufgeputzt. Sie ist die Ethik der letzten sechzig Jahre, welche weggeräumt werden muß, ehe wir einen andern Weg einschlagen. Hiezu kommt, daß die Prüfung derselben mir Anlaß geben wird, die meisten ethischen Grundbegriffe zu untersuchen und zu erörtern, um das Ergebniß hieraus später voraussetzen zu können. Besonders aber wird, weil die Gegensätze sich erläutern, die Kritik der Kantischen Moralbegründung die beste Vorbereitung und Anleitung, ja, der gerade Weg zu der meinigen seyn, als welche, in den wesentlichsten Punkten der Kantischen diametral entgegengesetzt ist. Dieserwegen würde es das verkehrteste Beginnen seyn, wenn man die jetzt folgende Kritik überspringen wollte, um gleich an den positiven Theil meiner Darstellung zu gehen, als welche dann nur halb verständlich seyn würde.\n\nUeberhaupt ist es jetzt wirklich an der Zeit, daß die Ethik ein Mal ernstlich ins Verhör genommen werde. Seit mehr als einem halben Jahrhundert liegt sie auf dem bequemen Ruhepolster, welches *Kant* ihr untergebreitet hatte: dem kategorischen Imperativ der praktischen Vernunft. In unsern Tagen jedoch wird dieser meistens unter dem weniger prunkenden, aber glatteren und kurrenteren Titel „das *Sittengesetz*“ eingeführt, unter welchem er, nach einer leichten Verbeugung vor Vernunft und Erfahrung, unbesehen durchschlüpft: ist er aber ein Mal im Hause, dann wird des Befehlens und Kommandirens kein Ende; ohne daß er je weiter Rede stände. — Daß *Kant*, als der Erfinder der Sache, und nachdem er gröbere Irrthümer dadurch verdrängt hatte, sich dabei beruhigte, war recht und nothwendig. Aber nun sehen zu müssen, wie auf dem von ihm gelegten und seitdem immer breiter getretenen Ruhepolster jetzt sogar die Esel sich wälzen, — das ist hart: ich meyne die täglichen Kompendienschreiber, die, mit der gelassenen Zuversicht des Unverstandes, vermeynen, die Ethik begründet zu haben, wenn sie nur sich auf jenes unserer Vernunft angeblich einwohnende „*Sittengesetz*“ berufen, und dann getrost jenes weitschweifige und konfuse Phrasengewebe darauf setzen, mit dem sie die klärsten und einfachsten Verhältnisse des Lebens unverständlich zu machen verstehen; — ohne bei solchem Unternehmen jemals sich ernstlich gefragt zu haben, ob denn auch wirklich so ein „*Sittengesetz*,“ als bequemer Koder der Moral, in unserm Kopf, Brust oder Herzen geschrieben stehe. Daher bekenne ich das besondere Vergnügen, mit dem ich jetzt daran gehe, der Moral das breite Ruhepolster wegzuziehen, und spreche unverhohlen mein Vorhaben aus, die praktische Vernunft und den kategorischen Imperativ *Kants* als völlig unberechtigte, grundlose und erdichtete Annahmen nachzuweisen, darzuthun, daß auch *Kants* Ethik eines soliden Fundaments ermangelt, und somit die Moral wieder ihrer alten, gänzlichen Rathlosigkeit zu überantworten, in welcher sie dastehen muß, ehe ich darangehe, das wahre, in unserm Wesen gegründete und ungezweifelt wirksame, moralische Princip der menschlichen Natur darzulegen. Denn da dieses kein so breites Fundament darbietet, wie jenes Ruhepolster; so werden Die, welche die Sache bequemer gewohnt sind, ihren alten Ruheplatz nicht eher verlassen, als bis sie die tiefe Höhlung des Bodens, auf dem er steht, deutlich wahrgenommen haben.\n\n1. Io dir non vi saprei per qual sventura,\nO piuttosto per qual fatalità,\nDa noi credito ottien più l’impostura,\nChe la semplice e nuda verità. —\nCasti.\n\n(Ich weiß es nicht zu sagen, durch welchen Unfall, oder vielmehr durch welches Mißgeschick, bei uns der Trug leichter Glauben findet, als die einfache und nackte Wahrheit.)\n\n### Section 3\n\nII.\n\nKritik des von *Kant* der Ethik gegebenen Fundaments.\n\nUebersicht.\n\n*Kant* hat in der Ethik das große Verdienst, sie von allem *Eudämonismus* gereinigt zu haben. Die Ethik der Alten war Eudämonik; die der Neueren meistens Heilslehre. Die Alten wollten Tugend und Glücksäligkeit als identisch nachweisen: aber diese waren wie zwei Figuren, die sich nie decken, wie man sie auch legen mag. Die Neueren wollten nicht nach dem *Satze der Identität*, sondern nach dem *des Grundes* beide in Verbindung setzen, also die Glücksäligkeit zur Folge der Tugend machen; wobei sie aber entweder eine andere, als die möglicherweise erkennbare Welt, oder Sophismen zu Hülfe nehmen mußten. Unter den Alten macht *Plato* allein eine Ausnahme: seine Ethik ist nicht eudämonistisch; dafür aber wird sie mystisch. Hingegen ist sogar die Ethik der Kyniker und Stoiker nur ein *Eudämonismus* besonderer Art; welches zu beweisen es mir nicht an Gründen und Belegen, wohl aber, bei meinem jetzigen Vorhaben, an Raum gebricht.[2] — Bei den Alten und Neueren also, *Plato* allein ausgenommen, war die Tugend nur Mittel zum Zweck. Freilich, wenn man es streng nehmen wollte; so hätte auch Kant den Eudämonismus mehr scheinbar, als wirklich aus der Ethik verbannt. Denn er läßt zwischen Tugend und Glücksäligkeit doch noch eine geheime Verbindung übrig, in seiner Lehre vom höchsten Gut, wo sie in einem entlegenen und dunkeln Kapitel zusammenkommen, während öffentlich die Tugend gegen die Glücksäligkeit ganz fremd thut. Davon abgesehen, tritt bei Kant das ethische Princip als ein von der Erfahrung und ihrer Belehrung ganz unabhängiges, ein transscendentales, oder metaphysisches auf. Er erkennt an, daß die menschliche Handlungsweise eine Bedeutung habe, die über alle Möglichkeit der Erfahrung hinausgeht und eben deshalb die eigentliche Brücke zu dem ist, was er die intelligible Welt, mundus noumenon, die Welt der Dinge an sich nennt.\n\nDen Ruhm, welchen die Kantische Ethik erlangt hat, verdankt sie, neben ihren soeben berührten Vorzügen, der moralischen Reinigkeit und Erhabenheit ihrer Resultate. An diese hielten sich die Meisten, ohne sich sonderlich mit der Begründung derselben zu befassen, als welche sehr komplex, abstrakt und in einer überaus künstlichen Form dargestellt ist, auf welche Kant seinen ganzen Scharffinn und Kombinationsgabe verwenden mußte, um ihr ein haltbares Ansehen zu geben. Glücklicherweise hat er der Darstellung des *Fundaments* seiner Ethik, abgesondert von dieser selbst, ein eigenes Werk gewidmet, die „*Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten*“, deren Thema also genau das Selbe ist mit dem Gegenstande unserer Preisfrage. Denn er sagt daselbst, S. XIII der Vorrede: „Gegenwärtige *Grundlegung* ist nichts mehr, als die Aufsuchung und Festsetzung des obersten Princips der Moralität, welche allein ein, in seiner Absicht, ganzes und von aller andern sittlichen Untersuchung abzusonderndes Geschäft ausmacht.“ Wir finden in diesem Buche die Grundlage, also das Wesentliche seiner Ethik streng systematisch, bündig und scharf dargestellt, wie sonst in keinem andern. Außerdem hat dasselbe noch den bedeutenden Vorzug, das älteste seiner moralischen Werke, nur vier Jahre jünger, als die Kritik der reinen Vernunft, und mithin aus der Zeit zu seyn, wo, obwohl er schon 61 Jahre zählte, der nachtheilige Einfluß des Alters auf seinen Geist doch noch nicht merklich war. Dieser ist hingegen schon deutlich zu spüren in der *Kritik der praktischen Vernunft*, welche 1788, also ein Jahr später fällt, als die unglückliche Umarbeitung der Kritik der reinen Vernunft in der zweiten Auflage, durch welche er dieses sein unsterbliches Hauptwerk offenbar verdorben hat; worüber wir in der Vorrede zur neuen, von *Rosenkranz* besorgten Ausgabe eine Auseinandersetzung erhalten haben, der ich, nach eigener Prüfung der Sache, nicht anders als beistimmen kann.[3] Die *Kritik der praktischen Vernunft* enthält im Wesentlichen das Selbe, was die oben erwähnte „*Grundlegung*“; nur daß diese es in konciser und strengerer Form giebt, jene hingegen mit großer Breite der Ausführung und durch Abschweifungen unterbrochen, auch, zur Erhöhung des Eindrucks, durch einige moralische Deklamationen unterstützt. Kant hatte, als er dies schrieb, endlich und spät, seinen wohlverdienten Ruhm erlangt: dadurch einer gränzenlosen Aufmerksamkeit gewiß, ließ er der Redseligkeit des Alters schon mehr Spielraum. Als der *Kritik der praktischen Vernunft* hingegen eigenthümlich ist anzuführen erstlich die über alles Lob erhabene und gewiß früher abgefaßte Darstellung des Verhältnisses zwischen Freiheit und Nothwendigkeit (S. 169–179 der vierten Auflage, und S. 223–231 bei *Rosenkranz*), welche indessen gänzlich mit der übereinstimmt, die er in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft (S. 560–586; R., S. 438 ff.) giebt; und zweitens die Moraltheologie, welche man mehr und mehr für Das erkennen wird, was Kant eigentlich damit gewollt hat. Endlich in den „*Metaphysischen Anfangsgründen der Tugendlehre*“, diesem Seitenstück zu seiner deplorablen „Rechtslehre“ und abgefaßt im Jahre 1797, ist der Einfluß der Altersschwäche überwiegend. Aus allen diesen Gründen nehme ich in gegenwärtiger Kritik die zuerst genannte „*Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten*“ zu meinem Leitfaden, und auf diese beziehen sich alle ohne weitern Beisatz von mir angeführten Seitenzahlen; welches ich zu merken bitte. Die beiden andern Werke aber werde ich nur accessorisch und sekundär in Betracht nehmen.\n\nDem *Verständniß* gegenwärtiger, die Kantische Ethik im tiefsten Grunde unterwühlenden Kritik wird es überaus förderlich seyn, wenn der Leser jene „*Grundlegung*“ *Kants*, auf die sie sich zunächst bezieht, zumal da diese nur 128 und XIV Seiten (bei *Rosenkranz* in Allem nur 100 Seiten) füllt, zuvor mit Aufmerksamkeit nochmals durchlesen will, um sich den Inhalt derselben wieder ganz zu vergegenwärtigen. Ich citire sie nach der dritten Auflage von 1792, und füge die Seitenzahl der neuen Gesammtausgabe von *Rosenkranz* mit vorgesetztem R. hinzu.\n\n2. Die ausführliche Darlegung findet man in der „Welt als Wille und Vorstellung“, Bd. 1, §. 16, S. 103 ff., und Bd. 2, Kap. 16, S. 166 ff., der dritten Auflage.\n\n3. Sie rührt von mir selbst her; aber hier spreche ich inkognito.\n\n### Section 4\n\nVon der imperativen Form der *Kantischen* Ethik.\n\n*Kants* πρῶτον ψεῦδος liegt in seinem Begriff von der Ethik selbst, den wir am deutlichsten ausgesprochen finden S. 62 (R., S. 54): „In einer praktischen Philosophie ist es nicht darum zu thun, Gründe anzugeben von dem was geschieht, sondern Gesetze von dem *was geschehen soll, ob es gleich niemals geschieht*.“ — Dies ist schon eine entschiedene Petitio principii. Wer sagt euch, daß es Gesetze giebt, denen unser Handeln sich unterwerfen soll? Wer sagt euch, daß *geschehen soll, was nie geschieht*? — Was berechtigt euch, dies vorweg anzunehmen und demnächst eine Ethik in legislatorisch-imperativer Form, als die allein mögliche uns sofort aufzudringen? Ich sage, im Gegensatz zu Kant, daß der Ethiker, wie der Philosoph überhaupt, sich begnügen muß mit der Erklärung und Deutung des Gegebenen, also des wirklich Seienden oder Geschehenden, um zu einem *Verständniß* desselben zu gelangen, und daß er hieran vollauf zu thun hat, viel mehr, als bis heute, nach abgelaufenen Jahrtausenden, gethan ist. Obiger *Kantischen* petitio principii gemäß wird gleich in der, durchaus zur Sache gehörenden, Vorrede, vor aller Untersuchung angenommen, daß es rein *moralische Gesetze* gebe; welche Annahme nachher stehen bleibt und die tiefste Grundlage des ganzen Systems ist. Wir wollen aber doch zuvor den Begriff eines *Gesetzes* untersuchen. Die eigentliche und ursprüngliche Bedeutung desselben beschränkt sich auf das bürgerliche Gesetz, lex, νόμος, eine menschliche Einrichtung, auf menschlicher Willkühr beruhend. Eine zweite, abgeleitete, tropische, metaphorische Bedeutung hat der Begriff Gesetz in seiner Anwendung auf die Natur, deren theils a priori erkannte, theils ihr empirisch abgemerkte, sich stets gleichbleibende Verfahrungsweisen wir, metaphorisch, Naturgesetze nennen. Nur ein sehr kleiner Theil dieser Naturgesetze ist es, der sich a priori einsehen läßt und Das ausmacht, was Kant scharfsinnig und vortrefflich ausgesondert und unter dem Namen Metaphysik der Natur zusammengestellt hat. Für den *menschlichen Willen* giebt es allerdings auch ein Gesetz, sofern der Mensch zur Natur gehört, und zwar ein streng nachweisbares, ein unverbrüchliches, ausnahmsloses, felsenfeststehendes, welches nicht, wie der kategorische Imperativ, vel quasi, sondern wirklich Nothwendigkeit mit sich führt: es ist das *Gesetz der Motivation*, eine Form des Kausalitätsgesetzes, nämlich die durch das Erkennen vermittelte Kausalität. Dies ist das einzige nachweisbare Gesetz für den *menschlichen Willen*, dem dieser *als solcher* unterworfen ist. Es besagt, daß jede Handlung nur in Folge eines zureichenden Motivs eintreten kann. Es ist, wie das Gesetz der Kausalität überhaupt, ein Naturgesetz. Hingegen moralische Gesetze, unabhängig von menschlicher Satzung, Staatseinrichtung, oder Religionslehre, dürfen ohne Beweis nicht als vorhanden angenommen werden: Kant begeht also durch diese Vorausnahme eine Petitio principii. Sie erscheint um so dreister, als er sogleich, S. VI der Vorrede, hinzufügt, daß ein moralisches Gesetz „*absolute Nothwendigkeit*“ bei sich führen soll. Eine solche aber hat überall zum Merkmal die Unausbleiblichkeit des Erfolgs: wie kann nun von absoluter Nothwendigkeit die Rede seyn bei diesen angeblichen moralischen Gesetzen; als ein Beispiel, von welchen er „*du sollt* (sic) nicht lügen“ anführt; da sie bekanntlich und wie er selbst eingesteht, meistens, ja, in der Regel, erfolglos bleiben? Um in der wissenschaftlichen Ethik, außer dem Gesetze der Motivation, noch andere, ursprüngliche und von aller Menschensatzung unabhängige Gesetze für den Willen anzunehmen, hat man sie ihrer ganzen Existenz nach zu beweisen und abzuleiten; wenn man darauf bedacht ist, in der Ethik die Redlichkeit nicht bloß anzuempfehlen, sondern auch zu üben. Bis jener Beweis geführt worden, erkenne ich für die Einführung des Begriffes Gesetz, Vorschrift, Soll in die Ethik keinen andern Ursprung an, als einen der Philosophie fremden, den Mosaischen Dekalog. Diesen Ursprung verräth sogar naiv, auch im obigen, dem ersten von Kant aufgestellten Beispiel eines moralischen Gesetzes, die Orthographie „*du sollt*“. Ein Begriff, der keinen andern, als solchen Ursprung aufzuweisen hat, darf aber nicht so ohne Weiteres sich in die philosophische Ethik drängen, sondern wird hinausgewiesen, bis er durch rechtmäßigen Beweis beglaubigt und eingeführt ist. Bei Kant haben wir an ihm die erste Petitio principii, und sie ist groß.\n\nWie nun, mittelst derselben, Kant, in der Vorrede, den Begriff des *Moralgesetzes* ohne Weiteres als gegeben und unbezweifelt vorhanden genommen hatte; ebenso macht er es S. 8 (R., S. 16) mit dem jenem eng verwandten Begriff der *Pflicht*, welcher, ohne weitere Prüfung zu bestehen, als in die Ethik gehörig hineingelassen wird. Allein ich bin genöthigt, hier abermals Protest einzulegen. Dieser Begriff, sammt seinen Anverwandten, also dem des *Gesetzes, Gebotes, Sollens* u. dergl. hat, in diesem unbedingten Sinn genommen, seinen Ursprung in der theologischen Moral, und bleibt in der philosophischen so lange ein Fremdling, bis er eine gültige Beglaubigung aus dem Wesen der menschlichen Natur, oder dem der objektiven Welt beigebracht hat. Bis dahin erkenne ich für ihn und seine Anverwandten keinen andern Ursprung als den Dekalog. Ueberhaupt hat, in den christlichen Jahrhunderten, die philosophische Ethik ihre Form unbewußt von der theologischen genommen: da nun diese wesentlich eine *gebietende* ist; so ist auch die philosophische in der Form von Vorschrift und Pflichtenlehre aufgetreten, in aller Unschuld und ohne zu ahnden, daß hiezu erst eine anderweitige Befugniß nöthig sei; vielmehr vermeinend, dies sei eben ihre eigene und natürliche Gestalt. So unleugbar und von allen Völkern, Zeiten und Glaubenslehren, auch von allen Philosophen (mit Ausnahme der eigentlichen Materialisten) anerkannt, die metaphysische d. h. über dieses erscheinende Daseyn hinaus sich erstreckende und die Ewigkeit berührende ethische Bedeutsamkeit des menschlichen Handelns ist; so wenig ist es dieser wesentlich, in der Form des Gebietens und Gehorchens, des Gesetzes und der *Pflicht* aufgefaßt zu werden. Getrennt von den theologischen Voraussetzungen, aus denen sie hervorgegangen, verlieren überdem diese Begriffe eigentlich alle Bedeutung, und wenn man, wie Kant, jene dadurch zu ersetzen vermeint, daß man von *absolutem Sollen* und *unbedingter Pflicht* redet; so speist man den Leser mit Worten ab, ja, giebt ihm eigentlich eine Contradictio in adjecto zu verdauen. Jedes *Soll* hat allen Sinn und Bedeutung schlechterdings nur in Beziehung auf angedrohte Strafe, oder verheißene Belohnung. Daher sagt auch, lange ehe an Kant gedacht wurde, schon Locke: For since it would be utterly in vain, to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will; we must, where-ever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law. (On Understanding, Bk. II, c. 33, §. 6.)[4] Jedes Sollen ist also nothwendig durch Strafe, oder Belohnung bedingt, mithin, in Kants Sprache zu reden, wesentlich und unausweichbar *hypothetisch* und niemals, wie er behauptet, *kategorisch*. Werden aber jene Bedingungen weggedacht, so bleibt der Begriff des Sollens sinnleer: daher *absolutes Sollen* allerdings eine Contradictio in adjecto ist. Eine gebietende Stimme, sie mag nun von Innen, oder von Außen kommen, ist es schlechterdings unmöglich, sich anders, als drohend, oder versprechend zu denken: dann aber wird der Gehorsam gegen sie zwar, nach Umständen, klug oder dumm, jedoch stets eigennützig, mithin ohne moralischen Werth seyn. Die völlige Undenkbarkeit und Widersinnigkeit dieses der Ethik Kants zum Grunde liegenden Begriffs eines *unbedingten Sollens* tritt in seinem System selbst später, nämlich in der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, hervor; wie ein verlarvtes Gift im Organismus nicht bleiben kann, sondern endlich hervorbrechen und sich Luft machen muß. Nämlich jenes so *unbedingte Soll* postulirt sich hinterher doch eine Bedingung, und sogar mehr als eine, nämlich eine Belohnung, dazu die Unsterblichkeit des zu Belohnenden und einen Belohner. Das ist freilich nothwendig, wenn man einmal *Pflicht* und *Soll* zum Grundbegriff der Ethik gemacht hat; da diese Begriffe wesentlich relativ sind und alle Bedeutung nur haben durch angedrohte Strafe, oder verheißene Belohnung. Dieser Lohn, der für die Tugend, welche also nur scheinbar unentgeltlich arbeitete, hinterdrein postulirt wird, tritt aber anständig verschleiert auf, unter dem Namen des *höchsten Guts*, welches die Vereinigung der Tugend und Glücksäligkeit ist. Dieses ist aber im Grunde nichts Anderes, als die auf Glücksäligkeit ausgehende, folglich auf Eigennutz gestützte Moral, oder Eudämonismus, welche Kant als heteronomisch feierlich zur Hauptthüre seines Systems hinausgeworfen hatte, und die sich nun unter dem Namen *höchstes Gut* zur Hinterthüre wieder hereinschleicht. So rächt sich die einen Widerspruch verbergende Annahme des *unbedingten, absoluten Sollens*. Das *bedingte Sollen* andererseits kann freilich kein ethischer Grundbegriff seyn, weil Alles, was mit Hinsicht auf Lohn oder Strafe geschieht, nothwendig egoistisches Thun und als solches ohne rein moralischen Werth ist. — Aus allem Diesem wird ersichtlich, daß es einer großartigern und unbefangenern Auffassung der Ethik bedarf, wenn es Ernst damit ist, die sich über die Erscheinung hinaus erstreckende, ewige Bedeutsamkeit des menschlichen Handelns wirklich ergründen zu wollen.\n\nWie alles *Sollen* schlechterdings an eine Bedingung gebunden ist, so auch alle *Pflicht*. Denn beide Begriffe sind sich sehr nahe verwandt und beinahe identisch. Der einzige Unterschied zwischen ihnen möchte seyn, daß *Sollen* überhaupt auch auf bloßem Zwange beruhen kann, *Pflicht* hingegen *Verpflichtung*, d. h. Uebernahme der *Pflicht*, voraussetzt: eine solche hat Statt zwischen Herrn und Diener, Vorgesetztem und Untergebenen, Regierung und Unterthanen. Eben weil Keiner eine *Pflicht* unentgeltlich übernimmt, giebt jede *Pflicht* auch ein Recht. Der Sklave hat keine *Pflicht*, weil er kein Recht hat; aber es giebt ein *Soll* für ihn, welches auf bloßem Zwange beruht. Im folgenden Theile werde ich die alleinige Bedeutung, welche der Begriff *Pflicht* in der Ethik hat, aufstellen.\n\nDie Fassung der Ethik in einer *imperativen* Form, als *Pflichtenlehre*, und das Denken des moralischen Werthes oder Unwerthes menschlicher Handlungen als Erfüllung oder Verletzung von *Pflichten*, stammt, mit sammt dem *Sollen*, unleugbar nur aus der theologischen Moral und demnächst aus dem Dekalog. Demgemäß beruht sie wesentlich auf der Voraussetzung der Abhängigkeit des Menschen von einem andern, ihm gebietenden und Belohnung oder Strafe ankündigenden Willen, und ist davon nicht zu trennen. So ausgemacht die Voraussetzung eines solchen in der Theologie ist; so wenig darf sie stillschweigend und ohne Weiteres in die philosophische Moral gezogen werden. Dann aber darf man auch nicht vorweg annehmen, daß in dieser die *imperative Form*, das Aufstellen von Geboten, Gesetzen und Pflichten, sich von selbst verstehe und ihr wesentlich sei; wobei es ein schlechter Nothbehelf ist, die solchen Begriffen, ihrer Natur nach, wesentlich anhängende äußere Bedingung durch das Wort „absolut“ oder „kategorisch“ zu ersetzen, als wodurch, wie gesagt, eine Contradictio in adjecto entsteht.\n\nNachdem nun aber Kant diese *imperative Form* der Ethik, stillschweigend und unbesehens, von der theologischen Moral entlehnt hatte, deren Voraussetzungen, also die Theologie, derselben eigentlich zum Grunde liegen und in der That als Das, wodurch allein sie Bedeutung und Sinn hat, unzertrennlich von ihr, ja, implicite darin enthalten sind; da hatte er nachher leichtes Spiel, am Ende seiner Darstellung, aus seiner Moral wieder eine Theologie zu entwickeln, die bekannte Moraltheologie. Denn da brauchte er nur die Begriffe, welche implicite durch das *Soll* gesetzt, seiner Moral versteckt zum Grunde lagen, ausdrücklich hervorzuholen und jetzt sie explicite als Postulate der praktischen Vernunft aufzustellen. So erschien denn, zur großen Erbauung der Welt, eine Theologie, die bloß auf Moral gestützt, ja, aus dieser hervorgegangen war. Das kam aber daher, daß diese Moral selbst auf versteckten theologischen Voraussetzungen beruht. Ich beabsichtige kein spöttisches Gleichniß: aber in der Form hat die Sache Analogie mit der Ueberraschung, die ein Künstler in der natürlichen Magie uns bereitet, indem er eine Sache uns da finden läßt, wohin er sie zuvor weislich prakticirt hatte. — In abstracto ausgesprochen ist Kants Verfahren dieses, daß er zum Resultat machte, was das Princip oder die Voraussetzung hätte seyn müssen (die Theologie), und zur Voraussetzung nahm, was als Resultat hätte abgeleitet werden sollen (das Gebot). Nachdem er nun aber so das Ding auf den Kopf gestellt hatte, erkannte es Niemand, ja er selbst nicht, für Das was es war, nämlich die alte, wohlbekannte theologische Moral. Die Ausführung dieses Kunststücks werden wir in dem sechsten und siebenten Paragraphen betrachten.\n\nAllerdings war schon vor *Kant* die Fassung der Moral in der imperativen Form und als Pflichtenlehre auch in der Philosophie in häufigem Gebrauch: nur gründete man dann auch die Moral selbst auf den Willen eines schon anderweitig bewiesenen Gottes, und blieb konsequent. Sobald man aber, wie Kant, eine hievon unabhängige Begründung unternahm und die Ethik ohne metaphysische Voraussetzungen feststellen wollte, war man auch nicht mehr berechtigt, jene imperative Form, jenes „du sollst“ und „es ist deine Pflicht“ ohne anderweitige Ableitung zum Grunde zu legen.\n\n4. „Denn da es durchaus vergeblich seyn würde, eine den freien Handlungen des Menschen gezogene Richtschnur anzunehmen, ohne derselben etwas anzuhängen, was ihr Nachdruck ertheilte, indem es mittelst Wohl und Wehe seinen Willen bestimmte; so müssen wir überall, wo wir ein Gesetz annehmen, auch irgend eine diesem Gesetz anhängende Belohnung, oder Strafe annehmen.“ (Ueber den Verstand, Bd. II, c. 33, §. 6.)\n\n### Section 5\n\nVon der Annahme von Pflichten gegen uns selbst, insbesondere.\n\n*Kant* ließ aber diese ihm so sehr willkommene Form der Pflichtenlehre auch in der Ausführung insofern unangetastet, als er, wie seine Vorgänger, neben den Pflichten gegen Andere, auch Pflichten gegen uns selbst aufstellte. Da ich diese Annahme geradezu verwerfe; so will ich hier, wo der Zusammenhang es am besten verträgt, meine Erklärung darüber episodisch einschalten.\n\nPflichten gegen uns selbst müssen, wie alle Pflichten, entweder Rechts- oder Liebespflichten seyn. *Rechtspflichten* gegen uns selbst sind unmöglich, wegen des selbst-evidenten Grundsatzes volenti non fit injuria: da nämlich Das, was ich thue, alle Mal Das ist, was ich will; so geschieht mir von mir selbst auch stets nur was ich will, folglich nie Unrecht. Was aber die *Liebespflichten* gegen uns selbst betrifft, so findet hier die Moral ihre Arbeit bereits gethan und kommt zu spät. Die Unmöglichkeit der Verletzung der Pflicht der Selbstliebe wird schon vom obersten Gebot der Christlichen Moral vorausgesetzt: „Liebe deinen Nächsten wie dich selbst“; wonach die Liebe, die Jeder zu sich selbst hegt, als das Maximum und die Bedingung jeder andern Liebe vorweg angenommen, keineswegs aber hinzugesetzt wird: „Liebe dich selbst wie deinen Nächsten“; als wobei Jeder fühlen würde, daß es zu wenig gefordert sei: auch würde dieses die einzige Pflicht seyn, bei der ein Opus supererogationis an der Tagesordnung wäre. Selbst Kant sagt, in den „Metaphysischen Anfangsgründen zur Tugendlehre“, S. 13 (R., S. 230): „Was Jeder unvermeidlich schon von selbst will, das gehört nicht unter den Begriff der Pflicht.“ Dieser Begriff von Pflichten gegen uns selbst hat sich indessen noch immer in Ansehen erhalten und steht allgemein in besonderer Gunst; worüber man sich nicht zu wundern hat. Aber eine belustigende Wirkung thut er in Fällen, wo die Leute anfangen, um ihre Person besorgt zu werden, und nun ganz ernsthaft von der Pflicht der Selbsterhaltung reden; während man genugsam merkt, daß die Furcht ihnen schon Beine machen wird und es keines Pflichtgebots bedarf, um nachzuschieben.\n\nWas man gewöhnlich als Pflichten gegen uns selbst aufstellt, ist zuvörderst ein in Vorurtheilen stark befangenes und aus den seichtesten Gründen geführtes Räsonnement gegen den *Selbstmord*. Dem Menschen allein, der nicht, wie das Thier, bloß den *körperlichen*, auf die Gegenwart beschränkten, sondern auch den ungleich größeren, von Zukunft und Vergangenheit borgenden, *geistigen* Leiden Preis gegeben ist, hat die Natur, als Kompensation, das Vorrecht verliehen, sein Leben, auch ehe sie selbst ihm ein Ziel setzt, beliebig enden zu können und demnach nicht wie das Thier, nothwendig so lange er kann, sondern auch nur so lange er *will* zu leben. Ob er nun, aus ethischen Gründen, dieses Vorrechts sich wieder zu begeben habe, ist eine schwierige Frage, die wenigstens nicht durch die gebräuchlichen, seichten Argumente entschieden werden kann. Auch die Gründe gegen den Selbstmord, welche Kant, S. 53 (R., S. 48) und S. 67 (R., S. 57) anzuführen nicht verschmäht, kann ich gewissenhafterweise nicht anders betiteln, als Armsäligkeiten, die nicht einmal eine Antwort verdienen. Man muß lachen, wenn man denkt, daß dergleichen Reflexionen dem Kato, der Kleopatra, dem Koccejus Nerva (Tac. Ann., VI, 26), oder der Arria des Pätus (Plin. Ep., III, 16) den Dolch hätten aus den Händen winden sollen. Wenn es wirklich ächte moralische Motive gegen den Selbstmord giebt, so liegen diese jedenfalls sehr tief und sind nicht mit dem Senkblei der gewöhnlichen Ethik zu erreichen; sondern gehören einer höhern Betrachtungsweise an, als sogar dem Standpunkt gegenwärtiger Abhandlung angemessen ist.[5]\n\nWas nun noch außerdem unter der Rubrik von Selbstpflichten vorgetragen zu werden pflegt, sind theils Klugheitsregeln, theils diätetische Vorschriften, welche alle beide nicht in die eigentliche Moral gehören. Endlich noch zieht man hieher das Verbot widernatürlicher Wollust, also der Onanie, Päderastie und Bestialität. Von diesen nun ist erstlich die Onanie hauptsächlich ein Laster der Kindheit, und sie zu bekämpfen ist viel mehr Sache der Diätetik, als der Ethik; daher eben auch die Bücher gegen sie von Medicinern (wie Tissot u. A.) verfaßt sind, nicht von Moralisten. Wenn, nachdem Diätetik und Hygieine das Ihrige in dieser Sache gethan und mit unabweisbaren Gründen sie niedergeschmettert haben, jetzt noch die Moral sie in die Hand nehmen will, findet sie so sehr schon gethane Arbeit, daß ihr wenig übrig bleibt. — Die Bestialität nun wieder ist ein völlig abnormales, sehr selten vorkommendes Vergehen, also wirklich etwas Exceptionelles, und dabei in so hohem Grade empörend und der menschlichen Natur entgegen, daß es selbst mehr, als irgend welche Vernunftgründe vermöchten, gegen sich selbst spricht und abschreckt. Uebrigens ist es, als Degradation der menschlichen Natur, ganz eigentlich ein Vergehen gegen die Species als solche und in abstracto; nicht gegen menschliche Individuen. — Von den drei in Rede stehenden Geschlechtsvergehen fällt demnach bloß die Päderastie der Ethik anheim, und wird daselbst ungezwungen ihre Stelle finden, bei Abhandlung der Gerechtigkeit: diese nämlich wird durch sie verletzt, und kann hiegegen das volenti non fit injuria nicht geltend gemacht werden: denn das Unrecht besteht in der Verführung des jüngern und unerfahrenen Theils, welcher physisch und moralisch dadurch verdorben wird.\n\n5. Es sind asketische Gründe: man findet sie im vierten Buche meines Hauptwerks, Bd. I, §. 69.\n\n### Section 6\n\nVom Fundament der Kantischen Ethik.\n\nAn die im §. 4. als petitio principii nachgewiesene *imperative Form* der Ethik knüpft sich unmittelbar eine Lieblingsvorstellung Kants, die zwar zu entschuldigen, aber nicht anzunehmen ist. — Wir sehen bisweilen einen Arzt, der ein Mittel mit glänzendem Erfolge angewandt hat, dasselbe fortan in fast allen Krankheiten geben: ihm vergleiche ich Kanten. Er hat, durch die Scheidung des a priori von dem a posteriori in der menschlichen Erkenntniß, die glänzendeste und folgenreichste Entdeckung gemacht, deren die Metaphysik sich rühmen kann. Was Wunder, daß er nun diese Methode und Sonderung überall anzuwenden sucht? Auch die *Ethik* soll daher aus einem reinen, d. h. a priori erkennbaren und aus einem empirischen Theile bestehen. Letztern weist er, als für die *Begründung* der Ethik unzulässig, ab. Erstern aber herauszufinden und gesondert darzustellen, ist sein Vorhaben in der „Grundlegung der Metaphysik der Sitten“, welche demgemäß eine Wissenschaft rein a priori seyn soll, in dem Sinne, wie die von ihm aufgestellten „Metaphysischen Anfangsgründe der Naturwissenschaft“. Sonach soll nun jenes, ohne Berechtigung und ohne Ableitung oder Beweis, als vorhanden zum voraus angenommene *moralische Gesetz* noch dazu ein a priori erkennbares, von aller *innern wie äußern Erfahrung* unabhängiges, „*lediglich auf Begriffen der reinen Vernunft beruhendes*, es soll ein *synthetischer Satz a priori* seyn“ (Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, S. 56 der vierten Auflage; — R., S. 142): hiemit hängt genau zusammen, daß dasselbe bloß *formal* seyn muß, wie alles a priori Erkannte, mithin bloß auf die *Form*, nicht auf den *Inhalt* der Handlungen sich beziehen muß. — Man denke, was das sagen will! — Er fügt (S. VI der Vorrede zur Grundlegung; — R., S. 5) ausdrücklich hinzu, daß es „nicht in der Natur des Menschen (dem Subjektiven), noch in den Umständen in der Welt (dem Objektiven) gesucht werden dürfe“ und (ebendaselbst S. VII; R., S. 6), daß „*nicht das Mindeste dabei entlehnt werden dürfe aus der Kenntniß des Menschen*, d. i. der *Anthropologie*“. Er wiederholt noch (S. 59; — R., S. 52), „daß man sich ja nicht in den Sinn kommen lassen dürfe, die Realität seines Moralprincips aus der besondern Beschaffenheit der menschlichen Natur ableiten zu wollen“; desgleichen (S. 60; — R., S. 52): daß „Alles, was aus einer besondern Naturanlage der Menschheit, aus gewissen Gefühlen und Hange, ja sogar, wo möglich, aus einer besondern Richtung, die der menschlichen Natur eigen wäre und nicht nothwendig für den Willen *jedes vernünftigen Wesens* gelten müßte, abgeleitet wird“, keine Grundlage für das moralische Gesetz abgeben könne. Dies bezeugt unwidersprechlich, daß er das angebliche Moralgesetz *nicht als eine Thatsache des Bewußtseyns*, ein empirisch Nachweisbares, aufstellt; — wofür die Philosophaster neuerer Zeit, sammt und sonders, es ausgeben möchten. Wie alle innere, so weist er noch entschiedener alle äußere Erfahrung ab, indem er jede empirische Grundlage der Moral verwirft. Er gründet also, welches ich wohl zu merken bitte, sein Moralprincip nicht auf irgend eine nachweisbare *Thatsache des Bewußtseyns*, etwan eine innere Anlage; — so wenig wie auf irgend ein objektives Verhältniß der Dinge in der Außenwelt. Nein! Das wäre eine empirische Grundlage. Sondern *reine Begriffe a priori*, d. h. Begriffe, die noch gar keinen Inhalt, aus der äußern oder innern Erfahrung, haben, also pure Schale ohne Kern sind, sollen die Grundlage der Moral seyn. Man erwäge, wie Viel das sagen will: das menschliche Bewußtseyn sowohl, als die ganze Außenwelt, sammt aller Erfahrung und Thatsachen in ihnen, ist unter unsern Füßen weggezogen. Wir haben nichts, worauf wir stehen. Woran aber sollen wir uns halten? An ein Paar ganz abstrakter, noch völlig stoffloser Begriffe, die ebenfalls gänzlich in der Luft schweben. Aus diesen, ja, eigentlich aus der bloßen Form ihrer Verbindung zu Urtheilen, soll ein *Gesetz* hervorgehen, welches mit sogenannter *absoluter Nothwendigkeit* gelten und die Kraft haben soll, dem Drange der Begierden, dem Sturm der Leidenschaft, der Riesengröße des Egoismus Zaum und Gebiß anzulegen. Das wollen wir denn doch sehen.\n\nMit diesem vorgefaßten Begriff von der unumgänglich nöthigen *Apriorität* und Reinheit von allem Empirischen für die Grundlage der Moral, ist eine zweite Lieblingsvorstellung Kants eng verknüpft: nämlich, das aufzustellende Moralprincip, da es ein *synthetischer Satz a priori, von bloß formellem Inhalt*, mithin ganz Sache der *reinen Vernunft* seyn muß, soll als solches auch nicht für *Menschen* allein, sondern *für alle möglichen vernünftigen Wesen* und „allein darum“, also nebenbei und per accidens, auch für die Menschen gelten. Denn dafür ist es auf reine Vernunft (die nichts, als sich selbst und den Satz vom Widerspruch kennt) und nicht auf irgend ein Gefühl basirt. Diese *reine Vernunft* wird also hier nicht als eine Erkenntnißkraft des Menschen, was sie doch allein ist, genommen; sondern *als etwas für sich Bestehendes hypostasirt*, ohne alle Befugniß und zu perniciösestem Beispiel und Vorgang; welches zu belegen unsere jetzige erbärmliche philosophische Zeitperiode dienen kann. Inzwischen ist diese Aufstellung der Moral nicht für Menschen als Menschen, sondern für *alle vernünftige Wesen* als solche, *Kanten* eine so angelegene Hauptsache und Lieblingsvorstellung, daß er nicht müde wird, sie bei jeder Gelegenheit zu wiederholen. Ich sage dagegen, daß man nie zur Aufstellung eines Genus befugt ist, welches uns nur in einer einzigen Species gegeben ist, in dessen Begriff man daher schlechterdings nichts bringen könnte, als was man dieser *einen* Species entnommen hätte, daher was man vom Genus aussagte, doch immer nur von der *einen* Species zu verstehen seyn würde; während, indem man, um das Genus zu bilden, unbefugt weggedacht hätte, was dieser Species zukommt, man vielleicht gerade die Bedingung der Möglichkeit der übrig gelassenen und als Genus hypostasirten Eigenschaften aufgehoben hätte. Wie wir die *Intelligenz überhaupt* schlechterdings nur als eine Eigenschaft animalischer Wesen kennen und deshalb nimmermehr berechtigt sind, sie als außerdem und unabhängig von der animalischen Natur existirend zu denken; so kennen wir die *Vernunft* allein als Eigenschaft des menschlichen Geschlechts und sind schlechterdings nicht befugt, sie als außer diesem existirend zu denken und ein Genus „Vernünftige Wesen“ aufzustellen, welches von seiner alleinigen Species „Mensch“ verschieden wäre, noch weniger aber, für solche imaginäre *vernünftige Wesen in abstracto* Gesetze aufzustellen. Von vernünftigen Wesen außer dem Menschen zu reden, ist nicht anders, als wenn man von *schweren Wesen* außer den Körpern reden wollte. Man kann sich des Verdachts nicht erwehren, daß *Kant* dabei ein wenig an die lieben Engelein gedacht, oder doch auf deren Beistand in der Ueberzeugung des Lesers gezählt habe. Jedenfalls liegt darin eine stille Voraussetzung der anima rationalis, welche, von der anima sensitiva und anima vegetativa ganz verschieden, nach dem Tode übrig bliebe und dann weiter nichts wäre, als eben rationalis. Aber dieser völlig transscendenten Hypostase hat er doch selbst, in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft, ausdrücklich und ausführlich ein Ende gemacht. Inzwischen sieht man in der Kantischen Ethik, zumal in der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, stets im Hintergrunde den Gedanken schweben, daß das innere und ewige Wesen des Menschen in der *Vernunft* bestände. Ich muß hier, wo die Sache nur beiläufig zur Sprache kommt, es bei der bloßen Assertion des Gegentheils bewenden lassen, daß nämlich die Vernunft, wie das Erkenntnißvermögen überhaupt, ein Sekundäres, ein der Erscheinung Angehöriges, ja durch den Organismus Bedingtes, hingegen der eigentliche Kern, das allein Metaphysische und daher Unzerstörbare im Menschen *sein Wille* ist.\n\nIndem also Kant die Methode, welche er mit so vielem Glück in der theoretischen Philosophie angewandt hatte, auf die praktische übertragen und demnach auch hier die reine Erkenntniß a priori von der empirischen a posteriori trennen wollte, nahm er an, daß, wie wir die Gesetze des Raums, der Zeit und der Kausalität a priori erkennen; so auch, oder doch auf analoge Weise, die moralische Richtschnur für unser Thun vor aller Erfahrung uns gegeben sei und sich äußere als kategorischer Imperativ, als absolutes Soll. Aber wie himmelweit ist der *Unterschied* zwischen jenen theoretischen Erkenntnissen a priori, welche darauf beruhen, daß sie die bloßen Formen, d. h. Funktionen, unsers Intellekts ausdrücken, mittelst deren allein wir eine objektive Welt aufzufassen fähig sind, in denen diese sich also darstellen *muß*, daher eben für dieselbe jene Formen absolut gesetzgebend sind, so daß alle Erfahrung jedes Mal ihnen genau entsprechen muß, wie Alles, was ich durch ein blaues Glas sehe, sich blau darstellen *muß*, — und jenem angeblichen Moralgesetz a priori, dem die Erfahrung bei jedem Schritte Hohn spricht, ja, nach *Kanten* selbst, es zweifelhaft läßt, ob sie sich auch nur ein einziges Mal wirklich nach demselben gerichtet habe. Welche ganz disparate Dinge werden hier unter dem Begriff der *Apriorität* zusammengestellt! Zudem übersah Kant, daß, seiner eigenen Lehre zufolge, in der theoretischen Philosophie, gerade die *Apriorität* der erwähnten, von der Erfahrung unabhängigen Erkenntnisse sie auf die bloße *Erscheinung*, d. h. die Vorstellung der Welt in unserm Kopfe, beschränkt und ihnen alle Gültigkeit hinsichtlich auf das *Wesen an sich* der Dinge, d. h. das unabhängig von unserer Auffassung Vorhandene, völlig benimmt. Diesem entsprechend müßte, auch in der praktischen Philosophie, sein angebliches Moralgesetz, wenn es a priori in unserm Kopfe entsteht, gleichfalls nur eine Form der *Erscheinung* seyn und das Wesen an sich der Dinge unberührt lassen. Allein diese Konsequenz würde im größten Widerspruche sowohl mit der Sache selbst, als mit Kants Ansichten derselben stehen; da er durchgängig (z. B. Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, S. 175; — R., S. 228) gerade das *Moralische in uns* als in der engsten Verbindung mit dem wahren *Wesen an sich* der Dinge, ja, als unmittelbar dieses treffend, darstellt; auch in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft, überall wo das geheimnißvolle *Ding an sich* irgend deutlicher hervortritt, es sich zu erkennen giebt als *das Moralische* in uns, als *Wille*. — Aber darüber hat er sich hinweggesetzt.\n\nIch habe §. 4 gezeigt, daß Kant die *imperative Form* der Ethik, also den Begriff des Sollens, des Gesetzes und der Pflicht, ohne Weiteres aus der theologischen Moral herübergenommen, während er Das, was diesen Begriffen dort allein Kraft und Bedeutung verleiht, doch zurücklassen mußte. Um nun aber doch jene Begriffe zu begründen, geht er so weit, zu verlangen, daß der *Begriff der Pflicht* selbst auch der *Grund der Erfüllung* dieser, also das *Verpflichtende* sei. Eine Handlung, sagt er (S. 11; — R., S. 18), habe erst dann ächten moralischen Werth, wann sie lediglich aus *Pflicht*, und bloß um der *Pflicht* Willen geschehe, ohne irgend eine Neigung zu ihr. Der Werth des Charakters hebe erst da an, wenn Jemand, ohne Sympathie des Herzens, kalt und gleichgültig gegen die Leiden Anderer, und *nicht eigentlich zum Menschenfreunde geboren*, doch bloß der leidigen Pflicht halber Wohlthaten erzeigte. Diese, das ächte moralische Gefühl empörende Behauptung, diese, der Christlichen Sittenlehre, welche die Liebe über Alles setzt und ohne sie nichts gelten läßt (1. Korinther, 13, 3), gerade entgegengesetzte Apotheose der Lieblosigkeit, diesen taktlosen, moralischen Pedantismus hat *Schiller* in zwei treffenden Epigrammen persiflirt, überschrieben „Gewissensskrupel und Entscheidung“. Die nächste Veranlassung zu diesen scheinen einige ganz hieher gehörige Stellen der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft gegeben zu haben, so z. B. S. 150; — R., S. 211: „Die Gesinnung, die dem Menschen, das moralische Gesetz zu befolgen, obliegt, ist, es aus *Pflicht*, nicht aus *freiwilliger Zuneigung* und auch allenfalls *unbefohlener*, von selbst gern unternommener Bestrebung zu befolgen.“ — *Befohlen* muß es seyn! Welche Sklavenmoral! Und ebendaselbst S. 213; — R., S. 257, wo es heißt: „daß Gefühle des Mitleids und der weichherzigen Theilnahme wohldenkenden Personen selbst lästig wären, weil sie ihre überlegten Maximen in Verwirrung brächten und daher den Wunsch bewirkten, ihrer entledigt und allein der gesetzgebenden Vernunft unterworfen zu seyn“. Ich behaupte zuversichtlich, daß was dem obigen (S. 11; — R., S. 18; geschilderderten), lieblosen, gegen fremde Leiden gleichgültigen Wohlthäter die Hand öffnet (wenn er nicht Nebenabsichten hat), nimmermehr etwas Anderes seyn kann, als sklavische *Deisidämonie*, gleichviel ob er seinen Fetisch „kategorischen Imperativ“ betitelt oder Fitzlipuzli.[6] Was Anderes könnte denn ein hartes Herz bewegen, als nur die Furcht?\n\nObigen Ansichten entsprechend soll, nach S. 13; — R., S. 19, der moralische Werth einer Handlung durchaus nicht in der *Absicht* liegen, in der sie geschah, sondern in der Maxime, die man befolgte. Wogegen ich zu bedenken gebe, daß die *Absicht allein* über moralischen Werth, oder Unwerth einer That entscheidet, weshalb die selbe That, je nach ihrer Absicht, verwerflich, oder lobenswerth seyn kann. Daher auch, so oft unter Menschen eine Handlung von irgend moralischem Belange diskutirt wird, Jeder nach der *Absicht* forscht und nach dieser allein die Handlung beurtheilt; wie auch andererseits mit der *Absicht* allein Jeder sich rechtfertigt, wenn er seine Handlung mißdeutet sieht, oder sich entschuldigt, wenn sie einen nachtheiligen Erfolg gehabt.\n\nSeite 14; — R., S. 20, erhalten wir endlich die Definition des Grundbegriffes der ganzen Kantischen Ethik, der *Pflicht*: sie sei „*die Nothwendigkeit einer Handlung, aus Achtung vor dem Gesetz*“. — Aber was *nothwendig* ist, das geschieht und ist unausbleiblich; hingegen die Handlungen aus reiner Pflicht bleiben nicht nur meistens aus; sondern sogar gesteht Kant selbst, S. 25; — R., S. 28, daß man von der Gesinnung, aus reiner Pflicht zu handeln, *gar keine sichere Beispiele* habe; — und S. 26; — R., S. 29, „es sei schlechterdings unmöglich, durch Erfahrung *einen einzigen Fall* mit Gewißheit auszumachen, wo eine pflichtmäßige Handlung lediglich auf der Vorstellung der Pflicht beruht habe“, und ebenso S. 28; — R., S. 30, und S. 49; — R., S. 50. In welchem Sinn kann denn einer solchen Handlung *Nothwendigkeit* beigelegt werden? Da es billig ist, einen Autor stets auf das günstigste auszulegen, wollen wir sagen, daß seine Meinung dahin geht, eine pflichtmäßige Handlung sei *objektiv* nothwendig, aber *subjektiv* zufällig. Allein gerade das ist nicht so leicht gedacht, wie gesagt: wo ist denn das *Objekt* dieser *objektiven* Nothwendigkeit, deren Erfolg in der objektiven Realität meistens und vielleicht immer ausbleibt? Bei aller Billigkeit der Auslegung kann ich doch nicht umhin zu sagen, daß der Ausdruck der Definition „*Nothwendigkeit einer Handlung*“ nichts Anderes ist, als eine künstlich versteckte, sehr gezwungene Umschreibung des Wortes *Soll*. Diese Absicht wird uns noch deutlicher, wenn wir bemerken, daß in der selben Definition das Wort *Achtung* gebraucht ist, wo *Gehorsam* gemeint war. Nämlich in der Anmerkung, S. 16; — R., S. 20, heißt es: „*Achtung* bedeutet bloß die Unterordnung meines Willens unter einem Gesetz. Die unmittelbare Bestimmung durchs Gesetz und das Bewußtseyn derselben heißt *Achtung*.“ In welcher Sprache? Was hier angegeben ist, heißt auf Deutsch *Gehorsam*. Da aber das Wort Achtung nicht ohne Grund so unpassend an die Stelle des Wortes *Gehorsam* gesetzt seyn kann; so muß es wohl irgend einer Absicht dienen, und diese ist offenbar keine andere, als die Abstammung der imperativen Form und des Pflichtbegriffs aus der theologischen Moral zu verschleiern; wie wir vorhin sahen, daß der Ausdruck *Nothwendigkeit einer Handlung*, der so sehr gezwungen und ungeschickt die Stelle des *Soll* vertritt, nur deshalb gewählt war, weil das *Soll* gerade die Sprache des *Dekalogs* ist. Obige Definition: „Pflicht ist die Nothwendigkeit einer Handlung aus Achtung vor dem Gesetz“, würde also in ungezwungener und unverdeckter Sprache, d. h. ohne Maske, lauten: „*Pflicht* bedeutet eine Handlung, die aus *Gehorsam* gegen ein Gesetz geschehen *soll*.“ — Dies ist „des Pudels Kern“.\n\nNun aber das *Gesetz*, dieser letzte Grundstein der Kantischen Ethik! *Was ist sein Inhalt? Und wo steht es geschrieben?* Dies ist die Hauptfrage. Ich bemerke zunächst, daß es *zwei* Fragen sind: Die eine geht auf das *Princip*, die andere auf das *Fundament* der Ethik, zwei ganz verschiedene Dinge, obwohl sie meistens und bisweilen wohl absichtlich vermischt werden.\n\nDas *Princip* oder der oberste *Grundsatz* einer Ethik ist der kürzeste und bündigste Ausdruck für die Handlungsweise, die sie vorschreibt, oder, wenn sie keine imperative Form hätte, die Handlungsweise, welcher sie eigentlichen moralischen Werth zuerkennt. Es ist mithin ihre, durch *einen* Satz ausgedrückte Anweisung zur Tugend überhaupt, also das ὅ,τι der Tugend. — Das *Fundament* einer Ethik hingegen ist das διότι der Tugend, der *Grund* jener Verpflichtung oder Anempfehlung oder Belobung, er mag nun in der Natur des Menschen, oder in äußeren Weltverhältnissen, oder worin sonst gesucht werden. Wie in allen Wissenschaften sollte man auch in der Ethik das ὅ,τι vom διότι deutlich unterscheiden. Die meisten Ethiker verwischen hingegen geflissentlich diesen Unterschied: wahrscheinlich weil das ὅ,τι so leicht, das διότι hingegen so entsetzlich schwer anzugeben ist; daher man gern die Armuth auf der *einen* Seite durch den Reichthum auf der *andern* zu kompensiren und, mittelst Zusammenfassung beider in *einen* Satz, eine glückliche Vermählung der Πενια mit dem Πορος zu Stande zu bringen sucht. Meistens geschieht dies dadurch, daß man das Jedem wohlbekannte ὅ,τι nicht in seiner Einfachheit ausspricht, sondern es in eine künstliche Formel zwängt, aus der es erst als Konklusion gegebener Prämissen geschlossen werden muß; wobei dann dem Leser zu Muthe wird, als hätte er nicht bloß die Sache, sondern auch den Grund der Sache erfahren. Hievon kann man sich an den meisten allbekannten Moralprincipien leicht überzeugen. Da nun aber ich, im folgenden Theil, dergleichen Kunststücke nicht auch vorhabe, sondern ehrlich zu verfahren und nicht das *Princip* der Ethik zugleich als ihr *Fundament* geltend zu machen, vielmehr beide ganz deutlich zu sondern gedenke; so will ich jenes ὅ,τι also das *Princip*, den *Grundsatz*, über dessen Inhalt alle Ethiker eigentlich einig sind, in so verschiedene Formen sie ihn auch kleiden, gleich hier auf den Ausdruck zurückführen, den ich für den aller einfachsten und reinsten halte: Neminem laede; imo omnes, quantum potes, juva. Dies ist eigentlich der Satz, welchen zu *begründen* alle Sittenlehrer sich abmühen, das gemeinsame Resultat ihrer so verschiedenartigen Deduktionen: es ist das ὅ,τι, zu welchem das διότι noch immer gesucht wird, die Folge, zu der man den Grund verlangt, folglich selbst erst das Datum, zu welchem das Quaesitum das Problem jeder Ethik, wie auch der vorliegenden Preisfrage ist. Die Lösung dieses Problems wird das eigentliche *Fundament* der Ethik liefern, welches man, wie den Stein der Weisen, seit Jahrtausenden sucht. Daß aber das Datum, das ὅ,τι, das Princip, wirklich seinen reinsten Ausdruck an obiger Formel hat, ist daraus ersichtlich, daß diese zu jedem andern Moralprincip sich als Konklusion zu den Prämissen, also als das, wohin man eigentlich will, verhält; so daß jedes andere Moralprincip als eine Umschreibung, ein indirekter oder verblümter Ausdruck, jenes einfachen Satzes anzusehen ist. Dies gilt z. B. selbst von dem für einfach gehaltenen, trivialen Grundsatz: Quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris[7], dessen Mangel, daß er bloß die Rechts- und nicht die Tugendpflichten ausdrückt, durch eine Wiederholung ohne non und ne leicht abzuhelfen ist. Denn auch er will alsdann eigentlich sagen: Neminem laede, imo omnes, quantum potes, juva; führt aber auf einem Umweg dahin, und gewinnt dadurch das Ansehen, als hätte er auch den Realgrund, das διότι jener Vorschrift gegeben; was doch nicht der Fall ist, da daraus, daß ich nicht will, daß mir etwas geschehe, keineswegs folgt, daß ich es Andern nicht thun solle. Das Selbe gilt von jedem bisher aufgestellten *Princip* oder obersten *Grundsatz* der Moral.\n\nWenn wir jetzt zurückkehren zu unserer obigen Frage: wie lautet denn das *Gesetz*, in dessen Befolgung, nach Kant, die Pflicht besteht; und worauf ist es gegründet? — so werden wir finden, daß auch Kant das *Princip* der Moral mit dem *Fundament* derselben auf eine sehr künstliche Weise eng verknüpft hat. Ich erinnere nunmehr an die schon anfangs in Erwägung genommene Forderung Kants, daß das Moralprincip rein a priori und rein formal, ja, ein synthetischer Satz a priori seyn soll, und daher keinen materialen Inhalt haben und auf gar nichts Empirischem, d. h. weder auf etwas Objektivem in der Außenwelt, noch auf etwas Subjektivem im Bewußtseyn, dergleichen irgend ein Gefühl, Neigung, Trieb wäre, beruhen darf. Kant war sich der Schwierigkeit dieser Aufgabe deutlich bewußt; da er S. 60; — R., S. 53, sagt: „Hier sehen wir nun die Philosophie in der That auf einen mißlichen Standpunkt gestellt, der fest seyn soll, unerachtet er weder im Himmel noch auf Erden an Etwas hängt, oder woran gestützt wird.“ Um so mehr müssen wir mit Spannung der Lösung der Aufgabe, die er sich selbst gestellt hat, entgegen sehn und begierig erwarten, wie nun Etwas aus Nichts werden, d. h. aus rein apriorischen Begriffen, ohne allen empirischen und materialen Inhalt, die Gesetze des materialen, menschlichen Handelns konkresciren sollen; — ein Proceß, als dessen Symbol wir jenen chemischen betrachten können, vermöge dessen aus drei unsichtbaren Gasen (Azot, Hydrogen, Chlor), also im scheinbar leeren Raum, vor unsern Augen fester Salmiak entsteht. — Ich will aber den Proceß, durch welchen Kant diese schwierige Aufgabe löst, deutlicher, als er selbst gewollt oder gekonnt hat, darlegen. Dies möchte um so nöthiger seyn, als derselbe selten recht verstanden zu seyn scheint. Denn fast alle Kantianer sind in den Irrthum gerathen, daß Kant den kategorischen Imperativ unmittelbar als eine Thatsache des Bewußtseyns aufstelle: dann wäre er aber *anthropologisch*, durch *Erfahrung*, wenngleich innere, also *empirisch* begründet; welches der Ansicht Kants schnurstracks entgegenläuft und von ihm wiederholentlich abgewiesen wird. Daher sagt er S. 48; — R., S. 44: „es sei nicht empirisch auszumachen, ob es überall irgend einen solchen kategorischen Imperativ gebe“; wie auch S. 49; — R., S. 45: „die Möglichkeit des kategorischen Imperativs sei ganz a priori zu untersuchen; da uns hier nicht der Vortheil zu Statten komme, daß dessen Wirklichkeit in der Erfahrung gegeben sei“. Aber schon sein erster Schüler, *Reinhold*, ist in jenem Irrthum befangen, da er in seinen „Beiträgen zur Uebersicht der Philosophie am Anfange des 19. Jahrhunderts“, Heft 2, S. 21, sagt: „Kant nimmt das Moralgesetz als ein unmittelbar gewisses Faktum, als ursprüngliche Thatsache des moralischen Bewußtseyns an.“ Hätte aber Kant den kategorischen Imperativ als Thatsache des Bewußtseyns, mithin empirisch begründen wollen; so würde er nicht ermangelt haben, ihn wenigstens als solche nachzuweisen. Aber nirgends findet sich dergleichen. Meines Wissens geschieht das erste Auftreten des kategorischen Imperativs in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft (S. 802 der ersten und S. 830 der fünften Auflage), wo derselbe unangemeldet und mit dem vorhergegangenen Satze nur durch ein völlig unberechtigtes „Daher“ zusammenhängend, ganz ex nunc auftritt. Förmlich eingeführt wird er zuerst in der hier von uns in besondere Betrachtung genommenen „Grundlage zur Metaphysik der Sitten“, und zwar ganz auf *apriorischem* Wege, durch eine Deduktion aus Begriffen. Hingegen eine im fünften Heft der eben genannten, für die kritische Philosophie so wichtigen Zeitschrift *Reinholds* befindliche „Formula concordiae des Kriticismus“ stellt S. 122 sogar folgenden Satz auf: „Wir unterscheiden das moralische Selbstbewußtseyn von der *Erfahrung*, mit welcher dasselbe, als eine ursprüngliche *Thatsache*, über welche kein Wissen hinausgehen kann, im menschlichen Bewußtseyn verbunden ist, und wir verstehen unter jenem Selbstbewußtseyn das *unmittelbare Bewußtseyn der Pflicht*, d. h. der *Nothwendigkeit*, die von Lust und Unlust unabhängige Gesetzmäßigkeit des Willens zur Triebfeder und Richtschnur der Willenshandlungen anzunehmen.“ — Da hätten wir freilich „einen erklecklichen Satz, ja, und der auch was setzt.“ (Schiller.)\n\nAber im Ernst: zu welcher unverschämten petitio principii sehen wir hier Kants Moralgesetz angewachsen! Wenn Das wahr wäre, so hätte freilich die Ethik ein Fundament von unvergleichlicher Solidität, und es bedürfte keiner Preisfragen, um zum Aufsuchen desselben zu ermuntern. Dann wäre aber auch das größte Wunder, daß man eine solche Thatsache des Bewußtseyns so spät entdeckt hätte; während man Jahrtausende hindurch eifrig und mühsam nach einer Grundlage für die Moral suchte. Wodurch aber Kant selbst zu dem gerügten Irrthum Anlaß gegeben, werde ich weiter unten beibringen. Dennoch könnte man sich über das unangefochtene Herrschen eines solchen Grundirrthums unter den Kantianern wundern: aber haben sie, während sie zahllose Bücher über Kants Philosophie schrieben, doch nicht ein Mal die Verunstaltung bemerkt, welche die Kritik der reinen Vernunft in der zweiten Auflage erfuhr und vermöge der sie ein inkohärentes, sich selber widersprechendes Buch wurde; was erst jetzt an den Tag gekommen, und, wie mir dünkt, ganz richtig auseinandergesetzt ist in Rosenkranzens Vorrede zum zweiten Band der Gesammtausgabe der Kantischen Werke. Man muß bedenken, daß vielen Gelehrten das unablässige Lehren vom Katheder und in Schriften zum gründlichen Lernen nur wenig Zeit läßt. Das docendo disco ist nicht unbedingt wahr, vielmehr möchte man bisweilen es parodiren: semper docendo nihil disco; und sogar ist nicht ganz ohne Grund, was *Diderot* dem Neffen Rameau's in den Mund legt: „Und diese Lehrer, glaubt ihr denn, daß sie die Wissenschaften verstehen werden, worin sie Unterricht geben? Possen, lieber Herr, Possen. Besäßen sie die Kenntnisse hinlänglich, um sie zu lehren, so lehrten sie sie nicht.“ — „„Und warum?““ — „Sie hätten ihr Leben verwendet, sie zu studiren.“ (Goethe's Uebersetzung, S. 104.) — Auch Lichtenberg sagt: „Ich habe das schon mehr bemerkt, die Leute von Profession wissen oft das Beste nicht.“ Was aber (zur Kantischen Moral zurückzukehren) das Publikum betrifft; so setzen die Meisten, wenn nur das Resultat zu ihren moralischen Gefühlen stimmt, sofort voraus, es werde mit der Ableitung desselben schon seine Richtigkeit haben, und werden sich mit dieser, wenn sie schwierig aussieht, nicht tief einlassen; sondern sich hierin auf die Leute „vom Fach“ verlassen.\n\n*Kants Begründung seines Moralgesetzes* ist also keineswegs die empirische Nachweisung desselben als einer Thatsache des Bewußtseyns, noch eine Apellation an das moralische Gefühl, noch eine petitio principii unter dem vornehmen modernen Namen eines „absoluten Postulats“; sondern es ist ein sehr subtiler Gedankenproceß, welchen er uns zwei Mal, S. 17 und 51; — R., S. 22 und 46, vorführt, und von dem Folgendes die verdeutlichte Darstellung ist.\n\nDa Kant, indem er alle empirische Triebfedern des Willens verschmähete, alles Objektive und alles Subjektive, darauf ein Gesetz für denselben zu gründen wäre, als empirisch, zum voraus weggenommen hat; so bleibt ihm zum *Stoff* dieses *Gesetzes* nichts übrig, als dessen eigene *Form*. Diese nun ist eben nur die *Gesetzmäßigkeit*. Die *Gesetzmäßigkeit* aber besteht im Gelten für Alle, also in der *Allgemeingültigkeit*. Diese demnach wird zum *Stoff*. Folglich ist der Inhalt des Gesetzes nichts Anderes, als seine *Allgemeingültigkeit* selbst. Demzufolge wird es lauten: „Handle nur nach der Maxime, von der du zugleich wollen kannst, daß sie allgemeines Gesetz für alle vernünftige Wesen werde.“ — Dieses also ist die so allgemein verkannte, eigentliche *Begründung des Moralprincips* Kants, mithin das *Fundament* seiner ganzen Ethik. — Man vergleiche noch Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, S. 61; — R., S. 147, das Ende der Anmerkung 1. — Dem großen Scharfsinn, womit Kant das Kunststück ausgeführt hat, zolle ich meine aufrichtige Bewunderung, fahre aber in meiner ernsten Prüfung nach dem Maaßstabe der Wahrheit fort. Ich bemerke nur noch, zum Behuf nachheriger Wiederaufnahme, daß die *Vernunft*, indem und insofern sie das eben dargelegte specielle Räsonnement vollzieht, den Namen der *praktischen Vernunft* erhält. Der kategorische Imperativ der praktischen Vernunft ist aber das aus dem dargelegten Gedankenproceß sich als Resultat ergebende Gesetz: also ist die praktische Vernunft keineswegs, wie die Meisten, und auch schon Fichte, es ansahen, ein nicht weiter zurückzuführendes besonderes Vermögen, eine qualitas occulta, eine Art Moralitäts-Instinkt, dem moral sense des Hutcheson ähnlich; sondern ist (wie auch Kant in der Vorrede, S. XII; — R., S. 8, und oft genug außerdem sagt) Eins und Dasselbe mit der *theoretischen Vernunft*, ist nämlich diese selbst, sofern sie den dargelegten Gedankenproceß vollzieht. Fichte nämlich nennt den kategorischen Imperativ Kants ein *absolutes Postulat* (Grundlage der gesammten Wissenschaftslehre, Tübingen 1802, S. 240, Anmerkung). Dies ist der moderne, beschönigende Ausdruck für petitio principii, und so auch hat er selbst den kategorischen Imperativ durchgängig genommen, ist also im oben gerügten Irrthum mitbegriffen.\n\nDer Einwand nun, welchem jene von Kant der Moral gegebene Grundlage zunächst und unmittelbar unterliegt, ist, daß dieser Ursprung eines Moralgesetzes in uns darum unmöglich ist, weil er voraussetzt, daß der Mensch ganz von selbst auf den Einfall käme, sich nach einem *Gesetz* für seinen Willen, dem dieser sich zu unterwerfen und zu fügen hätte, umzusehen und zu erkundigen. Dies aber kann ihm unmöglich von selbst in den Sinn kommen, sondern höchstens nur, nachdem schon eine andere, positiv wirksame, reale und als solche sich von selbst ankündigende, ungerufen auf ihn einwirkende, ja eindringende, moralische Triebfeder den ersten Anstoß und Anlaß dazu gegeben hätte. So etwas aber würde der Annahme Kants widerstreiten, welcher zufolge der obige Gedankenproceß *selbst* der Ursprung aller moralischen Begriffe, das punctum saliens der Moralität seyn soll. So lange nun also Jenes *nicht* der Fall ist, indem es, ex hypothesi, keine andere moralische Triebfeder, als den dargelegten Gedankenproceß giebt; so lange bleibt die Richtschnur des menschlichen Handelns allein der Egoismus, am Leitfaden des Gesetzes der Motivation, d. h. die jedesmaligen, ganz empirischen und egoistischen Motive bestimmen, in jedem einzelnen Fall, das Handeln des Menschen, allein und ungestört; da unter dieser Voraussetzung keine Aufforderung für ihn und gar kein Grund vorhanden ist, weswegen es ihm einfallen sollte, nach einem Gesetz zu fragen, welches sein Wollen beschränkte und dem er dieses zu unterwerfen hätte, geschweige nach einem solchen zu forschen und zu grübeln, wodurch es allererst möglich würde, daß er auf den sonderbaren Gedankengang der obigen Reflexion geriethe. Hiebei ist es einerlei, welchen Grad der Deutlichkeit man dem Kantischen Reflexionsprocesse geben will, ob man ihn etwan herabstimmen möchte zu einer nur dunkel gefühlten Ueberlegung. Denn keine Aenderung hierin ficht die Grundwahrheiten an, daß aus Nichts nichts wird, und daß eine Wirkung eine Ursache verlangt. Die moralische Triebfeder muß schlechterdings, wie jedes den Willen bewegende Motiv, eine sich von selbst ankündigende, deshalb positiv wirkende, folglich *reale* seyn: und da für den Menschen nur das Empirische, oder doch als möglicherweise empirisch vorhanden Vorausgesetzte, Realität hat; so muß die moralische Triebfeder in der That eine *empirische* seyn und als solche ungerufen sich ankündigen, an uns kommen, ohne auf unser Fragen danach zu warten, von selbst auf uns eindringen, und dies mit solcher Gewalt, daß sie die entgegenstehenden, riesenstarken, egoistischen Motive wenigstens möglicherweise überwinden kann. Denn die Moral hat es mit dem *wirklichen* Handeln des Menschen und nicht mit apriorischem Kartenhäuserbau zu thun, an dessen Ergebnisse sich im Ernste und Drange des Lebens kein Mensch kehren würde, deren Wirkung daher, dem Sturm der Leidenschaften gegenüber, so viel seyn würde, wie die einer Klystierspritze bei einer Feuersbrunst. Ich habe schon oben erwähnt, daß Kant es als ein großes Verdienst seines Moralgesetzes betrachtet, daß es bloß auf abstrakte, reine Begriffe a priori, folglich auf *reine Vernunft* gegründet ist, als wodurch es nicht bloß für Menschen, sondern für alle vernünftige Wesen als solche gültig sei. Wir müssen um so mehr bedauern, daß reine, abstrakte Begriffe a priori, ohne realen Gehalt und ohne alle irgendwie empirische Grundlage, wenigstens *Menschen* nie in Bewegung setzen können: von andern vernünftigen Wesen kann ich nicht mitreden. Daher ist der zweite Fehler der Kantischen Grundlage der Moralität Mangel an realem Gehalt. Dieser ist bisher nicht bemerkt worden, weil das oben deutlich dargelegte eigentliche *Fundament* der Kantischen Moral wahrscheinlich den allerwenigsten von Denen, die es celebrirt und propagirt haben, von Grund aus deutlich gewesen ist. Der zweite Fehler also ist gänzlicher Mangel an Realität und dadurch an möglicher Wirksamkeit. Es schwebt in der Luft, als ein Spinnengewebe der subtilsten, inhaltsleersten Begriffe, ist auf nichts basirt, kann daher nichts tragen und nichts bewegen. Und dennoch hat Kant demselben eine Last von unendlicher Schwere aufgebürdet, nämlich die Voraussetzung der Freiheit des Willens.\n\nTrotz seiner wiederholt ausgesprochenen Ueberzeugung, daß Freiheit in den Handlungen des Menschen schlechterdings nicht Statt haben kann, daß sie theoretisch nicht ein Mal ihrer Möglichkeit nach eingesehen werden kann (Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, S. 168; — R., S. 223), daß, wenn genaue Kenntniß des Charakters eines Menschen und aller auf ihn einwirkenden Motive gegeben wäre, das Handeln desselben sich so sicher und genau wie eine Mondfinsterniß würde ausrechnen lassen (ebendaselbst, S. 177; — R., S. 230), wird dennoch, bloß auf den Kredit jenes so in der Luft schwebenden Fundaments der Moral, die Freiheit, wenn auch nur idealiter und als ein Postulat, angenommen, durch den berühmten Schluß: „Du kannst: denn Du sollst.“ Aber wenn man ein Mal deutlich erkannt hat, daß eine Sache nicht ist und nicht seyn kann, was hilft da alles Postuliren? Da wäre vielmehr Das, worauf das Postulat sich gründet, zu verwerfen, weil es eine unmögliche Voraussetzung ist, nach der Regel a non posse ad non esse valet consequentia, und mittelst eines apagogischen Beweises, der also hier den kategorischen Imperativ umstieße. Statt Dessen aber wird hier eine falsche Lehre auf die andere gebauet.\n\nDer Unzulänglichkeit eines allein aus einem Paar ganz abstrakter und inhaltsleerer Begriffe bestehenden Fundaments der Moral muß Kant selbst im Stillen sich bewußt gewesen seyn. Denn in der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, wo er, wie gesagt, überhaupt schon weniger strenge und methodisch zu Werke geht, auch durch seinen nunmehr errungenen Ruhm kühner geworden ist, verändert ganz allmälig das Fundament der Ethik seine Natur, vergißt beinah, daß es ein bloßes Gewebe abstrakter Begriffskombinationen ist, und scheint substantieller werden zu wollen. So z. B. ist daselbst S. 81; — R., S. 163, „das moralische Gesetz *gleichsam ein Faktum der reinen Vernunft*“. Was soll man bei diesem seltsamen Ausdruck sich denken? Das Faktische wird sonst überall dem aus reiner Vernunft Erkennbaren entgegengesetzt. — Imgleichen ist ebendaselbst, S. 83; — R., S. 164, die Rede von „einer den Willen *unmittelbar* bestimmenden Vernunft“ u. s. f. — Dabei nun sei man eingedenk, daß er jede anthropologische Begründung, jede Nachweisung des kategorischen Imperativs als einer Thatsache des Bewußtseyns in der *Grundlegung* ausdrücklich und wiederholt ablehnt, weil sie *empirisch* seyn würde. — Jedoch durch solche beiläufige Aeußerungen dreist gemacht, giengen die Nachfolger Kants sehr viel weiter auf jenem Wege fort. *Fichte* (System der Sittenlehre, S. 49) warnt geradezu, „daß man sich nicht verleiten lasse, das Bewußtseyn, daß wir Pflichten haben, weiter zu erklären und aus Gründen außer ihm ableiten zu wollen, weil dies der Würde und Absolutheit des Gesetzes Eintrag thue“. Schöne Exküse! — Und dann ebendaselbst S. 66 sagt er, „das Princip der Sittlichkeit sei ein Gedanke, der sich auf die *intellektuelle Anschauung* der absoluten Thätigkeit der Intelligenz gründe und der unmittelbare Begriff der reinen Intelligenz von sich selbst sei“. Hinter welche Floskeln doch so ein Windbeutel seine Rathlosigkeit versteckt! — Wer sich überzeugen will, wie gänzlich die Kantianer Kants ursprüngliche Begründung und Ableitung des Moralgesetzes allmälig vergaßen und ignorirten, sehe einen sehr lesenswerthen Aufsatz nach, in *Reinholds* Beiträgen zur Uebersicht der Philosophie im Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts, Heft 2, 1801. Daselbst S. 105 und 106 wird behauptet, „daß in der Kantischen Philosophie die Autonomie (welche Eins ist mit dem kategorischen Imperativ) eine Thatsache des Bewußtseyns und auf nichts weiter zurückzuführen sei, indem sie sich durch ein unmittelbares Bewußtseyn ankündige“. — Dann wäre sie anthropologisch, mithin empirisch begründet, was Kants ausdrücklichen und wiederholten Erklärungen zuwiderläuft. — Dennoch wird ebendaselbst S. 108 gesagt: „Sowohl in der praktischen Philosophie des Kriticismus, als auch in der gesammten gereinigten oder höhern Transscendentalphilosophie ist die Autonomie das durch sich selbst Begründete und Begründende, und keiner weitern Begründung Fähige und Bedürftige, das schlechthin Ursprüngliche, durch sich selbst Wahre und Gewisse, das Urwahre, das prius κατ’ ἐξοχην, das absolute Princip. — Wer daher von dieser Autonomie einen Grund außer ihr selber vermuthet, fordert oder sucht, von dem muß die Kantische Schule glauben, daß es ihm entweder an moralischem Bewußtseyn fehle[8], oder daß er dasselbe in der Spekulation durch falsche Grundbegriffe verkenne. Die Fichte-Schellingische Schule erklärt ihn mit derjenigen Geistlosigkeit behaftet, welche zum Philosophiren unfähig macht und den Charakter des unheiligen Pöbels und trägen Viehes, oder, wie Schelling sich schonender ausdrückt, des profanum vulgus und ignavum pecus ausmacht.“ Wie es um die Wahrheit einer Lehre stehen müsse, die man mit solchen Trümpfen zu ertrotzen sucht, fühlt Jeder. Inzwischen müssen wir doch aus dem Respekt, den diese einflößten, die wahrhaft kindliche Gläubigkeit erklären, mit der die Kantianer den kategorischen Imperativ annahmen und fortan als ausgemachte Sache behandelten. Denn da hier das Bestreiten einer theoretischen Behauptung leicht verwechselt werden konnte mit moralischer Ruchlosigkeit; so ließ Jeder, wenn er auch von dem kategorischen Imperativ in seinem eigenen Bewußtseyn nicht viel gewahr wurde, doch lieber hievon nichts laut werden, weil er im Stillen glaubte, daß bei Andern derselbe wohl stärkere Entwickelung haben und deutlicher hervortreten würde. Denn das Innere seines Gewissens kehrt Keiner gern nach Außen.\n\nMehr und mehr also erscheint in der Kantischen Schule die praktische Vernunft mit ihrem kategorischen Imperativ als eine hyperphysische Thatsache, als ein Delphischer Tempel im menschlichen Gemüth, aus dessen finsterem Heiligthum Orakelsprüche, zwar leider nicht was geschehen *wird*, aber doch was geschehen *soll*, untrüglich verkündigen. Diese ein Mal angenommene, oder vielmehr erschlichene und ertrotzte *Unmittelbarkeit der praktischen Vernunft* wurde späterhin leider auch auf die *theoretische* übertragen; zumal da Kant selbst oft gesagt hatte, daß beide doch nur Eine und dieselbe Vernunft seien (z. B. Vorrede, S. XII; — R., S. 8). Denn nachdem einmal zugestanden war, daß es in Hinsicht auf das *Praktische* eine ex tripode diktirende Vernunft gebe, so lag der Schritt sehr nahe, ihrer Schwester, ja, eigentlich sogar Konsubstanzialin, der *theoretischen Vernunft*, den selben Vorzug einzuräumen, und sie für ebenso reichsunmittelbar wie jene zu erklären, wovon der Vortheil so unermeßlich wie augenfällig war. Nun strömten alle Philosophaster und Phantasten, den Atheistendenunzianten J. H. Jacobi an der Spitze, nach diesem ihnen unerwartet aufgegangenen Pförtlein hin, um ihre Sächelchen zu Markte zu bringen, oder um von den alten Erbstücken, welche Kants Lehre zu zermalmen drohte, wenigstens das Liebste zu retten. — Wie im Leben des Einzelnen ein Fehltritt der Jugend oft den ganzen Lebenslauf verdirbt, so hatte jene einzige von *Kant* gemachte falsche Annahme einer mit völlig transscendenten Kreditiven ausgestatteten und, wie die höchsten Appellationshöfe, „ohne Gründe“ entscheidenden, praktischen *Vernunft* zur Folge, daß aus der strengen, nüchternen kritischen Philosophie die ihr heterogensten Lehren entsprangen, die Lehren von einer das „*Uebersinnliche*“ erst bloß leise „*ahndenden*“, dann schon deutlich „*vernehmenden*“, endlich gar leibhaftig „*intellektual anschauenden*“ *Vernunft*, für deren „absolute“, d. h. ex tripode gegebene, Aussprüche und Offenbarungen jetzt jeder Phantast seine Träumereien ausgeben konnte. Dies neue Privilegium ist redlich benutzt worden. Hier also liegt der Ursprung jener unmittelbar nach Kants Lehre auftretenden philosophischen Methode, die im Mystificiren, Imponiren, Täuschen, Sand in die Augen streuen und Windbeuteln besteht, deren Zeitraum die Geschichte der Philosophie einst unter dem Titel „Periode der Unredlichkeit“ anführen wird. Denn der *Charakter der Redlichkeit*, des gemeinschaftlichen Forschens mit dem Leser, welchen die Schriften aller früheren Philosophen tragen, ist hier verschwunden: nicht belehren, sondern bethören will der Philosophaster dieser Zeit seinen Leser: davon zeugt jede Seite. Als Heroen dieser Periode glänzen *Fichte* und *Schelling*, zuletzt aber auch der selbst ihrer ganz unwürdige und sehr viel tiefer als diese Talent-Männer stehende, plumpe, geistlose Scharlatan *Hegel*. Den Chorus machten allerlei Philosophieprofessoren, welche, mit ernsthafter Miene, vom Unendlichen, vom Absoluten und vielen andern Dingen, von denen sie schlechterdings nichts wissen konnten, ihrem Publiko vorerzählten.\n\nAls Stufe zu jenem *Prophetenthum der Vernunft* mußte sogar der armsälige Witz dienen, daß, weil das Wort *Vernunft* von *Vernehmen* kommt, dasselbe besage, daß die *Vernunft* ein Vermögen sei, jenes sogenannte „*Uebersinnliche*“ (νεφελοκοκκυγια, Wolkenkukuksheim) zu vernehmen. Der Einfall fand ungemessenen Beifall, wurde in Deutschland 30 Jahre hindurch, mit unsäglichem Genügen, unablässig wiederholt, ja, zum Grundstein philosophischer Lehrgebäude gemacht; — während es am Tage liegt, daß freilich *Vernunft* von *Vernehmen* kommt, aber nur weil sie dem Menschen den Vorzug vor dem Thiere giebt, nicht bloß zu *hören*, sondern auch zu *vernehmen*, jedoch nicht was in Wolkenkukuksheim vorgeht, sondern was ein vernünftiger Mensch dem Andern sagt: das wird von diesem *vernommen*, und die Fähigkeit dazu heißt *Vernunft*. So haben alle Völker, alle Zeiten, alle Sprachen den Begriff der *Vernunft* gefaßt, nämlich als das Vermögen allgemeiner, abstrakter, nicht anschaulicher Vorstellungen, genannt *Begriffe*, welche bezeichnet und fixirt werden durch Worte: dies Vermögen allein ist es, welches der Mensch vor dem Thiere wirklich voraus hat. Denn diese *abstrakten* Vorstellungen, *Begriffe*, d. h. Inbegriffe vieler Einzeldinge, bedingen die Sprache, mittelst ihrer das eigentliche Denken, mittelst dieses das Bewußtseyn nicht bloß der Gegenwart, welches auch die Thiere haben, sondern der Vergangenheit und der Zukunft als solcher, und hiedurch wieder die deutliche Erinnerung, die Besonnenheit, die Vorsorge, die Absicht, das planvolle Zusammenwirken Vieler, den Staat, die Gewerbe, Künste, Wissenschaften, Religionen und Philosophien, kurz, Alles das, was das Leben des Menschen von dem des Thieres so auffallend unterscheidet. Für das Thier giebt es bloß *anschauliche* Vorstellungen und daher auch nur *anschauliche* Motive: die Abhängigkeit seiner Willensakte von den Motiven ist deshalb augenfällig. Beim Menschen hat diese nicht weniger Statt, und auch ihn bewegen (unter Voraussetzung seines individuellen Charakters) die Motive mit strengster Nothwendigkeit: allein diese sind meistens nicht *anschauliche*, sondern *abstrakte* Vorstellungen, d. h. *Begriffe*, *Gedanken*, die jedoch das Resultat früherer Anschauungen, also der Einwirkungen von außen auf ihn sind. Dies aber giebt ihm eine *relative* Freiheit, nämlich im Vergleich mit dem Thiere. Denn ihn bestimmt nicht, wie das Thier, die *anschauliche*, gegenwärtige Umgebung, sondern seine aus früheren Erfahrungen abgezogenen, oder durch Belehrung überkommenen *Gedanken*. Daher liegt das Motiv, welches auch ihn nothwendig bewegt, dem Zuschauer nicht zugleich mit der That vor Augen; sondern er trägt es in seinem Kopfe herum. Dies giebt nicht nur seinem Thun und Treiben im Ganzen, sondern schon allen seinen Bewegungen einen von denen des Thieres augenfällig verschiedenen Charakter: er wird gleichsam von feineren, nicht sichtbaren, Fäden gezogen: daher tragen alle seine Bewegungen das Gepräge des Vorsätzlichen und Absichtlichen, welches ihnen einen Anschein von Unabhängigkeit giebt, der sie augenfällig von denen des Thieres unterscheidet. Alle diese großen Verschiedenheiten hängen aber ganz und gar ab von der Fähigkeit *abstrakter Vorstellungen*, Begriffe. Diese Fähigkeit daher ist das Wesentliche der *Vernunft*, d. h. des *den* Menschen auszeichnenden Vermögens, genannt το λογιμον, το λογιστικον, ratio, la ragione, il discorso, raison, reason, discourse of reason. — Frägt man mich aber, was zum Unterschiede davon der *Verstand*, νους, intellectus, entendement, understanding, sei; so sage ich: er ist dasjenige Erkenntnißvermögen, welches auch die Thiere haben, nur in verschiedenem Grade, und wir im höchsten, nämlich das unmittelbare, aller Erfahrung vorhergängige Bewußtseyn des *Kausalitätsgesetzes*, als welches die Form des Verstandes selbst ausmacht und worin sein ganzes Wesen besteht. Von ihm hängt zuvörderst die *Anschauung* der Außenwelt ab: denn die Sinne für sich allein sind bloß der *Empfindung* fähig, die noch lange keine *Anschauung* ist, sondern allererst deren Material: νοῦς ὁρᾷ καὶ νοῦς ἀκούει, τ’ ἄλλα κωφὰ καὶ τυφλα (mens videt, mens audit, cetera surda et coeca). Die *Anschauung* entsteht dadurch, daß wir die *Empfindung* der Sinnesorgane unmittelbar beziehen auf deren *Ursache*, die sich, eben durch diesen Akt der Intelligenz, als *äußeres Objekt* in unserer Anschauungsform Raum darstellt. Dies eben beweist, daß das Kausalitätsgesetz uns a priori bewußt ist und nicht aus der Erfahrung stammt, indem diese selbst, da sie die *Anschauung* voraussetzt, erst durch dasselbe möglich wird. In der *Vollkommenheit* dieser ganz unmittelbaren Auffassung der *Kausalitätsverhältnisse* besteht alle Ueberlegenheit des Verstandes, alle Klugheit, Sagacität, Penetration, Scharfsinn: denn jene liegt aller Kenntniß des *Zusammenhanges* der Dinge, im weitesten Sinn des Worts, zum Grunde. Ihre Schärfe und Richtigkeit macht *den* Einen *verständiger*, klüger, schlauer als *den* Andern. *Vernünftig* hingegen hat man zu allen Zeiten *den* Menschen genannt, der sich nicht durch die anschaulichen Eindrücke, sondern durch *Gedanken und Begriffe* leiten läßt, und daher stets überlegt, konsequent und besonnen zu Werke geht. Ein solches Handeln heißt überall ein *vernünftiges Handeln*. Keineswegs aber implicirt dieses Rechtschaffenheit und Menschenliebe. Vielmehr kann man höchst vernünftig, also überlegt, besonnen, konsequent, planvoll und methodisch zu Werke gehen, dabei aber doch die eigennützigsten, ungerechtesten, sogar ruchlosesten Maximen befolgen. Daher ist es vor *Kant* keinem Menschen je eingefallen, das gerechte, tugendhafte und edle Handeln mit dem *vernünftigen* Handeln zu identifiziren: sondern man hat beide vollkommen unterschieden und auseinander gehalten. Das Eine beruht auf der *Art der Motivation*, das Andere auf der *Verschiedenheit der Grundmaximen*. Bloß nach *Kant*, da die Tugend aus reiner Vernunft entspringen sollte, ist Tugendhaft und Vernünftig Eines und Dasselbe; dem Sprachgebrauch aller Völker, der nicht zufällig, sondern das Werk der allgemeinen menschlichen und daher übereinstimmenden Erkenntniß ist, zum Trotz. Vernünftig und Lasterhaft lassen sich sehr wohl vereinigen, ja, erst durch ihre Vereinigung sind große, weitgreifende Verbrechen möglich. Ebenso besteht Unvernünftig und Edelmüthig sehr wohl zusammen: z. B. wenn ich heute dem Dürftigen gebe, was ich selbst morgen noch dringender, als er, bedürfen werde; wenn ich mich hinreißen lasse, einem Nothleidenden die Summe zu schenken, auf die mein Gläubiger wartet; und so in sehr vielen Fällen.\n\nAber, wie gesagt, diese Erhebung der Vernunft zur Quelle aller Tugend, beruhend auf der Behauptung, daß sie als *praktische Vernunft* unbedingte Imperative, rein a priori, orakularisch von sich gebe, und zusammengefaßt mit der in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft aufgestellten falschen Erklärung der *theoretischen Vernunft*, daß sie ein wesentlich auf das zu drei angeblichen Ideen sich gestaltende *Unbedingte* (dessen Unmöglichkeit zugleich der Verstand a priori erkenne) gerichtetes Vermögen sei, führte, als exemplar vitiis imitabile, die Fasel-Philosophen, Jacobi an der Spitze, auf jene das „*Uebersinnliche*“ unmittelbar *vernehmende* Vernunft und auf die absurde Behauptung, die Vernunft sei ein wesentlich auf Dinge jenseit aller Erfahrung, also auf *Metaphysik* angelegtes Vermögen und erkenne unmittelbar und intuitiv die letzten Gründe aller Dinge und alles Daseyns, das Uebersinnliche, das Absolute, die Gottheit u. dergl. m. — Solchen Behauptungen hätte längst, wenn man *seine Vernunft*, statt sie zu vergöttern, hätte brauchen wollen, die einfache Bemerkung sich entgegenstellen müssen, daß, wenn der Mensch, vermöge eines eigenthümlichen Organs zur Lösung des Räthsels der Welt, welches *seine Vernunft* ausmache, eine angeborene, nur der Entwickelung bedürftige Metaphysik in sich trüge; alsdann über die Gegenstände der Metaphysik ebenso vollkommene Uebereinstimmung unter den Menschen herrschen müßte, wie über die Wahrheiten der Arithmetik und Geometrie; wodurch es ganz unmöglich würde, daß auf der Erde eine große Anzahl grundverschiedener Religionen und eine noch größere grundverschiedener philosophischer Systeme sich vorfände; vielmehr alsdann Jeder, der in religiösen oder philosophischen Ansichten von den Uebrigen abwiche, sogleich angesehen werden müßte, wie Einer, bei dem es nicht recht richtig ist. — Nicht weniger hätte folgende einfache Bemerkung sich aufdringen müssen. Wenn wir eine Affenspecies entdeckten, welche sich Werkzeuge, zum Kampf oder zum Bauen oder sonst einem Gebrauch, absichtlich verfertigte; so würden wir sofort ihr *Vernunft* zugestehen: finden wir hingegen wilde Völker, ohne alle Metaphysik oder Religion, wie es deren giebt; so fällt uns nicht ein, ihnen deshalb die *Vernunft* abzusprechen. Die ihre vorgeblichen übersinnlichen Kenntnisse *beweisende* *Vernunft* hat *Kant* durch seine Kritik in ihre Schranken zurückgewiesen; aber jene Jacobische, das Uebersinnliche unmittelbar *vernehmende* *Vernunft* müßte er wahrlich unter aller Kritik befunden haben. Inzwischen wird eine dergleichen reichsunmittelbare *Vernunft* noch immer, auf den Universitäten, den unschuldigen Jünglingen aufgebunden.\n\nAnmerkung.\n\nWenn wir der Annahme der praktischen *Vernunft* ganz auf den Grund kommen wollen, müssen wir ihren Stammbaum etwas höher hinauf verfolgen. Da finden wir, daß sie von einer Lehre stammt, die *Kant* selbst gründlich widerlegt hat, welche aber dennoch hier, als Reminiscenz früherer Denkungsart, seiner Annahme einer praktischen Vernunft, mit ihren Imperativen und ihrer Autonomie, heimlich, ja, ihm selbst unbewußt, zum Grunde liegt. Es ist die rationale Psychologie, welcher zufolge der Mensch aus zwei völlig heterogenen Substanzen zusammengesetzt ist, dem materiellen Leibe und der immateriellen Seele. *Plato* ist der Erste, der dieses Dogma förmlich aufgestellt und als objektive Wahrheit zu beweisen gesucht hat. *Kartesius* aber führte es auf den Gipfel der Vollendung und stellte es auf die Spitze, indem er ihm die genaueste Ausführung und wissenschaftliche Strenge verlieh. Aber eben dadurch kam die Falschheit desselben zu Tage und wurde successive von *Spinoza*, *Locke* und *Kant* dargethan. Von *Spinoza* (dessen Philosophie hauptsächlich im Widerlegen des zwiefachen Dualismus seines Lehrers besteht), indem er, den zwei Substanzen des *Kartesius* geradezu und ausdrücklich entgegen, zu seinem Hauptsatz machte: Substantia cogitans et substantia extensa una eademque est substantia, quae jam sub hoc, jam sub illo attributo comprehenditur. Von *Locke*, indem er die angeborenen Ideen bestritt, alle Erkenntniß aus der sinnlichen ableitete und lehrte, es sei nicht unmöglich, daß die Materie denken könne. Von *Kant*, durch die Kritik der rationalen Psychologie, wie sie in der ersten Ausgabe steht. Wogegen andererseits *Leibnitz* und *Wolf* die schlechte Partei verfochten: dies hat Leibnitzen die unverdiente Ehre verschafft, dem ihm so heterogenen, großen *Plato* verglichen zu werden. Dies Alles auszuführen ist hier nicht der Ort. Dieser rationalen Psychologie nun zufolge war die Seele ein ursprünglich und wesentlich *erkennendes* und erst in Folge davon auch ein *wollendes* Wesen. Je nachdem sie nun, in diesen ihren Grundthätigkeiten, rein für sich und unvermischt mit dem Leibe, oder aber in Verbindung mit diesem zu Werke gieng, hatte sie ein höheres und niederes Erkenntniß- und ebenso ein dergleichen Willens-Vermögen. Im höhern Vermögen war die immaterielle Seele ganz für sich und ohne Mitwirkung des Leibes thätig: da war sie intellectus purus und hatte es mit lauter ihr allein angehörigen, daher gar nicht sinnlichen, sondern rein geistigen Vorstellungen und eben dergleichen Willensakten zu thun, welche sämmtlich nichts Sinnliches, als welches vom Leibe herrührte, an sich trügen.[9] Da erkannte sie nun lauter reine Abstrakta, Universalia, angeborene Begriffe, aeternae veritates u. dgl. Und demgemäß stand auch ihr *Wollen* allein unter dem Einfluß solcher rein geistigen Vorstellungen. Dagegen war das *niedere* Erkenntniß- und Willensvermögen das Werk der mit dem Leibe und dessen Organen im Verein wirkenden und eng verknüpften, dadurch aber in ihrer rein geistigen Wirksamkeit beeinträchtigten Seele. Hieher sollte nun gehören jedes *anschauende* Erkennen, welches demgemäß das undeutliche und verworrene, das *abstrakte* hingegen, aus abgezogenen Begriffen bestehende, das deutliche seyn sollte! Der nun durch solche sinnlich bedingte Erkenntniß bestimmte Wille war der niedrige und meistens schlechte: denn sein war das durch Sinnenreiz geleitete *Wollen*; während jenes andere das lautere, von reiner Vernunft geleitete und der immateriellen Seele allein angehörige *Wollen* war. Am deutlichsten ausgeführt hat diese Lehre der Kartesianer *De la Forge*, in seinem Tractatus de mente humana: daselbst c. 23 heißt es: Non nisi eadem voluntas est, quae appellatur appetitus sensitivus, quando excitatur per judicia, quae formantur consequenter ad perceptiones sensuum; et quae appetitus rationalis nominatur, cum mens judicia format de propriis suis ideis, independenter a cogitationibus sensuum confusis, quae inclinationum ejus sunt causae. — — — Id, quod occasionem dedit; ut duae istae diversae voluntatis propensiones pro duobus diversis appetitibus sumerentur, est, quod saepissime unus alteri opponatur, quia propositum, quod mens superaedificat propriis suis perceptionibus, non semper consentit cum cogitationibus, quae menti a corporis dispositione suggeruntur, per quam saepe obligatur ad aliquid volendum, dum ratio ejus eam aliud optare facit. — Aus der undeutlich bewußten Reminiscenz solcher Ansichten stammt zuletzt *Kants* Lehre von der *Autonomie* des Willens, welche als Stimme der reinen, praktischen Vernunft, für alle vernünftige Wesen als solche gesetzgebend ist und bloß *formelle* Bestimmungsgründe kennt, im Gegensatz der *materiellen*, als welche allein das niedere Begehrungsvermögen bestimmen, dem jenes obere entgegenwirkt.\n\nUebrigens ist jene ganze, erst von *Kartesius* recht systematisch dargestellte Ansicht doch schon beim Aristoteles zu finden, welcher sie deutlich genug vorträgt de anima, I, 1. Vorbereitet und angedeutet hat sie sogar schon *Plato*, im Phädon (S. 188 und 189, Bip.). — Hingegen in Folge der Kartesischen Systematisirung und Konsolidation derselben finden wir sie hundert Jahre später ganz dreist geworden, auf die Spitze gestellt und gerade dadurch der Enttäuschung entgegengeführt. Nämlich als ein résumé der damals geltenden Ansicht bietet sich uns dar Muratori, Della forza della fantasia, cap. 1–4 et 13. Da ist die Phantasie, deren Funktion die ganze Anschauung der Außenwelt, auf Data der Sinne, ist, ein rein materielles, körperliches, cerebrales Organ (das niedere Erkenntnißvermögen), und der immateriellen Seele bleibt bloß das Denken, Reflektiren und Beschließen. — Dadurch aber wird die Sache offenbar bedenklich, und Dies mußte man fühlen. Denn, ist die Materie der anschauenden, so komplicirten Auffassung der Welt fähig; so ist nicht zu begreifen, warum sie nicht auch der Abstraktion aus dieser Anschauung und dadurch alles Uebrigen fähig seyn sollte. Offenbar ist die Abstraktion nichts weiter, als ein Fallenlassen der zum jedesmaligen Zweck nicht nöthigen Bestimmungen, also der Individual- und Special-Differenzen, z. B. wenn ich von Dem, was dem Schaaf, dem Ochsen, dem Hirsch, dem Kameel u. s. w. eigenthümlich ist, absehe und so zu dem Begriff Wiederkäuer gelange; bei welcher Operation die Vorstellungen die Anschaulichkeit einbüßen und eben als bloß abstrakte, nichtanschauliche Vorstellungen, Begriffe, nunmehr des Wortes bedürfen, um im Bewußtseyn fixirt und gehandhabt werden zu können. — Bei dem Allen jedoch sehen wir *Kanten* noch unter dem Einfluß der Nachwirkung jener alten Lehre stehen, bei Aufstellung seiner praktischen Vernunft mit ihren Imperativen.\n\n6. Richtiger Huitzilopochtli, Mexikanische Gottheit.\n\n7. Hugo Grotius führt ihn auf Kaiser Severus zurück.\n\n8. Dacht' ich's doch! Wissen sie nichts Vernünftiges mehr zu erwidern,  \nSchieben sie's Einem geschwind in das Gewissen hinein.  \nSchiller.\n\n9. Intellectio pura est intellectio, quae circa nullas imagines corporeas versatur. Cart., Medit., p. 188.\n\n### Section 7\n\nVom obersten Grundsatz der Kantischen Ethik.\n\nNachdem ich im vorigen Paragraph die eigentliche Grundlage der Kantischen Ethik geprüft habe, gehe ich jetzt zu dem auf diesem Fundament ruhenden, mit ihm aber genau verbundenen, ja, verwachsenen *obersten Grundsatz* der Moral. Wir erinnern uns, daß er lautete: „Handle nur nach der Maxime, von der du zugleich wollen kannst, daß sie als allgemeines Gesetz für alle vernünftige Wesen gelte.“ — Sehen wir darüber hinweg, daß es ein sonderbares Verfahren ist, Dem, der angenommenermaaßen ein Gesetz für sein Thun und Lassen sucht, den Bescheid zu ertheilen, er solle gar erst eins für das Thun und Lassen aller möglichen vernünftigen Wesen suchen; und bleiben wir bei der Thatsache stehen, daß jene von *Kant* aufgestellte Grundregel offenbar noch nicht das Moralprincip selbst ist, sondern erst eine heuristische Regel dazu, d. h. eine Anweisung, wo es zu suchen sei; also gleichsam zwar noch nicht baares Geld, aber eine sichere Anweisung. Wer nun ist es eigentlich, der diese realisiren soll? Die Wahrheit gleich heraus zu sagen: ein hier sehr unerwarteter Zahlmeister: — Niemand anders als der *Egoismus*; wie ich sogleich deutlich zeigen werde.\n\nAlso die Maxime selbst, von der ich *wollen kann*, daß nach ihr Alle handelten, wäre erst das wirkliche Moralprincip. Mein *Wollen können* ist die Angel, um welche die gegebene Weisung sich dreht. Aber was *kann ich* denn eigentlich wollen, und was nicht? Offenbar bedarf ich, um zu bestimmen, was ich in der besagten Hinsicht *wollen kann*, wieder eines Regulativs: und an diesem hätte ich allererst den Schlüssel zu der, gleich einem versiegelten Befehl gegebenen Weisung. Wo ist nun dieses Regulativ zu suchen? — Unmöglich irgendwo anders, als in meinem *Egoismus*, dieser nächsten, stets bereiten, ursprünglichen und lebendigen Norm aller Willensakte, die vor jedem Moralprincip wenigstens das jus primi occupantis voraus hat. — Die in Kants oberster Regel enthaltene Anweisung zur Auffindung des eigentlichen Moralprincips beruht nämlich auf der stillschweigenden Voraussetzung, daß ich nur Das *wollen kann*, wobei ich mich am besten stehe. Da ich nun, bei der Feststellung einer allgemein zu befolgenden Maxime, nothwendig mich nicht bloß als den alle Mal *aktiven*, sondern auch als den eventualiter und zu Zeiten *passiven* Theil betrachten muß; so entscheidet, von diesem Standpunkt aus, mein *Egoismus* sich für Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe: nicht weil er sie *zu üben*, sondern weil er sie zu *erfahren* Lust hat, und im Sinne jenes Geizhalses, der, nach angehörter Predigt über Wohlthätigkeit, ausruft:\n\n„Wie gründlich ausgeführt, wie schön! —\n— Fast möcht’ ich betteln gehn.“\n\nDiesen unentbehrlichen Schlüssel zu der Weisung, in welcher *Kants* oberster Grundsatz der Moral besteht, kann er nicht umhin, auch selbst hinzuzufügen: jedoch thut er dies nicht sogleich, bei Aufstellung desselben, als welches Anstoß geben könnte; sondern in anständiger Entfernung davon und tiefer im Text, damit es nicht in die Augen springe, daß hier, trotz den erhabenen Anstalten a priori eigentlich der Egoismus auf dem Richterstuhl sitzt und den Ausschlag giebt, und nachdem er, vom Gesichtspunkt der eventualiter *passiven* Seite aus, entschieden hat, dies für die *aktive* geltend gemacht wird. Also S. 19; — R., S. 24, heißt es: „daß ich ein allgemeines Gesetz, zu lügen, nicht *wollen könne*, weil man mir dann nicht mehr glauben, oder mich mit *gleicher Münze* bezahlen würde“. — S. 55; — R., S. 49. „Die Allgemeinheit eines Gesetzes, daß Jeder, was ihm einfällt, versprechen könne, mit dem Vorsatz, es nicht zu halten, würde das Versprechen und den Zweck, den man damit haben mag, selbst unmöglich machen; indem *Niemand glauben* würde.“ — S. 56; — R., S. 50, heißt es in Beziehung auf die Maxime der Lieblosigkeit: „Ein Wille, der dieses beschlösse, würde sich selbst widersprechen, indem doch *Fälle sich ereignen können*, wo er Anderer Liebe und Theilnahme bedarf und wo er durch ein solches aus seinem eigenen Willen entsprungenes Naturgesetz, sich selbst alle *Hoffnung des Beistandes*, den er sich wünscht, rauben würde.“ — Ebenfalls in der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, Th. I, B. 1, Hauptst. 2, S. 123; — R., S. 192: „Wenn Jeder Anderer Noth mit völliger Gleichgültigkeit ansähe, und Du gehörtest mit zu einer solchen *Ordnung der Dinge*; würdest Du darin wohl mit Einstimmung Deines Willens seyn?“ — Quam temere in nosmet legem sancimus iniquam! wäre die Antwort. Diese Stellen erklären genugsam, in welchem Sinn das „*Wollen können*“ in *Kants* Moralprincip zu verstehen sei. Aber am allerdeutlichsten ist dieses wahre Bewandniß des Kantischen Moralprincips ausgesprochen in den „Metaphysischen Anfangsgründen der Tugendlehre“, §. 30: „Denn Jeder wünscht, daß ihm *geholfen werde*. Wenn er aber seine Maxime, Andern nicht helfen zu wollen, laut werden ließe; so würde Jeder befugt seyn, ihm Beistand zu versagen. Also widerstreitet die eigennützige Maxime sich selbst.“ *Befugt seyn*, heißt es, *Befugt seyn*! Also ist hier so deutlich, wie nur immer möglich, ausgesprochen, daß die moralische Verpflichtung ganz und gar auf vorausgesetzter *Reciprocität* beruhe, folglich schlechthin egoistisch ist und vom Egoismus ihre Auslegung erhält, als welcher, unter der *Bedingung* der *Reciprocität*, sich klüglich zu einem Kompromiß versteht. Zur Begründung des Princips des Staatsvereins wäre das tauglich, aber nicht zu der des Moralprincips. Wenn daher in der „Grundlegung“, S. 81; — R., S. 67, gesagt wird: „Das Princip: Handle jederzeit nach der Maxime, deren Allgemeinheit als Gesetzes Du zugleich wollen kannst, — ist die einzige *Bedingung*, unter der ein Wille niemals mit sich selbst in Widerstreit seyn kann;“ — so ist die wahre Auslegung des Wortes Widerstreit diese, daß wenn ein Wille die Maxime der Ungerechtigkeit und Lieblosigkeit sanktionirt hätte, er nachmals, wenn er eventualiter der *leidende Theil* würde, sie revociren und dadurch sich *widersprechen* würde.\n\nAus dieser Erklärung ist vollkommen klar, daß jene Kantische Grundregel nicht, wie er unablässig behauptet, ein *kategorischer*, sondern in der That ein *hypothetischer* Imperativ ist, indem demselben stillschweigend die *Bedingung* zum Grunde liegt, daß das für mein *Handeln* aufzustellende Gesetz, indem ich es zum *allgemeinen* erhebe, auch Gesetz für mein *Leiden* wird, und ich unter dieser *Bedingung*, als der eventualiter *passive* Theil, Ungerechtigkeit und Lieblosigkeit allerdings nicht *wollen kann*. Hebe ich aber diese *Bedingung* auf und denke mich, etwan im Vertrauen auf meine überlegenen Geistes- und Leibeskräfte, stets nur als den *aktiven* und nie als den *passiven* Theil, bei der zu erwählenden allgemein gültigen Maxime; so kann ich, vorausgesetzt daß es kein anderes Fundament der Moral, als das Kantische, gebe, sehr wohl Ungerechtigkeit und Lieblosigkeit als allgemeine Maxime wollen, und demnach die Welt regeln\n\nupon the simple plan,\nThat they should take, who have the power,\nAnd they should keep, who can.[10]\nWordsworth.\n\nAlso zu dem im vorigen Paragraph dargelegten Mangel an *realer Begründung* des Kantischen obersten Grundsatzes der Moral gesellt sich, *Kants* ausdrücklicher Versicherung zuwider, die versteckte *hypothetische* Beschaffenheit desselben, vermöge deren er sogar auf bloßen *Egoismus* basirt ist, als welcher der geheime Ausleger der in demselben gegebenen Weisung ist. Hiezu kommt nun ferner, daß er, bloß als Formel betrachtet, nur eine Umschreibung, Einkleidung, verblümter Ausdruck der allbekannten Regel quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris ist, wenn man nämlich diese, indem man sie ohne non und ne wiederholt, von dem Makel befreit, allein die Rechts- und nicht die Liebespflichten zu enthalten. Denn offenbar ist dieses die Maxime, nach der ich (versteht sich mit Rücksicht auf meine möglicherweise *passive* Rolle, mithin auf meinen *Egoismus*) allein wollen kann, daß Alle handeln. Diese Regel quod tibi fieri etc. ist aber selbst wieder nur eine Umschreibung, oder, wenn man will, Prämisse, des von mir als der einfachste und reinste Ausdruck der von allen Moralsystemen einstimmig geforderten Handlungsweise, aufgestellten Satzes: Neminem laede, imo omnes, quantum potes, juva. Dieser ist und bleibt der wahre reine Inhalt aller Moral. Aber worauf er sich gründe? was es sei, das dieser Forderung Kraft ertheilt? Dies ist das alte, schwere Problem, welches auch heute uns wieder vorliegt. Denn von der andern Seite schreiet mit lauter Stimme der *Egoismus*: Neminem juva, imo omnes, si forte conducit, laede: ja, die Bosheit giebt die Variante: Imo omnes, quantum potes, laede. Diesem *Egoismus*, und der Bosheit dazu, einen ihnen gewachsenen und sogar überlegenen Kämpen entgegen zu stellen, — das ist das Problem aller Ethik. Heic Rhodus, heic salta! —\n\n*Kant* gedenkt, S. 57; — R., S. 60, sein aufgestelltes Moralprincip noch dadurch zu bewähren, daß er die längst erkannte und allerdings im Wesen der Moralität gegründete Eintheilung der Pflichten in Rechtspflichten (auch genannt vollkommene, unerläßliche, engere Pflichten) und in Tugendpflichten (auch genannt unvollkommene, weitere, verdienstliche, am besten aber Liebespflichten) daraus abzuleiten unternimmt. Allein der Versuch fällt so gezwungen und offenbar schlecht aus, daß er stark wider das aufgestellte oberste Princip zeugt. Da sollen nämlich die Rechtspflichten auf einer Maxime beruhen, deren Gegentheil, als allgemeines Naturgesetz genommen, gar nicht ein Mal ohne Widerspruch *gedacht werden könne*; die Tugendpflichten aber auf einer Maxime, deren Gegentheil man zwar als allgemeines Naturgesetz *denken*; aber unmöglich *wollen* könne. — Nun bitte ich den Leser zu bedenken, daß die Maxime der Ungerechtigkeit, das Herrschen der Gewalt statt des Rechts, welches demnach als Naturgesetz auch nur *zu denken* unmöglich seyn soll, eigentlich das wirklich und faktisch in der Natur herrschende Gesetz ist, nicht etwan nur in der Thierwelt, sondern auch in der Menschenwelt: seinen nachtheiligen Folgen hat man bei den civilisirten Völkern durch die Staatseinrichtung vorzubeugen gesucht: sobald aber diese, wo und wie es sei, aufgehoben oder eludirt wird, tritt jenes Naturgesetz gleich wieder ein. Fortwährend aber herrscht es zwischen Volk und Volk: der zwischen diesen übliche Gerechtigkeits-Jargon ist bekanntlich ein bloßer Kanzleistyl der Diplomatik: die rohe Gewalt entscheidet. Hingegen ächte, d. i. unerzwungene Gerechtigkeit kommt zwar ganz gewiß, jedoch stets nur als Ausnahme von jenem Naturgesetze vor. Obendrein belegt *Kant*, in den Beispielen, die er jener Eintheilung vorangeschickt hat, die Rechtspflichten zuerst (S. 53; — R., S. 48) durch die sogenannte Pflicht gegen sich selbst, sein Leben nicht freiwillig zu enden, wenn die Uebel die Annehmlichkeiten überwiegen. Diese Maxime also soll als allgemeines Naturgesetz auch nur *zu denken* unmöglich seyn. Ich sage daß, da hier die Staatsgewalt nicht ins Mittel treten kann, gerade jene Maxime sich ungehindert als *wirklich bestehendes Naturgesetz* erweist. Denn ganz gewiß ist es allgemeine Regel, daß der Mensch wirklich zum Selbstmord greift, sobald der angeborene riesenstarke Trieb zur Erhaltung des Lebens von der Größe der Leiden entschieden überwältigt wird: dies zeigt die tägliche Erfahrung. Daß es aber überhaupt irgend einen Gedanken gebe, der ihn davon abhalten könne, nachdem die mit der Natur jedes Lebenden innig verknüpfte so mächtige Todesfurcht sich hiezu machtlos erwiesen, also einen Gedanken, der noch stärker wäre, als diese, — ist eine gewagte Voraussetzung, um so mehr, wenn man sieht, daß dieser Gedanke so schwer herauszufinden ist, daß die Moralisten ihn noch nicht bestimmt anzugeben wissen. Wenigstens haben Argumente der Art, wie *Kant* sie bei dieser Gelegenheit S. 53; — R., S. 48, und auch S. 67; — R., S. 57, gegen den Selbstmord aufstellt, zuverlässig noch keinen Lebensmüden auch nur einen Augenblick zurückgehalten. Also ein unstreitig faktisch bestehendes und täglich wirkendes Naturgesetz wird, zu Gunsten der Pflichteneintheilung aus dem Kantischen Moralprincip, für ohne Widerspruch *auch nur zu denken* unmöglich erklärt! — Ich gestehe, daß ich nicht ohne Befriedigung von hier einen Blick vorwärts werfe auf die im folgenden Theile von mir aufzustellende Begründung der Moral, aus welcher die Eintheilung in Rechts- und Liebespflichten (richtiger in Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe) sich völlig ungezwungen ergiebt, durch ein aus der Natur der Sache hervorgehendes Trennungsprincip, welches ganz von selbst eine scharfe Gränzlinie zieht; so daß meine Begründung der Moral jene Bewährung in der That aufzuweisen hat, auf welche hier *Kant* für die seinige ganz unbegründete Ansprüche macht.\n\n10. „Nach diesem simpeln Plan,\nDaß nehmen soll, wer es vermag,\nBehalten soll, wer kann.“\n\n### Section 8\n\nVon den *abgeleiteten* Formen des obersten Grundsatzes der Kantischen Ethik.\n\nBekanntlich hat *Kant* den obersten Grundsatz seiner Ethik noch in einem zweiten, ganz andern Ausdruck aufgestellt, in welchem er nicht, wie im ersten, bloß indirekt, als Anweisung wie er zu suchen sei, sondern direkt ausgesprochen wird. Zu diesem bahnt er sich den Weg von S. 63; — R., S. 55 an, und zwar durch höchst seltsame, geschrobene, ja, verschrobene Definitionen der Begriffe *Zweck und Mittel*, welche sich doch viel einfacher und richtiger so definiren lassen: *Zweck* ist das direkte Motiv eines Willensaktes, *Mittel* das indirekte (simplex sigillum veri). Er aber schleicht durch seine wunderlichen Definitionen zu dem Satz: „Der Mensch, und überhaupt jedes vernünftige Wesen, existirt als *Zweck an sich selbst*.“ — Allein ich muß geradezu sagen, daß „*als Zweck an sich selbst existiren*“ ein Ungedanke, eine contradictio in adjecto ist. *Zweck* seyn, bedeutet *gewollt werden*. Jeder *Zweck* ist es nur in Beziehung auf einen Willen, dessen *Zweck*, d. h., wie gesagt, dessen direktes Motiv er ist. Nur in dieser *Relation* hat der Begriff *Zweck* einen Sinn, und verliert diesen, sobald er aus ihr herausgerissen wird. Diese ihm wesentliche *Relation* schließt aber nothwendig alles „An sich“ aus. „*Zweck* an sich“ ist gerade wie „Freund an sich“ — Feind an sich, — Oheim an sich, — Nord oder Ost an sich, — Oben oder Unten an sich, u. dgl. m. Im Grunde aber hat es mit dem „*Zweck* an sich“ die selbe Bewandniß wie mit dem „absoluten Soll“: beiden liegt heimlich, sogar unbewußt, der selbe Gedanke als Bedingung zum Grunde: der theologische. — Nicht besser steht es mit dem „*absoluten Werth*“, der solchem angeblichen, aber undenkbaren *Zweck* an sich zukommen soll. Denn auch diesen muß ich, ohne Gnade, als contradictio in adjecto stämpeln. Jeder Werth ist eine Vergleichungsgröße, und sogar steht er nothwendig in doppelter *Relation*: denn erstlich ist er *relativ*, indem er für Jemanden ist, und zweitens ist er *komparativ*, indem er im Vergleich mit etwas Anderem, wonach er geschätzt wird, ist. Aus diesen zwei Relationen hinausgesetzt, verliert der Begriff Werth allen Sinn und Bedeutung. Dies ist zu klar, als daß es noch einer weitern Auseinandersetzung bedürfte. — Wie nun jene zwei Definitionen die Logik beleidigen, so beleidigt die ächte Moral der Satz (S. 65; — R., S. 56), daß die vernunftlosen Wesen (also die Thiere) *Sachen* wären und daher auch bloß als *Mittel*, die nicht zugleich *Zweck* sind, behandelt werden dürften. In Uebereinstimmung hiemit wird, in den „Metaphysischen Anfangsgründen der Tugendlehre“, §. 16, ausdrücklich gesagt: „Der Mensch kann keine Pflicht gegen irgend ein Wesen haben, als bloß gegen den Menschen“; und dann heißt es §. 17: „Die grausame Behandlung der Thiere ist der Pflicht des Menschen *gegen sich selbst* entgegen; weil sie das Mitgefühl an ihrem Leiden im Menschen abstumpft, wodurch eine der Moralität im Verhältniß *zu andern Menschen* sehr diensame, natürliche Anlage geschwächt wird.“ — Also bloß zur *Uebung* soll man mit Thieren Mitleid haben, und sie sind gleichsam das pathologische Phantom zur *Uebung* des Mitleids mit Menschen. Ich finde, mit dem ganzen nicht-islamisirten (d. h. nicht⸗judaisirten) Asien, solche Sätze empörend und abscheulich. Zugleich zeigt sich hier abermals, wie gänzlich diese philosophische Moral, die, wie oben dargelegt, nur eine verkleidete theologische ist, eigentlich von der biblischen abhängt. Weil nämlich (wovon weiterhin) die christliche Moral die Thiere nicht berücksichtigt; so sind diese sofort auch in der philosophischen Moral vogelfrei, sind bloße „*Sachen*“, bloße *Mittel* zu beliebigen Zwecken, also etwan zu Vivisektionen, Parforcejagden, Stiergefechten, Wettrennen, zu Tode peitschen vor dem unbeweglichen Steinkarren u. dgl. — Pfui! über eine solche Parias-, Tschandalas- und Mlekhas-Moral, — die das ewige Wesen verkennt, welches in Allem, was Leben hat, da ist, und aus allen Augen, die das Sonnenlicht sehen, mit unergründlicher Bedeutsamkeit hervorleuchtet. Aber jene Moral kennt und berücksichtigt allein die eigene werthe Species, deren Merkmal *Vernunft* ihr die Bedingung ist, unter welcher ein Wesen Gegenstand moralischer Berücksichtigung seyn kann.\n\nAuf so holperichtem Wege, ja, per fas et nefas, gelangt dann *Kant* zum zweiten Ausdruck des Grundprincips seiner Ethik: „Handle so, daß Du die Menschheit, sowohl in deiner Person, als in der Person eines jeden Andern, jederzeit zugleich als Zweck, niemals bloß als *Mittel* brauchest.“ Auf sehr künstliche Weise und durch einen weiten Umweg ist hiemit gesagt: „Berücksichtige nicht Dich allein, sondern auch die Andern:“ und dieses wiederum ist eine Umschreibung des Satzes Quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris, welcher, wie gesagt, selbst wieder nur die Prämissen enthält zu der Konklusion, die der letzte wahre Zielpunkt aller Moral und alles Moralisirens ist: Neminem laede, imo omnes, quantum potes, juva: welcher Satz, wie alles Schöne, sich nackt am besten ausnimmt. — Nur sind in jene zweite Moralformel *Kants* die angeblichen Selbstpflichten, absichtlich und schwerfällig genug, mit hineingezogen. Ueber Die habe ich mich oben erklärt.\n\nEinzuwenden wäre übrigens gegen jene Formel, daß der hinzurichtende Verbrecher, und zwar mit Recht und Fug, allein als *Mittel* und nicht als Zweck behandelt wird, nämlich als unerläßliches *Mittel*, dem Gesetz, durch seine Erfüllung, die Kraft abzuschrecken zu erhalten, als worin dessen Zweck besteht.\n\nWenn nun gleich diese zweite Formel *Kants* weder für die *Begründung* der Moral etwas leistet, noch auch für den adäquaten und unmittelbaren Ausdruck ihrer Vorschriften — oberstes Princip — gelten kann; so hat sie andererseits das Verdienst, ein feines psychologisch-moralisches apercu zu enthalten, indem sie den *Egoismus* durch ein höchst charakteristisches Merkmal bezeichnet, welches wohl verdient, hier näher entwickelt zu werden. Dieser *Egoismus* nämlich, von dem wir alle strotzen, und welchen als unsere partie honteuse zu verstecken, wir die *Höflichkeit* erfunden haben, guckt aus allen ihm übergeworfenen Schleiern meistens dadurch hervor, daß wir in Jedem, der uns vorkommt, wie instinktmäßig, zunächst nur ein mögliches *Mittel* zu irgend einem unserer stets zahlreichen Zwecke suchen. Bei jeder neuen Bekanntschaft ist meistens unser erster Gedanke, ob der Mann uns nicht zu irgend etwas nützlich werden könnte: wenn er dies nun nicht kann; so ist er den Meisten, sobald sie sich hievon überzeugt haben, auch selbst nichts. In jedem Andern ein mögliches *Mittel* zu unsern Zwecken, also ein Werkzeug zu suchen, liegt beinahe schon in der Natur des menschlichen Blicks: ob nun aber etwan das Werkzeug beim Gebrauche mehr oder weniger zu *leiden* haben werde, ist ein Gedanke, der viel später und oft gar nicht nachkommt. Daß wir diese Sinnesart bei Andern voraussetzen, zeigt sich an Mancherlei, z. B. daran, daß wenn wir von Jemanden Auskunft oder Rath verlangen, wir alles Vertrauen zu seinen Aussagen verlieren, sobald wir entdecken, daß er irgend ein, wenn auch nur kleines oder entferntes Interesse bei der Sache haben könnte. Denn da setzen wir sogleich voraus, er werde uns zum *Mittel* seiner Zwecke machen, und seinen Rath daher nicht seiner Einsicht, sondern seiner Absicht gemäß ertheilen; selbst wenn jene auch noch so groß und diese noch so klein seyn sollte. Denn wir wissen nur zu wohl, daß eine Kubiklinie Absicht mehr wiegt, als eine Kubikruthe Einsicht. Andererseits wird in solchem Falle, bei unserer Frage: „Was soll ich thun?“ dem Andern oft gar nichts Anderes einfallen, als was wir *seinen* Zwecken gemäß zu thun hätten: dieses also wird er alsdann, ohne an *unsere* Zwecke auch nur zu denken, sogleich und wie mechanisch antworten, indem sein Wille unmittelbar die Antwort diktirt, ehe nur die Frage zum Forum seines wirklichen Urtheils gelangen konnte, und er also uns *seinen* Zwecken gemäß zu lenken sucht, ohne sich dessen auch nur bewußt zu werden, sondern selbst vermeinend aus *Einsicht* zu reden, während aus ihm nur die *Absicht* redet; ja, er kann hierin so weit gehen, ganz eigentlich zu lügen, ohne es selbst zu merken. So überwiegend ist der Einfluß des Willens über den der Erkenntniß. Demzufolge ist darüber, ob Einer aus *Einsicht* oder aus *Absicht* redet, nicht ein Mal das Zeugniß seines eigenen Bewußtseyns gültig, meistens aber das seines Interesses. Einen andern Fall zu nehmen: wer von Feinden verfolgt, in Todesangst, einen ihm begegnenden Tabuletkrämer nach einem Seitenwege frägt, kann erleben, daß dieser ihm die Frage entgegnet: „Ob er von seiner Waare nichts brauchen könne?“ Damit soll nicht gesagt seyn, daß es sich stets so verhalte: vielmehr wird allerdings mancher Mensch am Wohl und Wehe des Andern unmittelbar wirklichen Antheil nehmen, oder, in *Kants* Sprache, ihn als Zweck und nicht als Mittel ansehen. Wie nahe oder fern nun aber jedem Einzelnen der Gedanke liegt, den Andern, statt wie gewöhnlich als Mittel ein Mal als Zweck zu betrachten, — dies ist das Maaß der großen ethischen Verschiedenheit der Charaktere: und worauf es hiebei in letzter Instanz ankomme, — das wird eben das wahre Fundament der Ethik seyn, zu welchem ich erst im folgenden Theile schreite.\n\n*Kant* hat also, in seiner zweiten Formel, den Egoismus und dessen Gegentheil durch ein höchst charakteristisches Merkmal bezeichnet; welchen Glanzpunkt ich um so lieber hervorgehoben und durch Erläuterung in helles Licht gestellt habe, als ich im Uebrigen von der Grundlage seiner Ethik leider nur wenig gelten lassen kann.\n\nDie dritte und letzte Form, in der *Kant* sein Moralprincip aufgestellt, ist die *Autonomie* des Willens: „Der Wille jedes vernünftigen Wesens ist allgemein gesetzgebend für alle vernünftige Wesen.“ Dies folgt freilich aus der ersten Form. Aus der gegenwärtigen soll nun aber (laut S. 71; — R., S. 60) hervorgehen, daß das specifische Unterscheidungszeichen des kategorischen Imperativs dieses sei, daß beim Wollen aus Pflicht der Wille sich *von allem Interesse lossage*. Alle früheren Moralprincipien wären deshalb verunglückt, „weil sie den Handlungen immer, sei es als Zwang oder Reiz, ein *Interesse* zum Grunde legten, *dies mochte nun ein eigenes, oder ein fremdes Interesse seyn*“ (S. 73; — R., S. 62) (auch ein fremdes, welches wohl zu merken bitte). „Hingegen ein allgemein gesetzgebender Wille schreibe Handlungen aus Pflicht vor, die sich auf *gar kein Interesse gründen*.“ Jetzt aber bitte ich zu bedenken, was das eigentlich sagen will: in der That nichts Geringeres, als ein Wollen ohne *Motiv*, also eine Wirkung ohne Ursache. *Interesse* und *Motiv* sind Wechselbegriffe: heißt nicht *Interesse* quod mea interest, woran mir gelegen ist? Und ist dies nicht überhaupt Alles, was meinen Willen anregt und bewegt? Was ist folglich ein *Interesse* Anderes, als die Einwirkung eines Motivs auf den Willen? Wo also ein *Motiv* den Willen bewegt, da hat er ein *Interesse*: wo ihn aber kein *Motiv* bewegt, da kann er wahrlich so wenig handeln, als ein Stein ohne Stoß oder Zug von der Stelle kann. Dies werde ich gelehrten Lesern doch nicht erst zu demonstriren brauchen. Hieraus aber folgt, daß jede Handlung, da sie nothwendig ein *Motiv* haben muß, auch nothwendig ein *Interesse* voraussetzt. *Kant* aber stellt eine zweite, ganz neue Art von Handlungen auf, welche ohne alles *Interesse*, d. h. ohne *Motiv* vor sich gehen. Und dies sollten die Handlungen der Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe seyn! Zur Widerlegung dieser monstrosen Annahme bedurfte es nur der Zurückführung derselben auf ihren eigentlichen Sinn, der durch das Spiel mit dem Worte *Interesse* versteckt war. — Inzwischen feiert *Kant* (S. 74 ff.; — R., S. 62) den Triumph seiner Autonomie des Willens, in der Aufstellung eines moralischen Utopiens, unter dem Namen eines *Reiches der Zwecke*, welches bevölkert ist von lauter *vernünftigen Wesen* in abstracto, die sammt und sonders beständig wollen, ohne irgend *etwas zu wollen* (d. i. ohne *Interesse*): nur dieses Eine wollen sie: daß Alle stets nach einer Maxime wollen (d. i. Autonomie). Difficile est, satiram non scribere.\n\nAber noch auf etwas Anderes, von beschwerlicheren Folgen, als dieses kleine unschuldige Reich der Zwecke, welches man, als vollkommen harmlos, ruhig liegen lassen kann, leitet *Kanten* seine *Autonomie* des Willens, nämlich auf den Begriff der *Würde des Menschen*. Diese nämlich beruht bloß auf dessen *Autonomie*, und besteht darin, daß das Gesetz, dem er folgen soll, von ihm selbst gegeben ist, — also er zu demselben in dem Verhältniß steht, wie die konstitutionellen Unterthanen zu dem ihrigen. — Das möchte als Ausschmückung des Kantischen Moralsystems immerhin dastehen. Allein dieser Ausdruck „*Würde des Menschen*“, ein Mal von *Kant* ausgesprochen, wurde nachher das Schiboleth aller rath- und gedankenlosen Moralisten, die ihren Mangel an einer wirklichen, oder wenigstens doch irgend etwas sagenden Grundlage der Moral hinter jenen imponirenden Ausdruck „*Würde des Menschen*“ versteckten, klug darauf rechnend, daß auch ihr Leser sich gern mit einer solchen *Würde* angethan sehen und demnach damit zufrieden gestellt seyn würde.[11] Wir wollen jedoch auch diesen Begriff etwas näher untersuchen und auf Realität prüfen. — *Kant* (S. 79; — R., S. 66) definirt *Würde* als „einen unbedingten, unvergleichbaren *Werth*“. Dies ist eine Erklärung, die durch ihren erhabenen Klang dermaaßen imponirt, daß nicht leicht Einer sich untersteht, heranzutreten, um sie in der Nähe zu untersuchen, wo er dann finden würde, daß eben auch sie nur eine hohle Hyperbel ist, in deren Innerem, als nagender Wurm, die contradictio in adjecto nistet. Jeder *Werth* ist die Schätzung einer Sache im Vergleich mit einer andern, also ein Vergleichungsbegriff, mithin relativ, und diese Relativität macht eben das Wesen des Begriffes *Werth* aus. Schon die Stoiker haben (nach Diog. Laert., L. VII, c. 106) richtig gelehrt: τὴν δὲ ἀξίαν εἶναι ἀμοιβὴν δοκιμαστοῦ, ἥν ἄν ὁ ἔμπειρος τῶν πραγμάτων τάξῃ· ὅμοιον εἰπεῖν, ἀμείβεσθαι πυροὺς πρὸς τὰς σὺν ἡμιόνῳ κριθάς (existimationem esse probati remunerationem, quamcunque statuerit peritus rerum; quod hujusmodi est, ac si dicas, commutare cum hordeo, adjecto mulo, triticum). Ein *unvergleichbarer, unbedingter, absoluter Werth*, dergleichen die Würde seyn soll, ist demnach, wie so Vieles in der Philosophie, die mit Worten gestellte Aufgabe zu einem Gedanken, der sich gar *nicht* denken läßt, so wenig wie die höchste Zahl, oder der größte Raum.\n\n„Doch eben wo Begriffe fehlen,\nDa stellt ein *Wort* zu rechter Zeit sich ein.“\n\nSo war denn auch hier an der „Würde des Menschen“ ein höchst willkommenes *Wort* auf die Bahn geworfen, an welchem nunmehr jede, durch alle Klassen der Pflichten und alle Fälle der Kasuistik ausgesponnene Moral ein breites Fundament fand, von welchem herab sie mit Behagen weiter predigen konnte.\n\nAm Schlusse seiner Darstellung (S. 124; — R., S. 97) sagt *Kant*: „Wie nun aber *reine Vernunft*, ohne andere Triebfedern, die irgend woher sonst genommen seyn mögen, für sich selbst *praktisch* seyn, d. i. wie das bloße Princip der *Allgemeingültigkeit aller ihrer Maximen* als Gesetze, ohne allen Gegenstand des Willens, woran man zum voraus irgend ein Interesse nehmen dürfte, für sich selbst eine Triebfeder abgeben und ein Interesse, welches rein moralisch heißen würde, bewirken, oder, mit andern Worten, wie *reine Vernunft* *praktisch* seyn könne? — Das zu erklären, ist alle menschliche Vernunft unvermögend und alle Mühe und Arbeit verloren.“ — Nun sollte man denken, daß wenn etwas, dessen Daseyn behauptet wird, *nicht* ein Mal seiner Möglichkeit nach begriffen werden kann, es doch faktisch in seiner Wirklichkeit nachgewiesen seyn müsse: allein der kategorische Imperativ der praktischen Vernunft wird ausdrücklich *nicht* als eine Thatsache des Bewußtseyns aufgestellt, oder sonst durch Erfahrung begründet. Vielmehr werden wir oft genug verwarnt, daß er *nicht* auf solchem anthropologisch-empirischen Wege zu suchen sei (z. B. S. VI der Vorrede; — R., S. 5, und S. 59, 60; — R., S. 52). Dazu noch wird uns wiederholt (z. B. S. 48; — R., S. 44) versichert, „daß durch kein Beispiel, mithin empirisch auszumachen sei, ob es überall einen dergleichen Imperativ gebe“. Und S. 49; — R., S. 45, „daß die Wirklichkeit des kategorischen Imperativs *nicht* in der Erfahrung gegeben sei“. — Wenn man das zusammenfaßt, so könnte man wirklich auf den Verdacht gerathen, *Kant* habe seine Leser zum Besten. Wenn nun gleich dieses, dem heutigen Deutschen philosophischen Publiko gegenüber, wohl erlaubt und recht seyn möchte; so hatte doch dasselbe sich zu *Kants* Zeiten noch nicht so, wie seitdem, signalisirt: und außerdem war gerade die Ethik das am wenigsten zum Scherze geeignete Thema. Wir müssen also bei der Ueberzeugung stehenbleiben, daß, was weder als *möglich* begriffen, noch als *wirklich* nachgewiesen werden kann, keine Beglaubigung seines Daseyns hat. — Wenn wir nun aber auch nur versuchen, es bloß mittelst der Phantasie zu erfassen und uns einen Menschen vorzustellen, dessen Gemüth von einem in lauter kategorischen Imperativen redenden *absoluten Soll*, wie von einem Dämon besessen wäre, der, den Neigungen und Wünschen desselben entgegen, dessen Handlungen beständig zu lenken verlangte; — so erblicken wir hierin kein richtiges Bild der Natur des Menschen, oder der Vorgänge unseres Innern: wohl aber erkennen wir ein erkünsteltes Substitut der theologischen Moral, zu welcher es sich verhält, wie ein hölzernes Bein zu einem lebendigen.\n\nUnser Resultat ist also, daß die Kantische Ethik, so gut wie alle früheren, jedes sichern Fundaments entbehrt. Sie ist, wie ich durch die gleich Anfangs angestellte Prüfung ihrer *imperativen Form* gezeigt habe, im Grunde nur eine Umkehrung der theologischen Moral und eine Vermummung derselben in sehr abstrakte und scheinbar a priori gefundene Formeln. Diese Vermummung mußte um so künstlicher und unkenntlicher seyn, als *Kant* dabei zuverlässig sogar sich selber täuschte, und *wirklich* vermeinte, die offenbar nur in der theologischen Moral einen Sinn habenden Begriffe des *Pflichtgebots* und des *Gesetzes* unabhängig von aller Theologie feststellen und auf reine Erkenntniß a priori gründen zu können: wogegen ich genugsam nachgewiesen habe, daß jene Begriffe bei ihm, jedes realen Fundaments entbehrend, frei in der Luft schweben. Unter seinen eigenen Händen entschleiert sich denn auch gegen das Ende die verlarvte *theologische Moral*, in der Lehre vom *höchsten Gut*, in den Postulaten der *praktischen Vernunft* und endlich in der Moraltheologie. Doch hat Alles dieses weder ihn noch das Publikum über den wahren Zusammenhang der Sache enttäuscht: vielmehr freueten beide sich, alle diese Glaubensartikel jetzt durch die Ethik (wenn gleich nur idealiter und zum praktischen Behuf) begründet zu sehen. Denn sie nahmen treuherzig die Folge für den Grund und den Grund für die Folge, indem sie nicht sahen, daß jener Ethik alle diese angeblichen Folgerungen aus ihr schon als stillschweigende und versteckte, aber unumgänglich nöthige Voraussetzungen zum Grunde lagen.\n\nWenn mir jetzt, am Schlusse dieser scharfen und selbst den Leser anstrengenden Untersuchung, zur Aufheiterung, ein scherzhaftes, ja, frivoles Gleichniß gestattet seyn sollte; so würde ich Kanten, in jener Selbstmystifikation, mit einem Manne vergleichen, der, auf einem Maskenball, den ganzen Abend mit einer maskirten Schönen buhlt, im Wahn, eine Eroberung zu machen; bis sie am Ende sich entlarvt und zu erkennen giebt — als seine Frau.\n\n11. Der Erste, der den Begriff der „*Würde des Menschen*“ ausdrücklich und ausschließlich zum Grundstein der Ethik gemacht und diese demnach ausgeführt hat, scheint gewesen zu seyn G. W. Block, in seiner „Neuen Grundlegung der Philosophie der Sitten“, 1802.\n\n### Section 9\n\n*Kants* Lehre vom *Gewissen*.\n\nDie angebliche praktische Vernunft mit ihrem kategorischen Imperativ ist offenbar am nächsten verwandt mit dem *Gewissen*, wiewohl von diesem erstlich darin wesentlich verschieden, daß der kategorische Imperativ, als gebietend, nothwendig *vor der That* spricht, das *Gewissen* aber eigentlich erst hinterher. *Vor der That* kann es höchstens *indirekt* sprechen, nämlich mittelst der Reflexion, welche ihm die Erinnerung früherer Fälle vorhält, wo ähnliche Thaten hinterher die Mißbilligung des Gewissens erfahren haben. Hierauf scheint mir sogar die Etymologie des Wortes *Gewissen* zu beruhen, indem nur das bereits Geschehene *gewiß* ist. Nämlich in jedem, auch dem besten Menschen steigen, auf äußern Anlaß, erregten Affekt, oder aus innerer Verstimmung, unreine, niedrige, boshafte Gedanken und Wünsche auf: für diese aber ist er moralisch nicht verantwortlich und dürfen sie sein *Gewissen* nicht belasten. Denn sie zeigen nur an, was *der Mensch überhaupt*, nicht aber was er, der sie denkt, zu thun fähig wäre. Denn andere Motive, die nur nicht augenblicklich und mit jenen zugleich ins Bewußtseyn treten, stehen ihnen, bei ihm, entgegen; so daß sie nie zu Thaten werden können: daher sie der überstimmten Minorität einer beschließenden Versammlung gleichen. An den *Thaten* allein lernt ein Jeder sich selbst, so wie die Andern, empirisch kennen, und nur sie belasten das *Gewissen*. Denn sie allein sind nicht problematisch, wie die Gedanken, sondern, im Gegensatz hievon, *gewiß*, stehen unveränderlich da, werden nicht bloß gedacht, sondern *gewußt*. Mit dem Lateinischen conscientia verhält es sich ebenso: es ist das Horazische conscire sibi, pallescere culpa. Ebenso mit συνείδησις. Es ist das Wissen des Menschen um Das, was er gethan hat. Zweitens, nimmt das *Gewissen* seinen Stoff stets aus der Erfahrung, welches der angebliche kategorische Imperativ nicht kann, da er rein a priori ist. — Inzwischen dürfen wir voraussetzen, daß *Kants* Lehre vom *Gewissen* auch auf jenen von ihm neu eingeführten Begriff Licht zurückwerfen werde. Die Hauptdarstellung desselben findet sich in den „Metaphysischen Anfangsgründen zur Tugendlehre“, §. 13, welche wenigen Seiten ich bei der jetzt folgenden Kritik derselben als *vorliegend voraussetze*.\n\nDiese Kantische Darstellung des Gewissens macht einen höchst imposanten Eindruck, vor welchem man mit ehrfurchtsvoller Scheu stehen blieb und sich um so weniger getraute, dagegen etwas einzuwenden, als man befürchten mußte, seine theoretische Einrede mit einer praktischen verwechselt zu sehen und, wenn man die Richtigkeit der Kantischen Darstellung leugnete, für gewissenlos zu gelten. Mich kann das nicht irre machen, da es sich hier um Theorie, nicht um Praxis handelt und nicht abgesehen ist auf Moral-Predigen, sondern auf strenge Prüfung der letzten Gründe der Ethik.\n\nZuvörderst bedient *Kant* sich durchweg *lateinischer, juridischer Ausdrücke*, die doch wenig geeignet scheinen, die geheimsten Regungen des menschlichen Herzens wiederzugeben. Aber diese Sprache und die juridische Darstellung behält er von Anfang bis zu Ende bei: sie scheint also der Sache wesentlich und eigen. Es wird uns da im Innern des Gemüthes ein vollständiger Gerichtshof vorgeführt, mit Proceß, Richter, Ankläger, Vertheidiger, Urtheilsspruch. Verhielte sich nun wirklich der innere Vorgang so, wie *Kant* ihn darstellt; so müßte man sich wundern, daß noch irgend ein Mensch, ich will nicht sagen so *schlecht*, aber so *dumm* seyn könnte, gegen das *Gewissen* zu handeln. Denn eine solche übernatürliche Anstalt ganz eigener Art in unserm Selbstbewußtseyn, ein solches vermummtes Vehmgericht im geheimnißvollen Dunkel unsers Innern, müßte Jedem ein Grausen und eine Deisidämonie einjagen, die ihn wahrlich abhielte, kurze, flüchtige Vortheile zu ergreifen, gegen das Verbot und unter den Drohungen übernatürlicher, sich so deutlich und so nahe ankündigender, furchtbarer Mächte. — In der Wirklichkeit hingegen sehen wir umgekehrt die Wirksamkeit des Gewissens allgemein für so schwach gelten, daß alle Völker darauf bedacht gewesen sind, ihr durch positive Religion zu Hülfe zu kommen, oder gar sie dadurch völlig zu ersetzen. Auch hätte, bei einer solchen Beschaffenheit des Gewissens, die gegenwärtige Preisfrage der Königlichen Societät gar nie in den Sinn kommen können.\n\nBei näherer Betrachtung der Kantischen Darstellung finden wir jedoch, daß der imposante Effekt derselben hauptsächlich dadurch erreicht wird, daß *Kant* der moralischen Selbstbeurtheilung eine Form als eigen und wesentlich beilegt, die dies ganz und gar nicht ist, sondern ihr nur ebenso angepaßt werden kann, wie jeder andern, dem eigentlich Moralischen ganz fremden Rumination dessen, was wir gethan haben und hätten anders thun können. Denn nicht nur wird ebenfalls das offenbar unächte, erkünstelte, auf bloßen Aberglauben gegründete Gewissen, z. B. wenn ein Hindu sich vorwirft, zum Morde einer Kuh Anlaß gegeben zu haben, oder ein Jude sich erinnert, am Sabbath eine Pfeife im Hause geraucht zu haben, — die selbe Form des Anklagens, Vertheidigens und Richtens gelegentlich annehmen; sondern sogar auch diejenige Selbstprüfung, welche von gar keinem ethischen Gesichtspunkte ausgeht, ja eher unmoralischer als moralischer Art ist, wird ebenfalls oft in solcher Form auftreten. So z. B. wenn ich für einen Freund, gutmüthiger aber unüberlegter Weise, mich verbürgt habe, und nun am Abend mir deutlich wird, welche schwere Verantwortlichkeit ich da auf mich genommen habe, und wie es leicht kommen könne, daß ich dadurch in großen Schaden gerathe, den die alte Weisheitsstimme ἐγγύα, πάρα δ’ ἄτα! mir prophezeit; da tritt ebenfalls in meinem Innern der Ankläger auf und auch ihm gegenüber der Advokat, welcher meine übereilte Verbürgung durch den Drang der Umstände, der Verbindlichkeiten, durch die Unverfänglichkeit der Sache, ja durch Belobung meiner Gutmüthigkeit zu beschönigen sucht, und zuletzt auch der Richter, der unerbittlich das Urtheil „Dummer Streich!“ fällt, unter welchem ich zusammensinke.\n\nUnd wie mit der von *Kant* beliebten Gerichtsform, so steht es auch mit dem größten Theil seiner übrigen Schilderung. Z. B. was er, gleich Anfangs des Paragraphs, vom Gewissen als diesem eigenthümlich sagt, gilt auch von jedem Skrupel ganz anderer Art: es kann ganz wörtlich verstanden werden vom heimlichen Bewußtseyn eines Renteniers, daß seine Ausgaben die Zinsen weit übersteigen, das Kapital angegriffen werde und allmälig dahinschmelzen müsse: „es folgt ihm wie sein Schatten, wenn er zu entfliehen gedenkt: er kann sich zwar durch Lüste und Zerstreuungen betäuben, oder in Schlaf bringen, aber nicht vermeiden, dann und wann zu sich selbst zu kommen, oder zu erwachen, wo er alsbald die furchtbare Stimme desselben vernimmt“ u. s. w. — Nachdem er nun jene Gerichtsform als der Sache wesentlich geschildert und daher vom Anfang bis zum Ende beibehalten hat, benutzt er sie zu folgendem fein angelegten Sophisma. Er sagt: „daß aber der durch sein Gewissen Angeklagte mit dem *Richter als Eine und die selbe Person* vorgestellt werde, ist eine umgereimte Vorstellungsart von einem Gerichtshofe: denn da würde ja der Ankläger jederzeit verlieren“, welches er noch durch eine sehr geschrobene und unklare Anmerkung erläutert. Daraus nun folgert er, daß wir, um nicht in Widerspruch zu gerathen, uns den innern Richter (in jenem gerichtlichen Gewissensdrama) als von uns verschieden, als einen *Andern* denken müssen, und diesen als einen Herzenskündiger, einen Allwissenden, einen Allverpflichtenden, und, als exekutive Gewalt, einen Allmächtigen; so daß er jetzt, auf ganz ebener Bahn, seinen Leser vom Gewissen zur Deisidämonie, als einer ganz nothwendigen Konsequenz desselben führt, heimlich darauf vertrauend, daß dieser ihm dahin um so williger folgen wird, als die früheste Erziehung ihm solche Begriffe geläufig, ja, zur andern Natur gemacht hat. Daher denn *Kant* hier leichtes Spiel findet; welches er jedoch hätte verschmähen und darauf bedacht seyn sollen, Redlichkeit hier nicht nur zu *predigen*, sondern auch zu *üben*. — Ich leugne schlechthin den oben angeführten Satz, auf dem alle jene Folgerungen beruhen; ja, ich erkläre ihn für einen Winkelzug. Es ist nicht wahr, daß der Ankläger jederzeit verlieren müsse, wenn der Angeklagte mit dem Richter eine Person ist; wenigstens nicht beim innern Gerichtshofe: hat denn in meinem obigen Beispiel von der Verbürgung, der Ankläger verloren? — Oder mußte man dabei, um nicht in Widerspruch zu gerathen, auch hier eine solche Prosopopöia vornehmen und sich nothwendig einen *Andern* objektiv als Denjenigen denken, dessen Urtheilsspruch jenes Donnerwort „Dummer Streich“ gewesen wäre? Etwan einen leibhaftigen Merkur? Oder eine Personifikation der von Homer (Il., 23, 313 seq.) empfohlenen Μῆτις, und demnach auch hier den Weg der Deisidämonie einschlagen, wiewohl der heidnischen?\n\nDaß *Kant* bei seiner Darstellung sich verwahrt, seiner schon hier kurz, aber doch im Wesentlichen angedeuteten Moraltheologie keine objektive Geltung beizulegen, sondern sie nur als subjektiv nothwendige Form hinzustellen; dies spricht ihn nicht los von der Willkührlichkeit, mit der er sie, wenn auch nur als subjektiv nothwendig, konstruirt; da solches mittelst ganz ungegründeter Annahmen geschieht.\n\nSo viel ist also gewiß, daß die ganze juridisch-dramatische Form, in der *Kant* das Gewissen darstellt und sie, als Eins mit der Sache selbst, durchweg und bis ans Ende beibehält, um endlich Folgerungen daraus zu ziehen, dem Gewissen völlig unwesentlich und keineswegs eigenthümlich ist. Vielmehr ist sie eine viel allgemeinere Form, welche die Ueberlegung jeder praktischen Angelegenheit leicht annimmt, und die hauptsächlich entspringt aus dem dabei meistens eintretenden Konflikt entgegengesetzter Motive, deren Gewicht die reflektirende Vernunft successive prüft; wobei es gleichviel ist, ob diese Motive moralischer, oder egoistischer Art sind, und ob es eine Deliberation des noch zu Thuenden, oder eine Rumination des schon Vollzogenen betrifft. Entkleiden wir nun aber *Kants* Darstellung von dieser ihr nur beliebig gegebenen dramatisch-juridischen Form; so verschwindet auch der sie umgebende Nimbus, nebst dem imposanten Effekt derselben, und bloß dies bleibt übrig, daß, beim Nachdenken über unsere Handlungen, uns bisweilen eine Unzufriedenheit mit uns selbst, von besonderer Art, anwandelt, welche das Eigene hat, nicht den Erfolg, sondern die Handlung selbst zu betreffen und nicht, wie jede andere, in der wir das Unkluge unsers Thuns bereuen, auf *egoistischen Gründen* zu beruhen; indem wir hier gerade damit unzufrieden sind, daß wir zu egoistisch gehandelt haben, zu sehr unser eigenes, zu wenig das Wohl Anderer berücksichtigt, oder wohl gar, ohne eigenen Vortheil, das Wehe Anderer, seiner selbst wegen, uns zum Zwecke gemacht haben. Daß wir darüber mit uns selbst unzufrieden seyn und uns betrüben können über Leiden, die wir nicht *gelitten*, sondern *verursacht* haben, dies ist die nackte Thatsache, und diese wird Niemand leugnen. Den Zusammenhang derselben mit der allein probehaltigen Basis der Ethik werden wir weiterhin untersuchen. *Kant* aber hat, wie ein kluger Sachwalter, aus dem ursprünglichen Faktum, durch Ausschmückung und Vergrößerung desselben, so viel als irgend möglich zu machen gesucht, um eine recht breite Basis für seine Moral und Moraltheologie vorweg zu haben.\n\n### Section 10\n\n*Kants* Lehre vom intelligibeln und empirischen Charakter. — Theorie der Freiheit.\n\nNachdem ich, im Dienste der Wahrheit, auf die Kantische Ethik Angriffe gethan habe, welche nicht, wie die bisherigen, nur die Oberfläche treffen, sondern sie in ihrem tiefsten Grunde unterwühlen, scheint mir die Gerechtigkeit zu fordern, daß ich nicht von ihr scheide, ohne *Kants* größtes und glänzendstes Verdienst um die Ethik in Erinnerung gebracht zu haben. Dieses besteht in der Lehre vom Zusammenbestehen der Freiheit mit der Nothwendigkeit, welche er zuerst in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft (S. 533–554 der ersten und S. 561–582 der fünften Auflage) vorträgt, jedoch eine noch deutlichere Darstellung davon in der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft (vierte Auflage, S. 169–179; R., S. 224–231) giebt.\n\n*Hobbes* zuerst, dann *Spinoza*, dann *Hume*, auch *Hollbach* im Syst. d. la nat., und endlich am ausführlichsten und gründlichsten *Priestley*, hatten die vollkommene und strenge Nothwendigkeit der Willensakte, bei eintretenden Motiven, so deutlich bewiesen und außer Zweifel gestellt, daß sie den vollkommen demonstrirten Wahrheiten beizuzählen ist: daher nur Unwissenheit und Rohheit von einer Freiheit in den einzelnen Handlungen des Menschen, einem libero arbitrio indifferentiae, zu reden fortfahren konnte. Auch *Kant* nahm, in Folge der unwiderleglichen Gründe dieser Vorgänger, die vollkommene Nothwendigkeit der Willensakte als eine ausgemachte Sache, an welcher kein Zweifel mehr obwalten konnte; wie dies alle die Stellen beweisen, in welchen er allein vom *theoretischen* Gesichtspunkt aus von der Freiheit redet. Dabei bleibt es jedoch wahr, daß unsere Handlungen von einem Bewußtseyn der Eigenmächtigkeit und Ursprünglichkeit begleitet sind, vermöge dessen wir sie als unser Werk erkennen und Jeder, mit untrüglicher Gewißheit, sich als den wirklichen Thäter seiner Thaten und für dieselben moralisch *verantwortlich* fühlt. Da nun aber die *Verantwortlichkeit* eine Möglichkeit anders gehandelt zu haben, mithin Freiheit, auf irgend eine Weise, voraussetzt; so liegt im Bewußtseyn der *Verantwortlichkeit* mittelbar auch das der Freiheit. Zur Lösung dieses aus der Sache selbst hervorgehenden Widerspruches ward nun Kants tiefsinnige Unterscheidung zwischen Erscheinung und Ding an sich, welche der innerste Kern seiner ganzen Philosophie und eben deren Hauptverdienst ist, der endlich gefundene Schlüssel.\n\nDas Individuum, bei seinem unveränderlichen, angeborenen Charakter, in allen seinen Aeußerungen durch das Gesetz der Kausalität, die hier, als durch den Intellekt vermittelt, Motivation heißt, streng bestimmt, ist nur die Erscheinung. Das dieser zum Grunde liegende Ding an sich ist, als außer Raum und Zeit befindlich, frei von aller Succession und Vielheit der Akte, Eines und unveränderlich. Seine Beschaffenheit an sich ist der *intelligible Charakter*, welcher in allen Thaten des Individui gleichmäßig gegenwärtig und in ihnen allen, wie das Petschaft in tausend Siegeln, ausgeprägt, den in der Zeit und Succession der Akte sich darstellenden, *empirischen Charakter* dieser Erscheinung bestimmt, die daher in allen ihren Aeußerungen, welche von den Motiven hervorgerufen werden, die Konstanz eines Naturgesetzes zeigen muß; weshalb alle ihre Akte streng nothwendig erfolgen. Hiedurch war nun auch jene Unveränderlichkeit, jene unbiegsame Starrheit des empirischen Charakters jedes Menschen, welche denkende Köpfe von jeher wahrgenommen hatten (während die übrigen meinten, durch vernünftige Vorstellungen und moralische Vermahnungen sei der Charakter eines Menschen umzugestalten), auf einen rationellen Grund zurückgeführt, mithin auch für die Philosophie festgestellt und diese dadurch mit der Erfahrung in Einklang gebracht; so daß sie nicht länger beschämt wurde von der Volksweisheit, welche jene Wahrheit längst ausgesprochen hatte in dem Spanischen Sprichwort: Lo que entra con el capillo, sale con la mortaja (Das was mit der Kindermütze hineinkommt, geht mit dem Leichentuche wieder heraus), oder: Lo que en la leche se mama, en la mortaja se derrama (Was mit der Milch eingesogen wird, wird ins Leichentuch wieder ausgegossen).\n\nDiese Lehre *Kants* vom Zusammenbestehen der Freiheit mit der Nothwendigkeit halte ich für die größte aller Leistungen des menschlichen Tiefsinns. Sie, nebst der transscendentalen Aesthetik, sind die zwei großen Diamanten in der Krone des Kantischen Ruhmes, der nie verhallen wird. — Bekanntlich hat *Schelling*, in seiner Abhandlung über die Freiheit, eine durch ihr lebhaftes Kolorit und anschauliche Darstellung für Viele faßlichere Paraphrase jener Lehre *Kants* gegeben, welche ich loben würde, wenn *Schelling* die Redlichkeit gehabt hätte, dabei zu sagen, daß er hier *Kants* Weisheit, nicht seine eigene, vorträgt, wofür ein Theil des philosophischen Publikums sie noch heute hält.\n\nNun kann man aber diese Kantische Lehre und das Wesen der Freiheit überhaupt auch dadurch sich faßlicher machen, daß man sie mit einer allgemeinen Wahrheit in Verbindung setzt, als deren bündigsten Ausdruck ich einen von den Scholastikern öfter ausgesprochenen Satz ansehe: operari sequitur esse; d. h. jedes Ding in der Welt wirkt nach dem wie es ist, nach seiner Beschaffenheit, in welcher daher alle seine Aeußerungen schon potentiâ enthalten sind, actu aber eintreten, wann äußere Ursachen sie hervorrufen; wodurch denn eben jene Beschaffenheit selbst sich kund giebt. Diese ist der *empirische Charakter*, hingegen dessen innerer, der Erfahrung nicht zugängliche, letzte Grund ist der *intelligible Charakter*, d. h. das Wesen an sich dieses Dinges. Der Mensch macht hierin keine Ausnahme von der übrigen Natur: auch er hat seinen unveränderlichen Charakter, der jedoch ganz individuell und bei Jedem ein anderer ist. Dieser ist eben *empirisch* für unsere Auffassung, aber eben deshalb nur Erscheinung: was er hingegen seinem Wesen an sich selbst nach seyn mag, heißt der *intelligible Charakter*. Seine sämmtlichen Handlungen, ihrer äußern Beschaffenheit nach durch die Motive bestimmt, können nie anders als diesem unveränderlichen individuellen Charakter gemäß ausfallen: wie Einer ist, so muß er handeln. Daher ist dem gegebenen Individuo, in jedem gegebenen einzelnen Fall, schlechterdings nur eine Handlung möglich: operari sequitur esse. Die Freiheit gehört nicht dem empirischen, sondern allein dem intelligibeln Charakter an. Das operari eines gegebenen Menschen ist von Außen durch die Motive, von Innen durch seinen Charakter nothwendig bestimmt: daher Alles, was er *thut*, nothwendig eintritt. Aber in seinem Esse, da liegt die Freiheit. Er hätte ein anderer seyn können: und in dem, was er ist, liegt Schuld und Verdienst. Denn Alles, was er *thut*, ergiebt sich daraus von selbst, als ein bloßes Korollarium. — Durch *Kants* Theorie werden wir eigentlich von dem Grundirrthum zurückgebracht, der die Nothwendigkeit ins Esse und die Freiheit ins Operari verlegte, und werden zu der Erkenntniß geführt, daß es sich gerade umgekehrt verhält. Deshalb betrifft die moralische Verantwortlichkeit des Menschen zwar zunächst und ostensibel Das, was er *thut*, im Grunde aber Das, was er *ist*; da, dieses vorausgesetzt, sein Thun, beim Eintritt der Motive, nie anders ausfallen konnte, als es ausgefallen ist. Aber so strenge auch die Nothwendigkeit ist, mit welcher, bei gegebenem Charakter, die Thaten von den Motiven hervorgerufen werden; so wird es dennoch Keinem, selbst dem nicht, der hievon überzeugt ist, je einfallen, sich dadurch diskulpiren und die Schuld auf die Motive wälzen zu wollen: denn er erkennt deutlich, daß hier, der Sache und den Anlässen nach, also objective, eine ganz andere, sogar eine entgegengesetzte Handlung sehr wohl möglich war, ja, eingetreten seyn würde, wenn nur *Er ein Anderer* gewesen wäre. Daß aber er, wie es sich aus der Handlung ergiebt, *ein Solcher und kein Anderer* ist, — das ist es, wofür er sich verantwortlich fühlt: hier, im Esse liegt die Stelle, welche der Stachel des Gewissens trifft. Denn das Gewissen ist eben nur die aus der eigenen Handlungsweise entstehende und immer intimer werdende Bekanntschaft mit dem eigenen Selbst. Daher wird vom Gewissen, zwar auf Anlaß des Operari, doch eigentlich das Esse angeschuldigt. Da wir uns der *Freiheit* nur mittelst der *Verantwortlichkeit* bewußt sind; so muß, wo diese liegt, auch jene liegen: also im Esse. Das Operari fällt der Nothwendigkeit anheim. Aber, wie die Andern, so lernen wir auch uns selbst nur *empirisch* kennen und haben von unserm Charakter keine Kenntniß a priori. Vielmehr hegen wir von diesem ursprünglich eine sehr hohe Meinung, indem das quisque praesumitur bonus, donec probetur contrarium, auch vor dem innern foro gilt.\n\nAnmerkung.\n\nWer das Wesentliche eines Gedankens auch in ganz verschiedenen Einkleidungen desselben wiederzuerkennen fähig ist, wird mit mir einsehen, daß jene Kantische Lehre vom intelligibeln und empirischen Charakter eine zur abstrakten Deutlichkeit erhobene Einsicht ist, die schon Plato gehabt hat, welcher jedoch, weil er die Idealität der Zeit nicht erkannt hatte, sie nur in zeitlicher Form, mithin bloß mythisch und in Verbindung mit der Metempsychose darlegen konnte. Diese Erkenntniß der Identität beider Lehren wird nun aber sehr verdeutlicht durch die Erläuterung und Ausführung des Platonischen Mythos, welche Porphyrius mit so großer Klarheit und Bestimmtheit gegeben hat, daß die Uebereinstimmung mit der abstrakten Kantischen Lehre bei ihm unverkennbar hervortritt. Aus einer nicht mehr vorhandenen Schrift von ihm hat uns diese Erörterung, in welcher er den hier in Rede stehenden, von Plato, in der zweiten Hälfte des zehnten Buches der Republik gegebenen Mythos, genau und speciell kommentirt, Stobäos in extenso aufbehalten, im zweiten Buch seiner Eklogen, Kap. 8, §§. 37–40, welcher Abschnitt höchst lesenswerth ist. Zur Probe bringe ich daraus den kurzen §. 39 hier bei, damit der theilnehmende Leser angereizt werde, den Stobäus selbst zur Hand zu nehmen. Er wird alsdann erkennen, daß jener Platonische Mythos angesehen werden kann als eine Allegorie der großen und tiefen Erkenntniß, welche Kant, in ihrer abstrakten Reinheit, als Lehre vom intelligibeln und empirischen Charakter aufgestellt hat, und daß folglich diese im Wesentlichen schon vor Jahrtausenden von Plato erlangt war, ja, noch viel höher hinaufreicht, da Porphyrius der Meinung ist, daß Plato sie von den Aegyptern überkommen habe. Nun aber liegt sie schon in der Metempsychosenlehre des Brahmanismus, von welchem, höchst wahrscheinlich, die Weisheit der Aegyptischen Priester abstammt. — Der besagte §. 39 lautet:\n\nΤὸ γὰρ ὅλον βούλημα τοιοῦτ’ ἔοικεν εἶναι τὸ τοῦ Πλάτωνος· ἔχειν μὲν τὸ αὐτεξούσιον τὰς ψυχάς, πρὶν εἰς σώματα καὶ βίους διαφόρους ἐμπεσεῖν, εἰς τὸ ἢ τοῦτον τὸν βίον ἑλέσθαι, ἢ ἄλλον, ὃν, μετὰ ποίας ζωῆς καὶ σώματος οἰκείου τῇ ζωῇ, ἐκτελεσεῖν μέλλει· (καὶ γὰρ λέοντος βίον ἐπ’ αὐτῇ εἶναι ἑλέσθαι, καὶ ἀνδρός). Κἀκεῖνο μέντοι τὸ αὐτεξούσιον, ἅμα τῇ πρὸς τινα τῶν τοιούτων βίων πτώσει, ἐμπεπόδισται. Κατελθοῦσαι γὰρ εἰς τὰ σώματα, καὶ ἀντὶ ψυχῶν ἀπολυτῶν γεγονυῖαι ψυχαὶ ζώων, τὸ αὐτεξούσιον φέρουσι οἰκεῖον τῇ τοῦ ζώου κατασκευῇ, καὶ ἐφ’ ὧν μὲν εἶναι πολύνουν καὶ πολύκινητον, ὡς ἐπ’ ἀνθρώπου, ἐφ’ ὧν δὲ ὀλιγοκίνητον καὶ μονότροπον, ὡς ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων σχεδὸν πάντων ζώων. Ἠρτῆσθαι δὲ τὸ αὐτεξούσιον τοῦτο ἀπὸ τῆς κατασκευῆς, κινούμενον μὲν ἐξ αὐτοῦ, φερόμενον δὲ κατὰ τὰς ἐκ τῆς κατασκευῆς γιγνομένας προθυμίας. (Omnino enim Platonis sententia haec videtur esse: habere quidem animas, priusquam in corpora vitaeque certa genera incidant, vel ejus vel alterius vitae eligendae potestatem, quam in corpore, vitae conveniente, degant [nam et leonis vitam et hominis ipsis licere eligere]; simul vero, cum vita aliqua adepta, libertatem illam tolli. Cum vero in corpora descenderint, et ex liberis animabus factae sint animalium animae, libertatem, animalis organismo convenientem, nanciscuntur; esse autem eam alibi valde intelligentem et mobilem, ut in homine; alibi vero simplicem et parum mobilem, ut fere in omnibus ceteris animalibus. Pendere autem hanc libertatem sic ab animalis organismo, ut per se quidem moveatur, juxta illius autem appetitiones feratur. )\n\n### Section 11\n\nDie Fichte’sche Ethik als Vergrößerungsspiegel der Fehler der Kantischen.\n\nWie in der Anatomie und Zoologie dem Schüler manche Dinge nicht so augenfällig an Präparaten und Naturprodukten werden, wie an Kupferstichen, welche dieselben mit einiger Uebertreibung darstellen; so kann ich Dem, welchem, nach der in den obigen Paragraphen gegebenen Kritik, die Nichtigkeit der Kantischen Grundlage der Ethik noch nicht vollkommen eingeleuchtet hätte, als ein Mittel zur Verdeutlichung dieser Erkenntniß Fichte’s „System der Sittenlehre“ empfehlen.\n\nWie nämlich im alten deutschen Puppenspiel dem Kaiser, oder sonstigen Helden, alle Mal der Hanswurst beigegeben war, welcher Alles, was der Held gesagt oder gethan hatte, nachher in seiner Manier und mit Uebertreibung wiederholte; so steht hinter dem großen *Kant* der Urheber der Wissenschaftslehre, richtiger Wissenschaftsleere. Wie dieser Mann seinen, dem Deutschen philosophischen Publico gegenüber ganz passenden und zu billigenden Plan, mittelst einer philosophischen Mystifikation Aufsehn zu erregen, um in Folge desselben seine und der Seinigen Wohlfahrt zu begründen, vorzüglich dadurch ausführte, daß er Kanten in allen Stücken *überbot*, als dessen lebendiger Superlativ auftrat und durch Vergrößerung der hervorstechenden Theile ganz eigentlich eine Karikatur der Kantischen Philosophie zu Stande brachte; so hat er dieses auch in der Ethik geleistet. In seinem „System der Sittenlehre“ finden wir den kategorischen Imperativ herangewachsen zu einem despotischen Imperativ: das absolute Soll, die gesetzgebende Vernunft und das Pflichtgebot haben sich entwickelt zu einem *moralischen Fatum*, einer unergründlichen Nothwendigkeit, daß das Menschengeschlecht gewissen Maximen streng gemäß handle (S. 308–309), als woran, nach den moralischen Anstalten zu urtheilen, sehr viel gelegen seyn muß, obwohl man nirgends eigentlich erfährt was, sondern nur so viel sieht, daß wie den Bienen ein Trieb einwohnt, gemeinschaftlich Zellen und einen Stock zu bauen, so in den Menschen angeblich ein Trieb liegen soll, gemeinschaftlich eine große, streng moralische Weltkomödie aufzuführen, zu welcher wir die bloßen Drahtpuppen wären und nichts weiter; wiewohl mit dem bedeutenden Unterschiede, daß der Bienenstock denn doch wirklich zu Stande kommt, hingegen statt der moralischen Weltkomödie in der That eine höchst unmoralische aufgeführt wird. So sehen wir denn hier die imperative Form der Kantischen Ethik, das Sittengesetz und absolute Soll, weiter geführt, bis ein System des *moralischen Fatalismus* daraus geworden, dessen Ausführung bisweilen in das Komische übergeht.[12]\n\nWenn in *Kants* Ethik ein gewisser moralischer Pedantismus zu spüren ist; so giebt, bei *Fichte*, die lächerlichste moralische Pedanterei reichen Stoff zur Satire. Man lese z. B., S. 407–409, die Entscheidung des bekannten kasuistischen Exempels, wo von zwei Menschenleben eines verloren werden muß. Ebenso finden wir alle Fehler *Kants* in den Superlativ gesteigert: z. B. S. 199: „Den Trieben der Sympathie, des Mitleids, der Menschenliebe zufolge zu handeln ist schlechthin nicht moralisch, sondern insofern gegen die Moral.“! — S. 402: „Die Triebfeder der Dienstfertigkeit muß nie eine unbesonnene Gutherzigkeit seyn, sondern der deutlich gedachte Zweck, die Kausalität der Vernunft so viel als möglich zu befördern.“ — Zwischen jenen Pedantereien guckt nun aber *Fichte*'s eigentliche philosophische Rohheit, — wie sie zu erwarten ist bei einem Mann, dem das Lehren nie Zeit zum Lernen gelassen hat, — augenfällig hervor, indem er das liberum arbitrium indifferentiae ernstlich aufstellt und mit den gemeinsten Gründen befestigt (S. 160, 173, 205, 208, 237, 259, 261). — Wer noch nicht vollkommen überzeugt ist, daß das Motiv, obgleich durch das Medium der Erkenntniß einwirkend, eine Ursache ist, wie jede andere, folglich die selbe Nothwendigkeit des Erfolgs, wie jede andere, mit sich führt, daher alle menschlichen Handlungen streng nothwendig erfolgen, — der ist noch philosophisch roh und nicht in den Elementen der philosophischen Erkenntniß unterrichtet. Die Einsicht in die strenge Nothwendigkeit der menschlichen Handlungen ist die Gränzlinie, welche die philosophischen Köpfe von den andern scheidet: und an dieser angelangt zeigte *Fichte* deutlich, daß er zu den andern gehörte. Daß er dann wieder, *Kants* Spur nachgehend (S. 303), Dinge sagt, die mit obigen Stellen in geradem Widerspruch stehen, beweist, wie so viele andere Widersprüche in seinen Schriften, nur, daß er, als Einer, dem es mit Erforschung der Wahrheit nie Ernst war, gar keine feste Grundüberzeugung hatte; wie sie denn zu seinen Zwecken auch ganz und gar nicht nöthig war. Nichts ist lächerlicher, als daß man diesem Mann die strengste Konsequenz nachgerühmt hat, indem man seinen pedantischen, triviale Dinge breit demonstrirenden Ton richtig dafür annahm.\n\nDie vollkommenste Entwickelung jenes Systems des *moralischen Fatalismus* *Fichte*'s findet man in seiner letzten Schrift: „Die Wissenschaftlehre in ihrem allgemeinen Umrisse dargestellt“, Berlin 1810, — welche den Vorzug hat, nur 46 S. 12° stark zu seyn und doch seine ganze Philosophie in nuce zu enthalten, weshalb sie allen Denen zu empfehlen ist, welche ihre Zeit für zu kostbar halten, als daß sie mit den in Christian-Wolffischer Breite und Langweiligkeit abgefaßten und eigentlich auf Täuschung, nicht auf Belehrung des Lesers abgesehenen größeren Produktionen dieses Mannes vergeudet werden dürfte. In dieser kleinen Schrift also heißt es S. 32: „Die Anschauung einer Sinnenwelt war nur dazu da, daß an dieser Welt das Ich als *absolut sollendes* sich sichtbar würde.“ — S. 33 kommt gar „das Soll der Sichtbarkeit des Soll“, und S. 36 „ein Soll des Ersehens, daß ich soll“. — Dahin also hat, als exemplar vitiis imitabile, die *imperative Form* der Ethik *Kants*, mit ihrem unerwiesenen Soll, das sie als ein gar bequemes που στω sich erbat, gleich nach *Kanten* geführt.\n\nUebrigens stößt alles hier Gesagte *Fichte*'s Verdienst nicht um, welches darin besteht, die Philosophie *Kants*, dieses späte Meisterstück des menschlichen Tiefsinns, bei der Nation, unter der es auftrat, verdunkelt, ja, verdrängt zu haben, durch windbeutelnde Superlative, durch Extravaganzen und den unter der Larve des Tiefsinns auftretenden Unsinn seiner „Grundlage der gesammten Wissenschaftslehre“, und hiedurch der Welt unwiderleglich gezeigt zu haben, welches die Kompetenz des Deutschen philosophischen Publikums sei; da er es die Rolle eines Kindes spielen ließ, dem man ein kostbares Kleinod aus den Händen lockt, indem man ihm ein Nürnberger Spielzeug dafür hinhält. Sein dadurch erlangter Ruhm lebt, auf Kredit, noch heute fort, und noch heute wird *Fichte* stets neben *Kant* genannt, als noch so Einer (Ἡρακλῆς καὶ πίθηκος! — i. e. Hercules et simia!), ja, oft über ihn gestellt.[13] Daher hat auch sein Beispiel jene von gleichem Geiste beseelten und mit gleichem Erfolge gekrönten Nachfolger in der Kunst philosophischer Mystifikation des Deutschen Publikums hervorgerufen, die Jeder kennt und von denen ausführlich zu reden, hier nicht der Ort ist; obwohl ihre respektiven Meinungen noch immer von den Philosophieprofessoren lang und breit dargelegt und ernsthaft diskutirt werden; als ob man es wirklich mit Philosophen zu thun hätte. Fichten also ist es zu verdanken, daß lukulente Akten da sind, um einst revidirt zu werden vor dem Richterstuhle der Nachwelt, diesem Kassationshofe der Urtheile der Mitwelt, welcher, zu fast allen Zeiten, für das ächte Verdienst Das hat seyn müssen, was das Jüngste Gericht für die Heiligen ist.\n\n12. Zum Beleg des Gesagten will ich hier nur einigen wenigen Stellen Raum gestatten. S. 196: „Der sittliche Trieb ist absolut, er fordert schlechthin, ohne allen Zweck außer ihm selbst.“ — S. 232: „Nun soll, zufolge des Sittengesetzes, das empirische Zeitwesen ein genauer Abdruck des ursprünglichen Ich werden.“ — S. 308: „Der ganze Mensch ist Vehikul des Sittengesetzes.“ — S. 342: „Ich bin nur Instrument, bloßes Werkzeug des Sittengesetzes, schlechthin nicht Zweck.“ — S. 343: „Jeder ist Zweck als Mittel, die Vernunft zu realisiren: dies ist der letzte Endzweck seines Daseyns: dazu allein ist er da, und wenn dies nicht geschehen sollte, so braucht er überhaupt nicht zu seyn.“ — S. 347: „Ich bin Werkzeug des Sittengesetzes in der Sinnenwelt!“ — S. 360: „Es ist Verordnung des Sittengesetzes, den Leib zu ernähren, die Gesundheit desselben zu befördern: es versteht sich, daß dies in keinem Sinne und zu keinem andern Zweck geschehen darf, als um ein tüchtiges Werkzeug zur Beförderung des Vernunftzwecks zu seyn.“ — (Vergl. S. 371) S. 376: „Jeder menschliche Leib ist Werkzeug zur Beförderung des Vernunftzwecks: daher muß die höchstmögliche Tauglichkeit jedes Werkzeugs dazu mir Zweck seyn: ich muß sonach Sorgfalt für Jeden tragen.“ — Dies ist seine Ableitung der Menschenliebe! — S. 377: „Ich kann und darf für mich selbst nur sorgen, lediglich weil und in wiefern ich ein Werkzeug des Sittengesetzes bin.“ — S. 388: „Einen Verfolgten mit Gefahr des eigenen Lebens zu vertheidigen, ist absolute Schuldigkeit: — sobald Menschenleben in Gefahr ist, habt ihr nicht mehr das Recht, auf die Sicherheit eures eigenen zu denken.“ — S. 420: „Es giebt gar keine Ansicht meines Nebenmenschen auf dem Gebiete des Sittengesetzes, als die, daß er sei ein Werkzeug der Vernunft.“\n\n13. Ich belege dieses durch eine Stelle aus der allerneuesten philosophischen Litteratur. Herr Feuerbach, ein Hegelianer (c’est tout dire) läßt sich in seinem Buche „P. Bayle, Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Philosophie“, 1838, S. 80, also vernehmen: „Noch erhabener als *Kants* sind aber *Fichte*'s Ideen, die er in seiner Sittenlehre und zerstreut in seinen übrigen Schriften aussprach. Das Christenthum hat an Erhabenheit nichts, was es den Ideen *Fichte*'s an die Seite stellen könnte.“\n\n### Section 12\n\nIII.\n\nBegründung der Ethik.\n\nAnforderungen.\n\nAlso auch *Kants* Begründung der Ethik, seit sechzig Jahren für ein festes Fundament derselben gehalten, versinkt vor unsern Augen in den tiefen, vielleicht unausfüllbaren Abgrund der philosophischen Irrthümer, indem sie sich als eine unstatthafte Annahme und als eine bloße Verkleidung der theologischen Moral erweist. — Daß die früheren Versuche, die Ethik zu begründen, noch weniger genügen können, darf ich, wie gesagt, als bekannt voraussetzen. Es sind meistens unerwiesene, aus der Luft gegriffene Behauptungen, und zugleich, wie eben auch *Kants* Begründung selbst, künstliche Subtilitäten, welche die feinsten Unterscheidungen verlangen und auf den abstraktesten Begriffen beruhen, schwierige Kombinationen, heuristische Regeln, Sätze, die auf einer Nadelspitze balanciren, und stelzbeinige Maximen, von deren Höhe herab man das wirkliche Leben und sein Gewühl nicht mehr sehen kann. Daher sind sie allerdings trefflich geeignet, in den Hörsälen widerzuhallen und eine Uebung des Scharfsinnes abzugeben: aber dergleichen kann es nicht seyn, was den in jedem Menschen dennoch wirklich vorhandenen Aufruf zum Rechtthun und Wohlthun hervorbringt, noch kann es den starken Antrieben zur Ungerechtigkeit und Härte das Gleichgewicht halten, noch auch den Vorwürfen des Gewissens zum Grunde liegen; welche auf die Verletzung solcher spitzfindigen Maximen zurückführen zu wollen, nur dienen kann, diese lächerlich zu machen. Künstliche Begriffs-Kombinationen jener Art können also, wenn wir die Sache ernstlich nehmen, nimmermehr den wahren *Antrieb* zur Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe enthalten. Dieser muß vielmehr etwas seyn, das wenig Nachdenken, noch weniger Abstraktion und Kombination erfordert, das, von der Verstandesbildung unabhängig, Jeden, auch den rohesten Menschen, anspreche, bloß auf anschaulicher Auffassung beruhe und unmittelbar aus der Realität der Dinge sich aufdringe. Solange die Ethik nicht ein Fundament dieser Art aufzuweisen hat, mag sie in den Hörsälen disputiren und paradiren: das wirkliche Leben wird ihr Hohn sprechen. Ich muß daher den Ethikern den paradoxen Rath ertheilen, sich erst ein wenig im Menschenleben umzusehen.\n\n### Section 13\n\nSkeptische Ansicht.\n\nOder aber gienge vielleicht aus dem Rückblicke auf die seit mehr als zwei Tausend Jahren vergeblich gemachten Versuche, eine sichere Grundlage für die Moral zu finden, hervor, daß es gar keine natürliche, von menschlicher Satzung unabhängige Moral gebe, sondern diese durch und durch ein Artefakt sei, ein Mittel, erfunden zur bessern Bändigung des eigensüchtigen und boshaften Menschengeschlechts, und daß sie demnach, ohne die Stütze der positiven Religionen, dahin fallen würde, weil sie keine innere Beglaubigung und keine natürliche Grundlage hätte? Justiz und Polizei können nicht überall ausreichen: es giebt Vergehungen, deren Entdeckung zu schwer, ja einige, deren Bestrafung mißlich ist; wo uns also der öffentliche Schutz verläßt. Zudem kann das bürgerliche Gesetz höchstens Gerechtigkeit, nicht aber Menschenliebe und Wohlthun erzwingen, schon weil hiebei Jeder der passive, Keiner aber der aktive Theil würde seyn wollen. Dies hat die Hypothese veranlaßt, daß die Moral allein auf der Religion beruhe und beide zum Zweck hätten, das Komplement zur nothwendigen Unzulänglichkeit der Staatseinrichtung und Gesetzgebung zu seyn. Eine natürliche, d. h. bloß auf die Natur der Dinge, oder des Menschen gegründete Moral könne es demnach nicht geben: woraus sich erkläre, daß die Philosophen umsonst bestrebt sind, ihr Fundament zu suchen. Diese Meinung ist nicht ohne Scheinbarkeit: schon die Pyrrhoniker stellten sie auf: οὔτε ἀγαθόν τί ἐστι φύσει, οὔτε κακόν,\nἀλλὰ πρὸς ἀνθρώπων ταῦτα νόῳ κέκριται,\nκατὰ τὸν Τίμωνα (neque est aliquod bonum naturâ, neque malum, „sed haec ex arbitrio hominum dijudicantur“, — secundum Timonem). Sext. Emp. adv. Math., XI, 140, und auch in neuerer Zeit haben ausgezeichnete Denker sich zu ihr bekannt. Sie verdient daher eine sorgfältige Prüfung, wenn es gleich bequemer wäre, sie durch einen inquisitoriellen Seitenblick auf das Gewissen Derer, in denen ein solcher Gedanke aufsteigen konnte, zu beseitigen.\n\nMan würde sich in einem großen und sehr jugendlichen Irrthum befinden, wenn man glaubte, daß alle gerechte und legale Handlungen der Menschen moralischen Ursprungs wären. Vielmehr ist zwischen der Gerechtigkeit, welche die Menschen ausüben, und der ächten *Redlichkeit* des Herzens, meistens ein analoges Verhältniß, wie zwischen den Aeußerungen der Höflichkeit und der ächten Liebe des Nächsten, welche nicht, wie jene, zum Schein, sondern wirklich den Egoismus überwindet. Die überall zur Schau getragene Rechtlichkeit der Gesinnung, welche über jeden Zweifel erhaben seyn will, nebst der hohen Indignation, welche durch die leiseste Andeutung eines Verdachts in dieser Hinsicht rege wird und bereit ist, in den feurigsten Zorn überzugehen, — dies Alles wird nur der Unerfahrene und Einfältige sofort für baare Münze und Wirkung eines zarten moralischen Gefühls oder Gewissens nehmen. In Wahrheit beruht die allgemeine, im menschlichen Verkehr ausgeübte und als felsenfeste Maxime behauptete Rechtlichkeit hauptsächlich auf zwei äußeren Nothwendigkeiten: erstlich auf der gesetzlichen Ordnung, mittelst welcher die öffentliche Gewalt die Rechte eines Jeden schützt, und zweitens auf der erkannten Nothwendigkeit des guten Namens, oder der bürgerlichen Ehre, zum Fortkommen in der Welt, mittelst welcher die Schritte eines Jeden unter der Aufsicht der öffentlichen Meinung stehen, welche, unerbittlich strenge, auch einen einzigen Fehltritt in diesem Stücke nie verzeiht, sondern ihn, als einen unauslöschlichen Makel, dem Schuldigen bis an den Tod nachträgt. Hierin ist sie wirklich weise: denn sie geht von dem Grundsatze operari sequitur esse und demnach von der Ueberzeugung aus, daß der Charakter unveränderlich sei und daher, was Einer ein Mal gethan hat, er unter ganz gleichen Umständen, unausbleiblich wieder thun werde. Diese zwei Wächter also sind es, welche die öffentliche Rechtlichkeit bewachen und ohne welche wir, unverhohlen gesagt, übel daran wären, vorzüglich in Hinsicht auf den Besitz, diesen Hauptpunkt im menschlichen Leben, um welchen hauptsächlich dessen Thun und Treiben sich dreht. Denn die rein ethischen Motive zur Ehrlichkeit, angenommen daß sie vorhanden sind, können meistentheils nur nach einem weiten Umwege ihre Anwendung auf den bürgerlichen Besitz finden. Sie können nämlich sich zunächst und unmittelbar allein auf das *natürliche* Recht beziehen; auf das *positive* aber erst mittelbar, sofern nämlich jenes ihm zum Grunde liegt. Das *natürliche* Recht aber haftet an keinem andern Eigenthum, als an dem durch eigene Mühe erworbenen, durch dessen Angriff die darauf verwendeten Kräfte des Besitzers mit angegriffen, ihm also geraubt werden. — Die Präoccupationstheorie verwerfe ich unbedingt, kann jedoch nicht hier auf ihre Widerlegung eingehen.[14] — Nun soll freilich jeder auf positives Recht gegründete Besitz, wenn auch durch noch so viele Mittelglieder, zuletzt und in erster Quelle auf dem natürlichen Eigenthumsrechte beruhen. Aber wie weit liegt nicht, in den meisten Fällen, unser bürgerlicher Besitz von jener Urquelle des natürlichen Eigenthumsrechtes ab! Meistens hat er mit diesem einen sehr schwer oder gar nicht nachweisbaren Zusammenhang: unser Eigenthum ist geerbt, erheirathet, in der Lotterie gewonnen, oder wenn auch das nicht, doch nicht durch eigentliche Arbeit im Schweiße des Angesichts, sondern durch kluge Gedanken und Einfälle erworben, z. B. im Spekulationshandel, ja, mitunter auch durch dumme Einfälle, welche, mittelst des Zufalls, der Deus Eventus gekrönt und verherrlicht hat. In den wenigsten Fällen ist es eigentlich die Frucht wirklicher Mühe und Arbeit, und selbst dann ist diese oft nur eine geistige, wie die der Advokaten, Aerzte, Beamten, Lehrer, welche, nach dem Blicke des rohen Menschen, wenig Anstrengung zu kosten scheint. Es bedarf schon bedeutender Bildung, um bei allem solchen Besitz das ethische Recht zu erkennen und es demnach aus rein moralischem Antriebe zu achten. — Demzufolge betrachten Viele, im Stillen, das Eigenthum der Andern als allein nach positivem Rechte besessen. Finden sie daher Mittel, es ihnen mittelst Benutzung, ja auch nur Umgehung der Gesetze zu entreißen; so tragen sie kein Bedenken: denn ihnen scheint, daß Jene es auf demselben Wege verlören, auf welchem sie es früher erlangt hatten, und sie sehen daher ihre eigenen Ansprüche als eben so gut begründet an, wie die des frühern Besitzers. Von ihrem Gesichtspunkt aus, ist in der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft an die Stelle des Rechtes des Stärkern das des Klügern getreten. — Inzwischen ist der Reiche oft wirklich von einer unverbrüchlichen Rechtlichkeit, weil er von ganzem Herzen einer Regel zugethan ist und eine Maxime aufrecht erhält, auf deren Befolgung sein ganzer Besitz, mit dem Vielen, was er dadurch vor Andern voraus hat, beruht; daher er zu dem Grundsatze suum cuique sich in vollem Ernst bekennt und nicht davon abweicht. Es giebt in der That eine solche *objektive* Anhänglichkeit an Treue und Glauben, mit dem Entschluß, sie heilig zu halten, die bloß darauf beruht, daß Treue und Glauben die Grundlage alles freien Verkehrs unter Menschen, der guten Ordnung und des sichern Besitzes sind, daher sie uns selbst gar oft zu Gute kommen und in dieser Hinsicht sogar mit Opfern aufrecht gehalten werden müssen; wie man ja an einen guten Acker auch etwas wendet. Doch wird man die so begründete Redlichkeit, in der Regel, nur bei wohlhabenden, oder wenigstens einem einträglichen Erwerb obliegenden Leuten finden, am allermeisten bei Kaufleuten, als welche die deutlichste Ueberzeugung haben, daß Handel und Wandel am gegenseitigen Vertrauen und Kredit ihre unentbehrliche Stütze haben; weshalb auch die kaufmännische Ehre eine ganz spezielle ist. — Hingegen der Arme, der bei der Sache zu kurz gekommen ist und vermöge der Ungleichheit des Besitzes, sich zu Mangel und schwerer Arbeit verdammt sieht, während Andere, vor seinen Augen, im Ueberfluß und Müssiggange leben, der wird schwerlich erkennen, daß dieser Ungleichheit eine entsprechende der Verdienste und des redlichen Erwerbes zum Grunde liege. Wenn er aber dies nicht erkennt, woher soll er dann den rein ethischen Antrieb zur Ehrlichkeit nehmen, der ihn abhält, seine Hand nach dem fremden Ueberflusse auszustrecken? Meistens ist es die gesetzliche Ordnung, die ihn zurückhält. Aber wenn ein Mal die seltene Gelegenheit kommt, wo er, vor der Wirkung des Gesetzes gesichert, durch eine einzige That die drückende Last des Mangels, welche der Anblick des fremden Ueberflusses noch fühlbarer macht, von sich wälzen und auch sich in den Besitz der so oft beneideten Genüsse setzen könnte, was wird da seine Hand zurückhalten? Religiöse Dogmen? Selten ist der Glaube so fest. Ein rein moralisches Motiv zur Gerechtigkeit? Vielleicht in einzelnen Fällen: aber in den allermeisten wird es dann nur die auch dem geringen Manne sehr angelegene Sorge für seinen guten Namen, seine bürgerliche Ehre seyn, die augenscheinliche Gefahr, durch eine solche That auf immer ausgestoßen zu werden aus der großen Freimaurerloge der ehrlichen Leute, welche das Gesetz der Rechtlichkeit befolgen und danach auf der ganzen Erde das Eigenthum unter sich vertheilt haben und verwalten, die Gefahr, in Folge einer einzigen unehrlichen Handlung, Zeit Lebens ein Paria der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft zu seyn, Einer, dem Keiner mehr traut, dessen Gemeinschaft Jeder flieht und dem dadurch alles Fortkommen abgeschnitten ist, d. h. mit Einem Wort: „Ein Kerl, der gestohlen hat“, — und auf den das Sprichwort geht: „Wer Ein Mal stiehlt, ist Zeit Lebens ein Dieb.“\n\nDies also sind die Wächter der öffentlichen Rechtlichkeit: und wer gelebt und die Augen offen gehabt hat, wird eingestehen, daß bei weitem die allermeiste Ehrlichkeit im menschlichen Verkehr nur ihnen zu verdanken ist, ja, daß es nicht an Leuten fehlt, die auch ihrer Wachsamkeit sich zu entziehen hoffen, und die daher Gerechtigkeit und Redlichkeit nur als ein Aushängeschild, als eine Flagge betrachten, unter deren Schutz man seine Kapereien mit desto besserm Erfolge ausführt. Wir haben also nicht sogleich in heiligem Eifer aufzufahren und in Harnisch zu gerathen, wenn ein Moralist ein Mal das Problem aufwirft, ob nicht vielleicht alle Redlichkeit und Gerechtigkeit im Grunde bloß konventionell wäre, und er demnächst, dieses Princip weiter verfolgend, auch die ganze übrige Moral auf entferntere, mittelbare, zuletzt aber doch egoistische Gründe zurückzuführen sich bemüht, wie Holbach, Helvetius, d'Alembert und Andere ihrer Zeit es scharfsinnig versucht haben. Von dem größten Theil der gerechten Handlungen ist dies sogar wirklich wahr und richtig, wie ich im Obigen gezeigt habe. Daß es auch von einem beträchtlichen Theil der Handlungen der Menschenliebe wahr sei, leidet keinen Zweifel; da sie oft aus Ostentation, sehr oft aus dem Glauben an eine dereinstige Retribution, die wohl gar in der Quadrat- oder vollends Kubik-Zahl geleistet würde, hervorgehen, auch noch andere egoistische Gründe zulassen. Allein eben so gewiß ist es, daß es Handlungen uneigennütziger Menschenliebe und ganz freiwilliger Gerechtigkeit giebt. Beweise der letzteren sind, um mich nicht auf Thatsachen des Bewußtseyns, sondern nur der Erfahrung zu berufen, die einzelnen, aber unzweifelhaften Fälle, wo nicht nur die Gefahr gesetzlicher Verfolgung, sondern auch die der Entdeckung und selbst jedes Verdachtes ganz ausgeschlossen war, und dennoch selbst vom Armen dem Reichen das Seinige gegeben wurde: z. B., wo ein Verlorenes und Gefundenes, wo ein von einem Dritten und bereits Verstorbenen Deponirtes dem Eigenthümer gebracht wurde, wo ein im Geheimen von einem Landesflüchtigen bei einem armen Manne gemachtes Depositum treulich bewahrt und zurückgegeben wurde. Dergleichen Fälle giebt es, ohne Zweifel: allein die Ueberraschung, die Rührung, die Hochachtung, womit wir sie entgegennehmen, bezeugen deutlich, daß sie zu den unerwarteten Dingen, den seltenen Ausnahmen gehören. Es giebt in der That wahrhaft ehrliche Leute; — wie es auch wirklich vierblätterigen Klee giebt: aber Hamlet spricht ohne Hyperbel, wenn er sagt: To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man pick’d out of ten thousand.[15] — Gegen den Einwand, daß den oben erwähnten Handlungen zuletzt religiöse Dogmen, mithin Rücksicht auf Strafe und Belohnung in einer andern Welt, zum Grunde lagen, würden sich auch wohl Fälle nachweisen lassen, wo die Vollbringer derselben gar keinem Religionsglauben anhiengen; was lange nicht so selten ist, wie das öffentliche Bekenntniß der Sache.\n\nMan beruft sich, der skeptischen Ansicht gegenüber, zunächst auf das *Gewissen*. Aber auch gegen dessen natürlichen Ursprung werden Zweifel erhoben. Wenigstens giebt es auch eine conscientia spuria, die oft mit demselben verwechselt wird. Die Reue und Beängstigung, welche Mancher über Das, was er gethan hat, empfindet, ist oft im Grunde nichts Anderes, als die Furcht vor Dem, was ihm dafür geschehen kann. Die Verletzung äußerlicher, willkührlicher und sogar abgeschmackter Satzungen quält Manchen mit inneren Vorwürfen, ganz nach Art des Gewissens. So z. B. liegt es manchem bigotten Juden wirklich schwer auf dem Herzen, daß, obgleich es im zweiten Buch Mose, Kap. 35, 3, heißt: „Ihr sollt kein Feuer anzünden am Sabbathtage in allen euren Wohnungen“, er doch am Sonnabend zu Hause eine Pfeife geraucht hat. Manchen Edelmann, oder Offizier, nagt der heimliche Selbstvorwurf, daß er, bei irgend einem Vorfall, den Gesetzen des Narrenkodex, den man ritterliche Ehre nennt, nicht gehörig nachgekommen sei: dies geht so weit, daß Mancher dieses Standes, wenn, in die Unmöglichkeit versetzt, sein gegebenes Ehrenwort zu halten, oder auch nur besagtem Kodex bei Streitigkeiten Genüge zu leisten, sich todtschießen wird. (Ich habe Beides erlebt.) Hingegen wird der selbe Mann alle Tage leichten Herzens sein Wort brechen, sobald nur nicht das Schiboleth „Ehre“ hinzugefügt war. — Ueberhaupt jede Inkonsequenz, jede Unbedachtsamkeit, jedes Handeln gegen unsere Vorsätze, Grundsätze, Ueberzeugungen, welcher Art sie auch seien, ja, jede Indiskretion, jeder Fehlgriff, jede Balourdise wurmt uns hinterher im Stillen und läßt einen Stachel im Herzen zurück. Mancher würde sich wundern, wenn er sähe, woraus sein Gewissen, das ihm ganz stattlich vorkommt, eigentlich zusammengesetzt ist: etwan aus 1/5 Menschenfurcht, 1/5 Deisidämonie, 1/5 Vorurtheil, 1/5 Eitelkeit und 1/5 Gewohnheit: so daß er im Grunde nicht besser ist, als jener Engländer, der geradezu sagte: I cannot afford to keep a conscience (ein Gewissen zu halten ist für mich zu kostspielig). — Religiöse Leute, jedes Glaubens, verstehen unter *Gewissen* sehr oft nichts Anderes, als die Dogmen und Vorschristen ihrer Religion und die in Beziehung auf diese vorgenommene Selbstprüfung: in diesem Sinne werden ja auch die Ausdrücke *Gewissenszwang* und *Gewissensfreiheit* genommen: Die Theologen, Scholastiker und Kasuistiker der mittlern und spätern Zeit nahmen es ebenso: Alles was Einer von Satzungen und Vorschriften der Kirche wußte, nebst dem Vorsatz es zu glauben und zu befolgen, machte sein Gewissen aus. Demgemäß gab es ein zweifelndes, ein meinendes, ein irrendes Gewissen u. dgl. m., zu deren Berichtigung man sich einen Gewissensrath hielt. Wie wenig der Begriff des Gewissens, gleich andern Begriffen, durch sein Objekt selbst festgestellt ist, wie verschieden er von Verschiedenen gefaßt worden, wie schwankend und unsicher er bei den Schriftstellern erscheint, kann man in der Kürze ersehen aus Stäudlins „Geschichte der Lehre vom Gewissen“. Alles dieses ist nicht geeignet, die Realität des Begriffes zu beglaubigen, und hat daher die Frage veranlaßt, ob es denn auch wirklich ein eigentliches, angeborenes Gewissen gebe? Ich bin bereits §. 10, bei der Lehre von der Freiheit, veranlaßt worden, meinen Begriff vom Gewissen kurz anzugeben, und werde weiter unten darauf zurückkommen.\n\nDiese sämmtlichen skeptischen Bedenklichkeiten reichen zwar keineswegs hin, das Daseyn aller ächten Moralität abzuleugnen, wohl aber unsere Erwartungen von der moralischen Anlage im Menschen und mithin vom natürlichen Fundament der Ethik zu mäßigen; da so Vieles, was diesem zugeschrieben wird, nachweislich von andern Triebfedern herrührt, und die Betrachtung der moralischen Verderbniß der Welt genugsam beweist, daß die Triebfeder zum Guten keine sehr mächtige seyn kann, zumal weil sie oft selbst da nicht wirkt, wo die ihr entgegenstehenden Motive nicht stark sind; wiewohl hiebei der individuelle Unterschied der Charaktere seine volle Gültigkeit behauptet. Inzwischen wird die Erkenntniß jener moralischen Verderbniß dadurch erschwert, daß die Aeußerungen derselben gehemmt und verdeckt werden durch die gesetzliche Ordnung, durch die Nothwendigkeit der Ehre, ja, auch noch durch die Höflichkeit. Endlich kommt noch hinzu, daß man bei der Erziehung die Moralität der Zöglinge dadurch zu befördern vermeint, daß man ihnen Rechtlichkeit und Tugend als die in der Welt allgemein befolgten Maximen darstellt: wenn nun später die Erfahrung sie, und oft zu ihrem großen Schaden, eines Andern belehrt; so kann die Entdeckung, daß ihre Jugendlehrer die Ersten waren, welche sie betrogen, nachtheiliger auf ihre eigene Moralität wirken, als wenn diese Lehrer ihnen das erste Beispiel der Offenherzigkeit und Redlichkeit selbst gegeben und unverhohlen gesagt hätten: „Die Welt liegt im Argen, die Menschen sind nicht, wie sie seyn sollten; aber laß' es Dich nicht irren und sei Du besser.“ — Alles dieses, wie gesagt, erschwert unsere Erkenntniß der wirklichen Immoralität des Menschengeschlechts. Der Staat, dieses Meisterstück des sich selbst verstehenden, vernünftigen, aufsummirten Egoismus Aller, hat den Schutz der Rechte eines Jeden in die Hände einer Gewalt gegeben, welche, der Macht jedes Einzelnen unendlich überlegen, ihn zwingt, die Rechte aller Andern zu achten. Da kann der gränzenlose Egoismus fast Aller, die Bosheit Vieler, die Grausamkeit Mancher sich nicht hervorthun: der Zwang hat Alle gebändigt. Die hieraus entspringende Täuschung ist so groß, daß, wenn wir in einzelnen Fällen, wo die Staatsgewalt nicht schützen kann, oder eludirt wird, die unersättliche Habsucht, die niederträchtige Geldgier, die tief versteckte Falschheit, die tückische Bosheit der Menschen hervortreten sehen, wir oft zurückschrecken und ein Zetergeschrei erheben, vermeinend, ein noch nie gesehenes Monstrum sei uns aufgestoßen: allein ohne den Zwang der Gesetze und die Nothwendigkeit der bürgerlichen Ehre würden dergleichen Vorgänge ganz an der Tagesordnung seyn. Kriminalgeschichten und Beschreibungen anarchischer Zustände muß man lesen, um zu erkennen, was, in moralischer Hinsicht, der Mensch eigentlich ist. Diese Tausende, die da, vor unsern Augen, im friedlichen Verkehr sich durcheinander drängen, sind anzusehen als eben so viele Tiger und Wölfe, deren Gebiß durch einen starken Maulkorb gesichert ist. Daher, wenn man sich die Staatsgewalt ein Mal aufgehoben, d. h. jenen Maulkorb abgeworfen denkt, jeder Einsichtige zurückbebt vor dem Schauspiele, das dann zu erwarten stände; wodurch er zu erkennen giebt, wie wenig Wirkung er der Religion, dem Gewissen, oder dem natürlichen Fundament der Moral, welches es auch immer seyn möge, im Grunde zutraut. Aber gerade alsdann würde, jenen freigelassenen unmoralischen Potenzen gegenüber, auch die wahre moralische Triebfeder im Menschen ihre Wirksamkeit unverdeckt zeigen, folglich am leichtesten erkannt werden können; wobei zugleich die unglaublich große moralische Verschiedenheit der Charaktere unverschleiert hervortreten und eben so groß befunden werden würde, wie die intellektuelle der Köpfe; womit gewiß viel gesagt ist.\n\nMan wird mir vielleicht entgegensetzen wollen, daß die Ethik es nicht damit zu thun habe, wie die Menschen wirklich handeln, sondern die Wissenschaft sei, welche angiebt, wie sie handeln *sollen*. Dies ist aber gerade der Grundsatz, den ich leugne, nachdem ich im kritischen Theile dieser Abhandlung genugsam dargethan habe, daß der Begriff des Sollens, die *imperative Form* der Ethik, allein in der theologischen Moral gilt, außerhalb derselben aber allen Sinn und Bedeutung verliert. Ich setze hingegen der Ethik den Zweck, die in moralischer Hinsicht höchst verschiedene Handlungsweise der Menschen zu deuten, zu erklären und auf ihren letzten Grund zurückzuführen. Daher bleibt zur Auffindung des Fundaments der Ethik kein anderer Weg, als der empirische, nämlich zu untersuchen, ob es überhaupt Handlungen giebt, denen wir *ächten moralischen Werth* zuerkennen müssen, — welches die Handlungen freiwilliger Gerechtigkeit, reiner Menschenliebe und wirklichen Edelmuths seyn werden. Diese sind sodann als ein gegebenes Phänomen zu betrachten, welches wir richtig zu erklären, d. h. auf seine wahren Gründe zurückzuführen, mithin die jedenfalls eigenthümliche Triebfeder nachzuweisen haben, welche den Menschen zu Handlungen dieser, von jeder andern specifisch verschiedenen Art bewegt. Diese Triebfeder, nebst der Empfänglichkeit für sie, wird der letzte Grund der Moralität und die Kenntniß derselben das Fundament der Moral seyn. Dies ist der bescheidene Weg, auf welchen ich die Ethik hinweise. Wem er, als keine Konstruktion a priori, keine absolute Gesetzgebung für alle vernünftige Wesen in abstracto enthaltend, nicht vornehm, kathedralisch und akademisch genug dünkt, der mag zurückkehren zu den kategorischen Imperativen, zum Schiboleth der „Würde des Menschen“; zu den hohlen Redensarten, den Hirngespinsten und Seifenblasen der Schulen, zu Principien, denen die Erfahrung bei jedem Schritte Hohn spricht und von welchen außerhalb der Hörsäle kein Mensch etwas weiß, noch jemals empfunden hat. Dem auf meinem Wege sich ergebenden Fundament der Moral hingegen steht die Erfahrung zur Seite und legt täglich und stündlich ihr stilles Zeugniß für dasselbe ab.\n\n14. Siehe „Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung“, Bd. 1, §. 62, S. 396 ff., und Bd. 2, Kap. 47, S. 682.\n\n15. Nach dem Laufe dieser Welt heißt ehrlich seyn: ein aus zehntausend Auserwählter seyn.\n\n### Section 14\n\nAntimoralische[16] Triebfedern.\n\nDie Haupt- und Grundtriebfeder im Menschen, wie im Thiere, ist der *Egoismus*, d. h. der Drang zum Daseyn und Wohlseyn. — Das Deutsche Wort *Selbstsucht* führt einen falschen Nebenbegriff von Krankheit mit sich. Das Wort *Eigennutz* aber bezeichnet den *Egoismus*, sofern er unter Leitung der Vernunft steht, welche ihn befähigt, vermöge der Reflexion, seine Zwecke planmäßig zu verfolgen; daher man die Thiere wohl egoistisch, aber nicht eigennützig nennen kann. Ich will also für den allgemeinern Begriff das Wort *Egoismus* beibehalten. — Dieser *Egoismus* ist, im Thiere, wie im Menschen, mit dem innersten Kern und Wesen desselben aufs genaueste verknüpft, ja, eigentlich identisch. Daher entspringen, in der Regel, alle seine Handlungen aus dem *Egoismus*, und aus diesem zunächst ist alle Mal die Erklärung einer gegebenen Handlung zu versuchen; wie denn auch auf denselben die Berechnung aller Mittel, dadurch man den Menschen nach irgend einem Ziele hinzulenken sucht, durchgängig gegründet ist. Der *Egoismus* ist, seiner Natur nach, gränzenlos: der Mensch will unbedingt sein Daseyn erhalten, will es von Schmerzen, zu denen auch aller Mangel und Entbehrung gehört, unbedingt frei, will die größtmögliche Summe von Wohlseyn, und will jeden Genuß, zu dem er fähig ist, ja, sucht wo möglich noch neue Fähigkeiten zum Genusse in sich zu entwickeln. Alles, was sich dem Streben seines *Egoismus* entgegenstellt, erregt seinen Unwillen, Zorn, Haß: er wird es als seinen Feind zu vernichten suchen. Er will wo möglich Alles genießen, Alles haben; da aber dies unmöglich ist, wenigstens Alles beherrschen: „Alles für mich, und nichts für die Andern“, ist sein Wahlspruch. Der Egoismus ist kolossal: er überragt die Welt. Denn, wenn jedem Einzelnen die Wahl gegeben würde zwischen seiner eigenen und der übrigen Welt Vernichtung; so brauche ich nicht zu sagen, wohin sie, bei den Allermeisten, ausschlagen würde. Demgemäß macht Jeder sich zum Mittelpunkte der Welt, bezieht Alles auf sich und wird was nur vorgeht, z. B. die größten Veränderungen im Schicksale der Völker, zunächst auf sein Interesse dabei beziehen und, sei dieses auch noch so klein und mittelbar, vor Allem daran denken. Keinen größern Kontrast giebt es, als den zwischen dem hohen und exklusiven Antheil, den Jeder an seinem eigenen Selbst nimmt, und der Gleichgültigkeit, mit der in der Regel alle Andern eben jenes Selbst betrachten; wie er ihres. Es hat sogar seine komische Seite, die zahllosen Individuen zu sehen, deren jedes, wenigstens in praktischer Hinsicht, sich allein für *real* hält und die andern gewissermaaßen als bloße Phantome betrachtet. Dies beruht zuletzt darauf, daß Jeder sich selber *unmittelbar* gegeben ist, die Andern aber ihm nur *mittelbar*, durch die Vorstellung von ihnen in seinem Kopfe: und die Unmittelbarkeit behauptet ihr Recht. Nämlich in Folge der jedem Bewußtseyn wesentlichen Subjektivität, ist Jeder sich selber die ganze Welt: denn alles Objektive existirt nur *mittelbar*, als bloße Vorstellung des Subjekts; so daß stets Alles am Selbstbewußtseyn hängt. Die einzige Welt, welche Jeder wirklich kennt und von der er weiß, trägt er in sich, als seine Vorstellung, und ist daher das Centrum derselben. Deshalb eben ist Jeder sich Alles in Allem: er findet sich als den Inhaber aller Realität und kann ihm nichts wichtiger seyn, als er selbst. Während nun in seiner subjektiven Ansicht sein Selbst sich in dieser kolossalen Größe darstellt, schrumpft es in der objektiven beinahe zu Nichts ein, nämlich zu ungefähr 1/1000,000,000 der jetzt lebenden Menschheit. Dabei nun weiß er völlig gewiß, daß eben jenes über Alles wichtige Selbst, dieser Mikrokosmos, als dessen bloße Modifikation, oder Accidenz, der Makrokosmos auftritt, also seine ganze Welt, untergehen muß im Tode, der daher für ihn gleichbedeutend ist mit dem Weltuntergange. Dieses also sind die Elemente, woraus, auf der Basis des Willens zum Leben, der Egoismus erwächst, welcher zwischen Mensch und Mensch stets wie ein breiter Graben liegt. Springt wirklich ein Mal Einer darüber, dem Andern zu Hülfe, so ist es wie ein Wunder, welches Staunen erregt und Beifall einärntet. Oben, §. 8, bei Erläuterung des Kantischen Moralprincips, habe ich Gelegenheit gehabt, auszuführen, wie der Egoismus sich im Alltagsleben zeigt, wo er, trotz der Höflichkeit, die man ihm als Feigenblatt vorsteckt, doch stets aus irgend einer Ecke hervorguckt. Die Höflichkeit nämlich ist die konventionelle und systematische Verleugnung des Egoismus in den Kleinigkeiten des täglichen Verkehrs und ist freilich anerkannte Heuchelei: dennoch wird sie gefordert und gelobt; weil was sie verbirgt, der Egoismus, so garstig ist, daß man es nicht sehen will, obschon man weiß, daß es da ist: wie man widerliche Gegenstände wenigstens durch einen Vorhang bedeckt wissen will. — Da der Egoismus, wo ihm nicht entweder äußere Gewalt, welcher auch jede Furcht, sei sie vor irdischen oder überirdischen Mächten, beizuzählen ist, oder aber die ächte moralische Triebfeder entgegenwirkt, seine Zwecke unbedingt verfolgt; so würde, bei der zahllosen Menge egoistischer Individuen, das bellum omnium contra omnes an der Tagesordnung seyn, zum Unheil Aller. Daher die reflektirende Vernunft sehr bald die Staatseinrichtung erfindet, welche, aus gegenseitiger Furcht vor gegenseitiger Gewalt entspringend, den nachtheiligen Folgen des allgemeinen Egoismus so weit vorbeugt, als es auf dem *negativen* Wege geschehen kann. Wo hingegen jene zwei ihm entgegenstehenden Potenzen nicht zur Wirksamkeit gelangen, wird er sich sofort in seiner ganzen furchtbaren Größe zeigen, und das Phänomen wird kein schönes seyn. Indem ich, um ohne Weitläufigkeit die Stärke dieser antimoralischen Potenz auszudrücken, darauf bedacht war, die Größe des Egoismus mit Einem Zuge zu bezeichnen und deshalb nach irgend einer recht emphatischen Hyperbel suchte, bin ich zuletzt auf diese gerathen: mancher Mensch wäre im Stande, einen andern todtzuschlagen, bloß um mit dessen Fette sich die Stiefel zu schmieren. Aber dabei blieb mir doch der Skrupel, ob es auch wirklich eine Hyperbel sei. — Der *Egoismus* also ist die erste und hauptsächlichste, wiewohl nicht die einzige Macht, welche die *moralische Triebfeder* zu bekämpfen hat. Man sieht schon hier, daß diese, um wider einen solchen Gegner aufzutreten, etwas Realeres seyn muß, als eine spitzfindige Klügelei, oder eine aprioristische Seifenblase. — Inzwischen ist im Kriege das Erste, daß man den Feind rekognoscirt. In dem bevorstehenden Kampfe wird der Egoismus, als die Hauptmacht seiner Seite, vorzüglich sich der Tugend der *Gerechtigkeit* entgegenstellen, welche, nach meiner Ansicht, die erste und recht eigentliche Kardinaltugend ist.\n\nHingegen wird der Tugend der *Menschenliebe* öfter das *Uebelwollen* oder die *Gehässigkeit* gegenübertreten. Daher wollen wir den Ursprung und die Gradationen dieser zunächst betrachten. Das Uebelwollen in den niederen Graden ist sehr häufig, ja, fast gewöhnlich, und es erreicht leicht die höheren. Goethe hat wohl Recht zu sagen, daß in dieser Welt Gleichgültigkeit und Abneigung recht eigentlich zu Hause sind. (Wahlverwandtschaften, Th. 1, C. 3.) Es ist sehr glücklich für uns, daß Klugheit und Höflichkeit ihren Mantel darüber decken und uns nicht sehen lassen, wie allgemein das gegenseitige Uebelwollen ist und wie das bellum omnium contra omnes wenigstens in Gedanken fortgesetzt wird. Aber gelegentlich kommt es doch zum Vorschein, z. B. bei der so häufigen und so schonungslosen übeln Nachrede: ganz sichtbar aber wird es bei den Ausbrüchen des Zorns, welche meistens ihren Anlaß um ein Vielfaches übersteigen und so stark nicht ausfallen könnten, wenn sie nicht, wie das Schießpulver in der Flinte, komprimirt gewesen wären, als lange gehegter im Innern brütender Haß. — Großentheils entsteht das Uebelwollen aus den unvermeidlichen und bei jedem Schritt eintretenden Kollisionen des Egoismus. Sodann wird es auch objektiv erregt, durch den Anblick der Laster, Fehler, Schwächen, Thorheiten, Mängel und Unvollkommenheiten aller Art, welchen, mehr oder weniger, Jeder den Andern, wenigstens gelegentlich, darbietet. Es kann hiemit so weit kommen, daß vielleicht Manchem, zumal in Augenblicken hypochondrischer Verstimmung, die Welt, von der ästhetischen Seite betrachtet, als ein Karikaturenkabinet, von der intellektuellen, als ein Narrenhaus, und von der moralischen, als eine Gaunerherberge erscheint. Wird solche Verstimmung bleibend; so entsteht Misanthropie. — Endlich ist eine Hauptquelle des Uebelwollens der Neid; oder vielmehr dieser selbst ist schon Uebelwollen, erregt durch fremdes Glück, Besitz oder Vorzüge. Kein Mensch ist ganz frei davon, und schon Herodot (III, 80) hat es gesagt: Φθόνος ἀρχῆθεν ἐμφύεται ἀνθρώπῳ (invidia ab origine homini insita est). Jedoch sind die Grade desselben sehr verschieden. Am unversöhnlichsten und giftigsten ist er, wann auf persönliche Eigenschaften gerichtet, weil hier dem Neider keine Hoffnung bleibt, und zugleich am niederträchtigsten; weil er haßt, was er lieben und verehren sollte; allein es ist so:\n\nDi lor par più, che d’altri, invidia s’abbia,\nChe per se stessi son levati a volo,\nUscendo fuor della commune gabbia.[17]\n\nklagt schon Petrarka. Ausführlichere Betrachtungen über den Neid findet man im zweiten Bande der Parerga, §. 114. — In gewissem Betracht ist das Gegentheil des Neides die *Schadenfreude*. Jedoch ist Neid zu fühlen, menschlich; Schadenfreude zu genießen, teuflisch. Es giebt kein unfehlbareres Zeichen eines ganz schlechten Herzens und tiefer moralischer Nichtswürdigkeit, als einen Zug reiner, herzlicher Schadenfreude. Man soll Den, an welchem man ihn wahrgenommen, auf immer meiden: Hic niger est, hunc tu, Romane, caveto. — Neid und Schadenfreude sind an sich bloß theoretisch: praktisch werden sie Bosheit und Grausamkeit. Der Egoismus kann zu Verbrechen und Unthaten aller Art führen: aber der dadurch verursachte Schaden und Schmerz Anderer ist ihm bloß Mittel, nicht Zweck, tritt also nur accidentell dabei ein. Der Bosheit und Grausamkeit hingegen sind die Leiden und Schmerzen Anderer Zweck an sich und dessen Erreichen Genuß. Dieserhalb machen jene eine höhere Potenz moralischer Schlechtigkeit aus. Die Maxime des äußersten Egoismus ist: Neminem juva, imo omnes, si forte conducit (also immer noch bedingt), laede. Die Maxime der Bosheit ist: Omnes, quantum potes, laede. — Wie Schadenfreude nur theoretische Grausamkeit ist, so Grausamkeit nur praktische Schadenfreude, und diese wird als jene auftreten, sobald die Gelegenheit kommt.\n\nDie aus den beiden angegebenen Grundpotenzen entspringenden speciellen Laster nachzuweisen, wäre nur in einer ausgeführten Ethik an seinem Platz. Eine solche würde etwan aus dem *Egoismus* ableiten Gier, Völlerei, Wollust, Eigennutz, Geiz, Habsucht, Ungerechtigkeit, Hartherzigkeit, Stolz, Hoffarth u. s. w. — aus der *Gehässigkeit* aber Misgunst, Neid, Uebelwollen, Bosheit, Schadenfreude, spähende Neugier, Verläumdung, Insolenz, Petulanz, Haß, Zorn, Verrath, Tücke, Rachsucht, Grausamkeit u. s. w. — Die erste Wurzel ist mehr thierisch, die zweite mehr teuflisch. Das Vorwalten der einen, oder der andern, oder aber der weiterhin erst nachzuweisenden moralischen Triebfeder, giebt die Hauptlinie in der ethischen Klassifikation der Charaktere. Ganz ohne etwas von allen dreien ist kein Mensch.\n\nHiemit hätte ich denn die allerdings erschreckliche Heerschau der antimoralischen Potenzen beendigt, welche an die der Fürsten der Finsterniß im Pandämonium bei Milton erinnert. Mein Plan brachte es jedoch mit sich, daß ich zuerst diese düstere Seite der menschlichen Natur in Betracht nähme, wodurch mein Weg freilich von dem aller andern Moralisten abweicht und dem des Dante ähnlich wird, der zuerst in die Hölle führt.\n\nDurch die hier gegebene Uebersicht der antimoralischen Potenzen wird deutlich, wie schwer das Problem ist, eine Triebfeder aufzufinden, die den Menschen zu einer, allen jenen tief in seiner Natur wurzelnden Neigungen entgegengesetzten Handlungsweise bewegen könnte, oder, wenn etwan diese letztere in der Erfahrung gegeben wäre, von ihr genügende und ungekünstelte Rechenschaft ertheilte. So schwer ist das Problem, daß man zu seiner Lösung für die Menschheit im Großen überall die Maschinerie aus einer andern Welt hat zu Hülfe nehmen müssen. Man deutete auf Götter hin, deren Wille und Gebot die hier geforderte Handlungsweise wäre, und welche diesem Gebot, durch Strafen und Belohnungen, entweder in dieser oder in einer andern Welt, wohin wir durch den Tod versetzt würden, Nachdruck ertheilten. Angenommen, daß der Glaube an eine Lehre dieser Art, wie es durch sehr frühzeitiges Einprägen allerdings möglich ist, allgemein Wurzel faßte, und auch, was aber sehr viel schwerer hält und viel weniger Bestätigung in der Erfahrung aufzuweisen hat, daß er die beabsichtigte Wirkung hervorbrächte; so würde dadurch zwar Legalität der Handlungen, selbst über die Gränze hinaus, bis zu welcher Justiz und Polizei reichen können, zu Wege gebracht seyn: aber Jeder fühlt, daß es keineswegs Dasjenige wäre, was wir eigentlich unter Moralität der Gesinnung verstehen. Denn offenbar würden alle durch Motive solcher Art hervorgerufene Handlungen immer nur im bloßen Egoismus wurzeln. Wie sollte nämlich von Uneigennützigkeit die Rede seyn können, wo mich Belohnung lockt, oder angedrohte Strafe abschreckt? Eine festgeglaubte Belohnung in einer andern Welt ist anzusehen, wie ein vollkommen sicherer, aber auf sehr lange Sicht ausgestellter Wechsel. Die überall so häufige Verheißung befriedigter Bettler, daß dem Geber die Gabe in jener Welt tausendfach erstattet werden wird, mag manchen Geizhals zu reichlichem Almosen bewegen, die er, als gute Geldanlegung, vergnügt austheilt, fest überzeugt, nun auch in jener Welt sogleich wieder als ein steinreicher Mann aufzuerstehen. — Für die große Masse des Volkes muß es vielleicht bei Antrieben dieser Art sein Bewenden haben: demgemäß denn auch die verschiedenen Religionen, welche eben die Metaphysik des Volkes sind, sie ihm vorhalten. Hiebei ist jedoch anzumerken, daß wir über die wahren Motive unsers eigenen Thuns bisweilen eben so sehr im Irrthum sind, wie über die des fremden: daher zuverlässig Mancher, indem er von seinen edelsten Handlungen nur durch Motive obiger Art sich Rechenschaft zu geben weiß, dennoch aus viel edleren und reineren, aber auch viel schwerer deutlich zu machenden Triebfedern handelt und wirklich aus unmittelbarer Liebe des Nächsten thut, was er bloß durch seines Gottes Geheiß zu erklären versteht. Die Philosophie hingegen sucht hier, wie überall, die wahren, letzten, auf die Natur des Menschen gegründeten, von allen mythischen Auslegungen, religiösen Dogmen und transscendenten Hypostasen unabhängigen Aufschlüsse über das vorliegende Problem, und verlangt sie in der äußern oder innern Erfahrung nachgewiesen zu sehen. Unsere vorliegende Aufgabe aber ist eine philosophische; daher wir von allen durch Religionen bedingten Auflösungen derselben gänzlich abzusehen haben, an welche ich, bloß um die große Schwierigkeit des Problems ins Licht zu stellen, hier erinnert habe.\n\n16. Ich erlaube mir die regelwidrige Zusammensetzung des Wortes, da „antiethisch“ hier nicht bezeichnend seyn würde. Das jetzt in Mode gekommene „sittlich und unsittlich“ aber ist ein schlechtes Substitut für „moralisch und unmoralisch“: erstlich, weil „moralisch“ ein wissenschaftlicher Begriff ist, dem als solchem eine Griechische oder Lateinische Bezeichnung gebührt, aus Gründen, welche man findet in meinem Hauptwerke, Bd. 2, Kap. 12, S. 134 ff.; und zweitens, weil „sittlich“ ein schwacher und zahmer Ausdruck ist, schwer zu unterscheiden von „sittsam“, dessen populäre Benennung „zimperlich“ ist. Der Deutschthümelei muß man keine Koncessionen machen.\n\n17. Man scheinet, mehr als Andre, Die zu neiden,\nDie, durch der eig'nen Flügel Kraft gehoben,\nAus dem gemeinen Käfig Aller scheiden.\n\n### Section 15\n\nKriterium der Handlungen von moralischem Werth.\n\nJetzt wäre zunächst die empirische Frage zu erledigen, ob Handlungen freiwilliger Gerechtigkeit und uneigennütziger Menschenliebe, die alsdann bis zum Edelmuth und Großmuth gehen mag, in der Erfahrung vorkommen. Leider läßt die Frage sich doch nicht ganz rein empirisch entscheiden; weil in der Erfahrung allemal nur die That gegeben ist, die Antriebe aber nicht zu Tage liegen: daher stets die Möglichkeit übrig bleibt, daß auf eine gerechte, oder gute Handlung ein egoistisches Motiv Einfluß gehabt hätte. Ich will mich nicht des unerlaubten Kunstgriffs bedienen, hier, in einer theoretischen Untersuchung, die Sache dem Leser ins Gewissen zu schieben. Aber ich glaube, daß sehr Wenige seyn werden, die es bezweifeln und nicht aus eigener Erfahrung die Ueberzeugung haben, daß man oft gerecht handelt, einzig und allein damit dem Andern kein Unrecht geschehe, ja, daß es Leute giebt, denen gleichsam der Grundsatz, dem Andern sein Recht widerfahren zu lassen, *angeboren* ist, die daher Niemanden absichtlich zu nahe treten, die ihren Vortheil nicht unbedingt suchen, sondern dabei auch die Rechte Anderer berücksichtigen, die, bei gegenseitig übernommenen Verpflichtungen, nicht bloß darüber wachen, daß der Andere das Seinige leiste, sondern auch darüber, daß er das Seinige empfange, indem sie aufrichtig nicht wollen, daß wer mit ihnen handelt, zu kurz komme. Dies sind die *wahrhaft ehrlichen Leute*, die wenigen Aequi unter der Unzahl der Iniqui. Aber solche Leute giebt es. Imgleichen wird man mir, denke ich, zugestehen, daß mancher hilft und giebt, leistet und entsagt, ohne in seinem Herzen eine weitere Absicht zu haben, als daß dem Andern, dessen Noth er sieht, geholfen werde. Und daß Arnold von Winkelried, als er ausrief: „Trüwen, lieben Eidgenossen, wullt's minem Wip und Kinde gedenken“, und dann so viele feindliche Speere umarmte, als er fassen konnte, — dabei eine eigennützige Absicht gehabt habe; das denke sich, wer es kann: ich vermag es nicht. — Auf Fälle freier Gerechtigkeit, die ohne Schikane und Obstination nicht abzuleugnen sind, habe ich schon oben §. 13 aufmerksam gemacht. — Sollte aber dennoch Jemand darauf bestehen, mir das Vorkommen aller solcher Handlungen abzuleugnen; dann würde, ihm zufolge, die Moral eine Wissenschaft ohne reales Objekt seyn, gleich der Astrologie und Alchimie, und es wäre verlorene Zeit, über ihre Grundlage noch ferner zu disputiren. Mit ihm wäre ich daher zu Ende und rede zu Denen, welche die Realität der Sache einräumen.\n\nHandlungen der besagten Art sind es also allein, denen man eigentlichen *moralischen Werth* zugesteht. Als das Eigenthümliche und Charakteristische derselben finden wir die Ausschließung derjenigen Art von Motiven, durch welche sonst alle menschliche Handlungen hervorgerufen werden, nämlich der *eigennützigen*, im weitesten Sinne des Worts. Daher eben die Entdeckung eines eigennützigen Motivs, wenn es das einzige war, den moralischen Werth einer Handlung ganz aufhebt, und wenn es accessorisch wirkte, ihn schmälert. Die Abwesenheit aller egoistischen Motivation ist also das *Kriterium einer Handlung von moralischem Werth*. Zwar ließe sich einwenden, daß auch die Handlungen reiner Bosheit und Grausamkeit nicht eigennützig sind: jedoch liegt am Tage, daß diese hier nicht gemeint seyn können, da sie das Gegentheil der in Rede stehenden Handlungen sind. Wer indessen auf die Strenge der Definition hält, mag jene Handlungen durch das ihnen wesentliche Merkmal, daß sie fremdes Leiden bezwecken, ausdrücklich ausscheiden. — Als ganz inneres und daher nicht so evidentes Merkmal der Handlungen von moralischem Werth kommt hinzu, daß sie eine gewisse Zufriedenheit mit uns selbst zurücklassen, welche man den Beifall des Gewissens nennt; wie denn gleichfalls die ihnen entgegengesetzten Handlungen der Ungerechtigkeit und Lieblosigkeit, noch mehr die der Bosheit und Grausamkeit, eine entgegengesetzte innere Selbstbeurtheilung erfahren; ferner noch, als sekundäres und accidentelles äußeres Merkmal, daß die Handlungen der ersten Art den Beifall und die Achtung der unbetheiligten Zeugen, die der zweiten das Gegentheil hervorrufen.\n\nDie so festgestellten und als faktisch gegeben zugestandenen Handlungen von moralischem Werth haben wir nun als das vorliegende und zu erklärende Phänomen zu betrachten, und demnach zu untersuchen, was es sei, das den Menschen zu Handlungen dieser Art bewegen kann; welche Untersuchung, wenn sie uns gelingt, die ächte moralische Triebfeder nothwendig an den Tag bringen muß, wodurch, da auf diese alle Ethik sich zu stützen hat, unser Problem gelöst wäre.\n\n### Section 16\n\nAufstellung und Beweis der allein ächten moralischen Triebfeder.\n\nNach den bisherigen, unumgänglich nöthigen Vorbereitungen komme ich zur Nachweisung der wahren, allen Handlungen von ächtem moralischen Werth zum Grunde liegenden Triebfeder, und als diese wird sich uns eine solche ergeben, welche durch ihren Ernst und durch ihre unzweifelbare Realität gar weit absteht von allen den Spitzfindigkeiten, Klügeleien, Sophismen, aus der Luft gegriffenen Behauptungen und apriorischen Seifenblasen, welche die bisherigen Systeme zur Quelle des moralischen Handelns und zur Grundlage der Ethik haben machen wollen. Da ich diese moralische Triebfeder nicht etwan zur beliebigen Annahme *vorschlagen*, sondern als die allein mögliche wirklich *beweisen* will, dieser Beweis aber die Zusammenfassung vieler Gedanken erfordert; so stelle ich einige Prämissen voran, welche die Voraussetzungen der Beweisführung sind und gar wohl als Axiomata gelten können, bis auf die zwei letzten, die sich auf oben gegebene Auseinandersetzungen berufen.\n\n1) Keine Handlung kann ohne zureichendes Motiv geschehen; so wenig, als ein Stein ohne zureichenden Stoß, oder Zug, sich bewegen kann.\n\n2) Eben so wenig kann eine Handlung, zu welcher ein für den Charakter des Handelnden zureichendes Motiv vorhanden ist, unterbleiben, wenn nicht ein stärkeres Gegenmotiv ihre Unterlassung nothwendig macht.\n\n3) Was den Willen bewegt, ist allein Wohl und Wehe überhaupt und im weitesten Sinne des Worts genommen; wie auch umgekehrt Wohl und Wehe bedeutet „einem Willen gemäß, oder entgegen“. Also muß jedes Motiv eine Beziehung auf Wohl und Wehe haben.\n\n4) Folglich bezieht jede Handlung sich auf ein für Wohl und Wehe empfängliches Wesen, als ihren letzten Zweck.\n\n5) Dieses Wesen ist entweder der Handelnde selbst, oder ein Anderer, welcher alsdann bei der Handlung passive betheiligt ist, indem sie zu seinem Schaden, oder zu seinem Nutz und Frommen geschieht.\n\n6) Jede Handlung, deren letzter Zweck das Wohl und Wehe des Handelnden selbst ist, ist eine *egoistische*.\n\n7) Alles hier von Handlungen Gesagte gilt eben so wohl von Unterlassung solcher Handlungen, zu welchen Motiv und Gegenmotiv vorliegt.\n\n8) In Folge der im vorhergehenden Paragraphen gegebenen Auseinandersetzung schließen *Egoismus* und *moralischer Werth* einer Handlung einander schlechthin aus. Hat eine Handlung einen egoistischen Zweck zum Motiv; so kann sie keinen moralischen Werth haben: soll eine Handlung moralischen Werth haben; so darf kein egoistischer Zweck, unmittelbar oder mittelbar, nahe oder fern, ihr Motiv seyn.\n\n9) In Folge der §. 5 vollzogenen Elimination der vorgeblichen Pflichten gegen uns selbst, kann die moralische Bedeutsamkeit einer Handlung nur liegen in ihrer Beziehung auf Andere: nur in Hinsicht auf diese kann sie moralischen Werth, oder Verwerflichkeit haben und demnach eine Handlung der Gerechtigkeit, oder Menschenliebe, wie auch das Gegentheil beider seyn.\n\nAus diesen Prämissen ist Folgendes evident: Das Wohl und Wehe, welches (laut Prämisse 3) jeder Handlung, oder Unterlassung, als letzter Zweck zum Grunde liegen muß, ist entweder das des Handelnden selbst, oder das irgend eines Andern, bei der Handlung passive Betheiligten. Im ersten Falle ist die Handlung nothwendig egoistisch; weil ihr ein interessirtes Motiv zum Grunde liegt. Dies ist nicht bloß der Fall bei Handlungen, die man offenbar zu seinem eigenen Nutzen und Vortheil unternimmt, dergleichen die allermeisten sind; sondern es tritt eben so wohl ein, sobald man von einer Handlung irgend einen entfernten Erfolg, sei es in dieser, oder einer andern Welt, für sich erwartet; oder wenn man dabei seine Ehre, seinen Ruf bei den Leuten, die Hochachtung irgend Jemandes, die Sympathie der Zuschauer u. dgl. m. im Auge hat; nicht weniger, wenn man durch diese Handlung eine Maxime aufrecht zu erhalten beabsichtigt, von deren allgemeiner Befolgung man eventualiter einen Vortheil für sich selbst erwartet, wie etwan die der Gerechtigkeit, des allgemeinen hülfreichen Beistandes u. s. w. — ebenfalls, wenn man irgend einem absoluten Gebot, welches von einer zwar unbekannten, aber doch offenbar überlegenen Macht ausgienge, Folge zu leisten für gerathen hielte; da alsdann nichts Anderes, als die Furcht vor den nachtheiligen Folgen des Ungehorsams, wenn sie auch bloß allgemein und unbestimmt gedacht werden, dazu bewegen kann; — desgleichen, wenn man seine eigene hohe Meinung von sich selbst, seinem Werthe oder Würde, deutlich oder undeutlich begriffen, die man außerdem aufgeben müßte und dadurch seinen Stolz gekränkt sähe, durch irgend eine Handlung, oder Unterlassung, zu behaupten trachtet; — endlich auch, wenn man, nach *Wolffischen* Principien, dadurch an seiner eigenen Vervollkommnung arbeiten will. Kurzum, man setze zum letzten Beweggrund einer Handlung, was man wolle; immer wird sich ergeben, daß, auf irgend einem Umwege, zuletzt das *eigene Wohl und Wehe des Handelnden* die eigentliche Triebfeder, mithin die Handlung egoistisch, folglich ohne moralischen Werth ist. Nur einen einzigen Fall giebt es, in welchem dies nicht Statt hat: nämlich wenn der letzte Beweggrund zu einer Handlung, oder Unterlassung, geradezu und ausschließlich im *Wohl und Wehe* irgend eines dabei passive betheiligten Andern liegt, also der aktive Theil bei seinem Handeln, oder Unterlassen, ganz allein das Wohl und Wehe *eines Andern* im Auge hat und durchaus nichts bezweckt, als daß jener Andere unverletzt bleibe, oder gar Hülfe, Beistand und Erleichterung erhalte. *Dieser Zweck allein* drückt einer Handlung, oder Unterlassung, den Stämpel des *moralischen Werthes* auf; welcher demnach ausschließlich darauf beruht, daß die Handlung bloß zu Nutz und Frommen eines Andern geschehe, oder unterbleibe. Sobald nämlich dies nicht der Fall ist; so kann das Wohl und Wehe, welches zu jeder Handlung treibt, oder von ihr abhält, nur das des Handelnden selbst seyn: dann aber ist die Handlung, oder Unterlassung, allemal *egoistisch*, mithin *ohne moralischen Werth*.\n\nWenn nun aber meine Handlung ganz allein *des Andern wegen* geschehen soll; so muß *sein Wohl und Wehe unmittelbar mein Motiv* seyn: so wie bei allen andern Handlungen das meinige es ist. Dies bringt unser Problem auf einen engern Ausdruck, nämlich diesen; wie ist es irgend möglich, daß das Wohl und Wehe eines Andern, unmittelbar, d. h. ganz so wie sonst nur mein eigenes, meinen Willen bewege, also direkt mein Motiv werde, und sogar es bisweilen in dem Grade werde, daß ich demselben mein eigenes Wohl und Wehe, diese sonst alleinige Quelle meiner Motive, mehr oder weniger nachsetze? — Offenbar nur dadurch, daß jener Andere der letzte Zweck meines Willens wird, ganz so wie sonst ich selbst es bin: also dadurch, daß ich ganz unmittelbar sein Wohl will und sein Wehe nicht will, so unmittelbar, wie sonst nur das meinige. Dies aber setzt nothwendig voraus, daß ich bei seinem Wehe als solchem geradezu mitleide, sein Wehe fühle, wie sonst nur meines, und deshalb sein Wohl unmittelbar will, wie sonst nur meines. Dies erfordert aber, daß ich auf irgend eine Weise mit ihm *identificirt* sei, d. h. daß jener gänzliche Unterschied zwischen mir und jedem Andern, auf welchem gerade mein Egoismus beruht, wenigstens in einem gewissen Grade aufgehoben sei. Da ich nun aber doch nicht in der Haut des Andern stecke, so kann allein vermittelst der *Erkenntniß*, die ich von ihm habe, d. h. der Vorstellung von ihm in meinem Kopf, ich mich so weit mit ihm identificiren, daß meine That jenen Unterschied als aufgehoben ankündigt. Der hier analysirte Vorgang aber ist kein erträumter, oder aus der Luft gegriffener, sondern ein ganz wirklicher, ja, keineswegs seltener: es ist das alltägliche Phänomen des *Mitleids*, d. h. der ganz unmittelbaren, von allen anderweitigen Rücksichten unabhängigen Theilnahme zunächst am Leiden eines Andern und dadurch an der Verhinderung oder Aufhebung dieses Leidens, als worin zuletzt alle Befriedigung und alles Wohlseyn und Glück besteht. Dieses Mitleid ganz allein ist die wirkliche Basis aller freien Gerechtigkeit und aller ächten Menschenliebe. Nur sofern eine Handlung aus ihm entsprungen ist, hat sie moralischen Werth: und jede aus irgend welchen andern Motiven hervorgehende hat keinen. Sobald dieses Mitleid rege wird, liegt mir das Wohl und Wehe des Andern unmittelbar am Herzen, ganz in der selben Art, wenn auch nicht stets in dem selben Grade, wie sonst allein das meinige: also ist jetzt der Unterschied zwischen ihm und mir kein absoluter mehr.\n\nAllerdings ist dieser Vorgang erstaunenswürdig, ja, mysteriös. Er ist, in Wahrheit, das große Mysterium der Ethik, ihr Urphänomen und der Gränzstein, über welchen hinaus nur noch die metaphysische Spekulation einen Schritt wagen kann. Wir sehen, in jenem Vorgang, die Scheidewand, welche nach dem Lichte der Natur (wie alte Theologen die Vernunft nennen), Wesen von Wesen durchaus trennt, aufgehoben und das Nicht-Ich gewissermaaßen zum Ich geworden. Uebrigens wollen wir die metaphysische Auslegung des Phänomens für jetzt unberührt lassen und fürs Erste sehen, ob alle Handlungen der freien Gerechtigkeit und der ächten Menschenliebe wirklich aus diesem Vorgange fließen. Dann wird unser Problem gelöst seyn, indem wir das letzte Fundament der Moralität in der menschlichen Natur selbst werden nachgewiesen haben, welches Fundament nicht selbst wieder ein Problem der *Ethik* seyn kann, wohl aber, wie alles Bestehende als solches, der *Metaphysik*. Allein die metaphysische Auslegung des ethischen Urphänomens liegt schon über die von der Königlichen Societät gestellte Frage, als welche auf die Grundlage der Ethik gerichtet ist, hinaus, und kann allenfalls nur als eine beliebig zu gebende und beliebig zu nehmende Zugabe beigefügt werden. — Bevor ich nun aber zur Ableitung der Kardinaltugenden aus der aufgestellten Grundtriebfeder schreite, habe ich noch zwei wesentliche Bemerkungen nachträglich beizubringen.\n\n1) Zum Behuf leichterer Faßlichkeit habe ich die obige Ableitung des Mitleids, als alleiniger Quelle der Handlungen von moralischem Werth, dadurch vereinfacht, daß ich die Triebfeder der *Bosheit*, als welche, uneigennützig wie das Mitleid, den fremden Schmerz, zu ihrem letzten Zwecke macht, absichtlich außer Acht gelassen habe. Jetzt aber können wir, mit Hinzuziehung derselben, den oben gegebenen Beweis vollständiger und stringenter so resumiren:\n\nEs giebt überhaupt nur *drei Grund-Triebfedern* der menschlichen Handlungen: und allein durch Erregung derselben wirken alle irgend möglichen Motive. Sie sind:\n\na) Egoismus; der das eigene Wohl will (ist gränzenlos).\n\nb) Bosheit; die das fremde Wehe will (geht bis zur äußersten Grausamkeit).\n\nc) Mitleid; welches das fremde Wohl will (geht bis zum Edelmuth und zur Großmuth).\n\nJede menschliche Handlung muß auf eine dieser Triebfedern zurückzuführen seyn; wiewohl auch zwei derselben vereint wirken können. Da wir nun Handlungen von moralischem Werth als faktisch gegeben angenommen haben; so müssen auch sie aus einer dieser Grund-Triebfedern hervorgehen. Sie können aber, vermöge Prämisse 8, nicht aus der *ersten* Triebfeder entspringen, noch weniger aus der *zweiten*; da alle aus dieser hervorgehenden Handlungen moralisch verwerflich sind, während die erste zum Theil moralisch indifferente liefert. Also müssen sie von der *dritten* Triebfeder ausgehen: und dies wird seine Bestätigung a posteriori im Folgenden erhalten.\n\n2) Die unmittelbare Theilnahme am Andern ist auf sein *Leiden* beschränkt und wird nicht, wenigstens nicht direkt, auch durch sein *Wohlseyn* erregt: sondern dieses an und für sich läßt uns gleichgültig. Dies sagt ebenfalls J. J. Rousseau im Emile (liv. IV): „Première maxime: Il n'est pas dans la coeur humain, de se mettre à la place des gens, qui sont plus heureux que nous, mais seulement de ceux, qui sont plus à plaindre.“ etc.\n\nDer Grund hievon ist, daß der Schmerz, das Leiden, wozu aller Mangel, Entbehrung, Bedürfniß, ja jeder Wunsch gehört, das *Positive*, das unmittelbar Empfundene ist. Hingegen besteht die Natur der Befriedigung, des Genusses, des Glücks, nur darin, daß eine Entbehrung aufgehoben, ein Schmerz gestillt ist. Diese wirken also *negativ*. Daher eben ist Bedürfniß und Wunsch die Bedingung jedes Genusses. Dies erkannte schon Platon, und nahm nur die Wohlgerüche und die Geistesfreuden aus. (De Rep., IX, p. 264 sq. Bip.) Auch Voltaire sagt: Il n'est de vrais plaisirs, qu’avec de vrais besoins. Also das Positive, das sich durch sich selbst kund Gebende ist der Schmerz: Befriedigung und Genüsse sind das *Negative*, die bloße Aufhebung jenes Erstern. Hierauf zunächst beruht es, daß nur das Leiden, der Mangel, die Gefahr, die Hülflosigkeit des Andern direkt und als solche unsere Theilnahme erwecken. Der Glückliche, Zufriedene als solcher läßt uns gleichgültig: eigentlich weil sein Zustand ein negativer ist: die Abwesenheit des Schmerzes, des Mangels und der Noth. Wir können zwar über das Glück, das Wohlseyn, den Genuß Anderer uns freuen: dies ist dann aber sekundär und dadurch vermittelt, daß vorher ihr Leiden und Entbehren uns betrübt hatte; oder aber auch wir nehmen Theil an dem Beglückten und Genießenden, nicht *als solchem*, sondern sofern er unser Kind, Vater, Freund, Verwandter, Diener, Unterthan u. dgl. ist. Aber nicht der Beglückte und Genießende *rein als solcher* erregt unsere unmittelbare Theilnahme, wie es der Leidende, Entbehrende, Unglückliche *rein als solcher* thut. Erregt doch sogar auch für uns selbst, eigentlich nur unser Leiden, wohin auch jeder Mangel, Bedürfniß, Wunsch, ja, die Langeweile zu zählen ist, unsere Thätigkeit; während ein Zustand der Zufriedenheit und Beglückung uns unthätig und in träger Ruhe läßt: wie sollte es in Hinsicht auf Andere nicht eben so seyn? da ja unsere Theilnahme auf einer Identifikation mit ihnen beruht. Sogar kann der Anblick des Glücklichen und Genießenden rein als solchen sehr leicht unsern Neid erregen, zu welchem die Anlage in jedem Menschen liegt und welcher seine Stelle oben unter den antimoralischen Potenzen gefunden hat.\n\nIn Folge der oben gegebenen Darstellung des Mitleids als eines unmittelbaren Motivirtwerdens durch die Leiden des Andern, muß ich noch den nachmals oft wiederholten Irrthum des Cassina (Saggio analitico sulla compassione, 1788; deutsch von Pockels, 1790) rügen, welcher meint, das Mitleid entstehe durch eine augenblickliche Täuschung der Phantasie, indem wir selbst uns an die Stelle des Leidenden versetzten und nun, in der Einbildung, seine Schmerzen an *unserer* Person zu leiden wähnten. So ist es keineswegs; sondern es bleibt uns gerade jeden Augenblick klar und gegenwärtig, daß Er der Leidende ist, nicht wir: und geradezu in *seiner* Person, nicht in *unserer*, fühlen wir das Leiden, zu unserer Betrübniß. Wir leiden mit ihm, also in ihm: wir fühlen seinen Schmerz als den *seinen* und haben nicht die Einbildung, daß es der unserige sei: ja, je glücklicher unser eigener Zustand ist und je mehr also das Bewußtseyn desselben mit der Lage des Andern kontrastirt, desto empfänglicher sind wir für das Mitleid. Die Erklärung der Möglichkeit dieses höchst wichtigen Phänomens ist aber nicht so leicht, noch auf dem bloß psychologischen Wege zu erreichen, wie Cassina es versuchte. Sie kann nur metaphysisch ausfallen: und eine solche werde ich im letzten Abschnitt zu geben versuchen.\n\nJetzt aber gehe ich an die Ableitung der Handlungen von ächtem moralischen Werth aus der nachgewiesenen Quelle derselben. Als die allgemeine Maxime solcher Handlungen und folglich als den obersten Grundsatz der Ethik habe ich schon im vorigen Abschnitte die Regel aufgestellt: Neminem laede; imo omnes, quantum potes, juva. Da diese Maxime *zwei* Sätze enthält; so zerfallen die ihr entsprechenden Handlungen von selbst in zwei Klassen.\n\n### Section 17\n\nDie Tugend der Gerechtigkeit.\n\nBei näherer Betrachtung des oben als ethisches Urphänomen nachgewiesenen Vorgangs des Mitleids ist auf den ersten Blick ersichtlich, daß es zwei deutlich getrennte Grade giebt, in welchen das Leiden eines Andern unmittelbar mein Motiv werden, d. h. mich zum Thun oder Lassen bestimmen kann: nämlich zuerst nur in dem Grade, daß es, egoistischen oder boshaften Motiven entgegenwirkend, mich abhält, dem Andern ein Leiden zu verursachen, also herbeizuführen was noch nicht ist, selbst Ursache fremder Schmerzen zu werden; sodann aber in dem höhern Grade, wo das Mitleid, positiv wirkend, mich zu thätiger Hülfe antreibt. Die Trennung zwischen sogenannten Rechts- und Tugend-Pflichten, richtiger zwischen Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe, welche bei *Kant* so gezwungen herauskam, ergiebt sich hier ganz und gar von selbst, und bezeugt dadurch die Richtigkeit des Princips: es ist die natürliche, unverkennbare und scharfe Gränze zwischen dem Negativen und Positiven, zwischen Nichtverletzen und Helfen. Die bisherige Benennung, Rechts- und Tugend-Pflichten, letztere auch Liebespflichten, unvollkommene Pflichten genannt, hat zuvörderst den Fehler, daß sie das Genus der Species koordinirt: denn die Gerechtigkeit ist auch eine Tugend. Sodann liegt derselben die viel zu weite Ausdehnung des Begriffes *Pflicht* zum Grunde, den ich weiter unten in seine wahren Schranken zurückführen werde. An die Stelle obiger zwei Pflichten setze ich daher zwei Tugenden, die der Gerechtigkeit und die der Menschenliebe, welche ich Kardinaltugenden nenne, weil aus ihnen alle übrigen praktisch hervorgehen und theoretisch sich ableiten lassen. Beide wurzeln in dem natürlichen Mitleid. Dieses Mitleid selbst aber ist eine unleugbare Thatsache des menschlichen Bewußtseyns, ist diesem wesentlich eigen, beruht nicht auf Voraussetzungen, Begriffen, Religionen, Dogmen, Mythen, Erziehung und Bildung; sondern ist ursprünglich und unmittelbar, liegt in der menschlichen Natur selbst, hält eben deshalb unter allen Verhältnissen Stich, und zeigt sich in allen Ländern und Zeiten; daher an dasselbe, als an etwas in jedem Menschen nothwendig Vorhandenes, überall zuversichtlich appellirt wird, und nirgends gehört es zu den „fremden Göttern“. Hingegen nennt man Den, dem es zu mangeln scheint, einen Unmenschen; wie auch „Menschlichkeit“ oft als Synonym von Mitleid gebraucht wird.\n\nDer erste Grad der Wirksamkeit dieser ächten und natürlichen moralischen Triebfeder ist also nur *negativ*. Ursprünglich sind wir Alle zur Ungerechtigkeit und Gewalt geneigt, weil unser Bedürfniß, unsere Begierde, unser Zorn und Haß unmittelbar ins Bewußtseyn treten und daher das Jus primi occupantis haben; hingegen die fremden Leiden, welche unsere Ungerechtigkeit und Gewalt verursacht, nur auf dem sekundären Wege der *Vorstellung* und erst durch die Erfahrung, also *mittelbar* ins Bewußtseyn kommen: daher sagt *Seneka*: Ad neminem ante bona mens venit, quam mala (Ep. 50). Der erste Grad der Wirkung des Mitleids ist also, daß es den von mir selbst, in Folge der mir einwohnenden antimoralischen Potenzen, Andern zu verursachenden Leiden hemmend entgegentritt, mir „Halt!“ zuruft und sich als eine Schutzwehr vor den Andern stellt, die ihn vor der Verletzung bewahrt, zu welcher außerdem mein Egoismus, oder Bosheit, mich treiben würde. Dergestalt entspringt aus diesem ersten Grade des Mitleids die Maxime neminem laede, d. i. der Grundsatz der *Gerechtigkeit*, welche Tugend ihren lautern, rein moralischen, von aller Beimischung freien Ursprung allein hier hat und nirgends außerdem haben kann, weil sie sonst auf Egoismus beruhen müßte. Ist mein Gemüth bis zu jenem Grade für das Mitleid empfänglich; so wird dasselbe mich zurückhalten, wo und wann ich, um meine Zwecke zu erreichen, fremdes Leiden als Mittel gebrauchen möchte; gleichviel ob dieses Leiden ein augenblicklich, oder später eintretendes, ein direktes, oder indirektes, durch Zwischenglieder vermitteltes sei. Folglich werde ich dann so wenig das Eigenthum, als die Person des Andern angreifen, ihm so wenig geistige, als körperliche Leiden verursachen, also nicht nur mich jeder physischen Verletzung enthalten; sondern auch eben so wenig auf geistigem Wege ihm Schmerz bereiten, durch Kränkung, Aengstigung, Aerger, oder Verläumdung. Das selbe Mitleid wird mich abhalten, die Befriedigung meiner Lüste auf Kosten des Lebensglückes weiblicher Individuen zu suchen, oder das Weib eines Andern zu verführen, oder auch Jünglinge moralisch und physisch zu verderben, durch Verleitung zur Päderastie. Jedoch ist keineswegs erforderlich, daß in jedem einzelnen Fall das Mitleid wirklich erregt werde; wo es auch oft zu spät käme: sondern aus der Ein für alle Mal erlangten Kenntniß von dem Leiden, welches jede ungerechte Handlung nothwendig über Andere bringt, und welches durch das Gefühl des Unrechterduldens, d. h. der fremden Uebermacht, geschärft wird, geht in edeln Gemüthern die Maxime neminem laede hervor, und die vernünftige Ueberlegung erhebt sie zu dem Ein für alle Mal gefaßten festen Vorsatz, die Rechte eines Jeden zu achten, sich keinen Eingriff in dieselben zu erlauben, sich von dem Selbstvorwurf, die Ursache fremder Leiden zu seyn, frei zu erhalten und demnach nicht die Lasten und Leiden des Lebens, welche die Umstände Jedem zuführen, durch Gewalt oder List auf Andere zu wälzen, sondern sein beschiedenes Theil selbst zu tragen, um nicht das eines Andern zu verdoppeln. Denn obwohl *Grundsätze* und abstrakte Erkenntniß überhaupt keineswegs die Urquelle, oder erste Grundlage der Moralität sind; so sind sie doch zu einem moralischen Lebenswandel unentbehrlich, als das Behältniß, das Réservoir, in welchem die aus der Quelle aller Moralität, als welche nicht in jedem Augenblicke fließt, entsprungene Gesinnung aufbewahrt wird, um, wenn der Fall der Anwendung kommt, durch Ableitungskanäle dahin zu fließen. Es verhält sich also im Moralischen wie im Physiologischen, wo z. B. die Gallenblase, als Réservoir des Produkts der Leber, nothwendig ist, und in vielen ähnlichen Fällen. Ohne fest gefaßte *Grundsätze* würden wir den antimoralischen Triebfedern, wenn sie durch äußere Eindrücke zu Affekten erregt sind, unwiderstehlich Preis gegeben seyn. Das Festhalten und Befolgen der Grundsätze, den ihnen entgegen wirkenden Motiven zum Trotz, ist *Selbstbeherrschung*. Hier liegt auch die Ursache, warum die Weiber, als welche, wegen der Schwäche ihrer Vernunft, allgemeine *Grundsätze* zu verstehen, festzuhalten und zur Richtschnur zu nehmen, weit weniger als die Männer fähig sind, in der Tugend der Gerechtigkeit, also auch Redlichkeit und Gewissenhaftigkeit, diesen in der Regel nachstehen; daher Ungerechtigkeit und Falschheit ihre häufigsten Laster sind und Lügen ihr eigentliches Element: hingegen übertreffen sie die Männer in der Tugend der *Menschenliebe*: denn zu dieser ist der Anlaß meistens *anschaulich* und redet daher unmittelbar zum Mitleid, für welches die Weiber entschieden leichter empfänglich sind. Aber nur das Anschauliche, Gegenwärtige, unmittelbar Reale hat wahre Existenz für sie: das nur mittelst der Begriffe erkennbare Entfernte, Abwesende, Vergangene, Zukünftige ist ihnen nicht wohl faßlich. Also ist auch hier Kompensation: Gerechtigkeit ist mehr die männliche, Menschenliebe mehr die weibliche Tugend. Der Gedanke, Weiber das Richteramt verwalten zu sehen, erregt Lachen; aber die barmherzigen Schwestern übertreffen sogar die barmherzigen Brüder. Nun aber gar das *Thier* ist, da ihm die abstrakte oder Vernunft-Erkenntniß gänzlich fehlt, durchaus keiner Vorsätze, geschweige Grundsätze und mithin keiner *Selbstbeherrschung* fähig, sondern dem Eindruck und Affekt wehrlos hingegeben. Daher eben hat es keine bewußte *Moralität*; wiewohl die Species große Unterschiede der Bosheit und Güte des Charakters zeigen, und in den obersten Geschlechtern selbst die Individuen. — Dem Gesagten zufolge wirkt, in den einzelnen Handlungen des Gerechten, das Mitleid nur noch indirekt, mittelst der Grundsätze, und nicht sowohl actu als potentiâ; etwan so, wie in der Statik die durch größere Länge des einen Waagebalkens bewirkte größere *Geschwindigkeit*, vermöge welcher die kleinere Masse der größern das Gleichgewicht hält, im Zustand der Ruhe nur potentiâ und doch völlig so gut wie actu wirkt. Jedoch bleibt dabei das Mitleid stets bereit, auch actu hervorzutreten: daher, wenn etwan, in einzelnen Fällen, die erwählte Maxime der Gerechtigkeit wankt, zur Unterstützung derselben und zur Belebung der gerechten Vorsätze, kein Motiv (die egoistischen bei Seite gesetzt) wirksamer ist, als das aus der Urquelle selbst, dem Mitleid, geschöpfte. Dies gilt nicht etwan bloß wo es die Verletzung der Person, sondern auch wo es die des Eigenthums betrifft, z. B. wenn Jemand eine gefundene Sache von Werth zu behalten Lust spürt; so wird — mit Ausschluß aller Klugheits- und aller Religions-Motive dagegen — nichts ihn so leicht auf die Bahn der Gerechtigkeit zurückbringen, wie die Vorstellung der Sorge, des Herzeleids und der Wehklage des Verlierers. Im Gefühl dieser Wahrheit geschieht es oft, daß dem öffentlichen Aufruf zur Wiederbringung verlorenen Geldes die Versicherung hinzugefügt wird, der Verlierer sei ein armer Mensch, ein Dienstbote u. dgl.\n\nDiese Betrachtungen werden es hoffentlich deutlich machen, daß, so wenig es auf den ersten Blick scheinen mag, allerdings auch die Gerechtigkeit, als ächte, freie Tugend, ihren Ursprung im Mitleid hat. Wem dennoch dieser Boden zu dürftig scheinen möchte, als daß jene große, recht eigentliche Kardinaltugend bloß in ihm wurzeln könnte, der erinnere sich aus dem Obigen, wie gering das Maaß der ächten, freiwilligen, uneigennützigen und ungeschminkten Gerechtigkeit ist, die sich unter Menschen findet; wie diese immer nur als überraschende Ausnahme vorkommt und zu ihrer Afterart, der auf bloßer Klugheit beruhenden und überall laut angekündigten Gerechtigkeit, sich, der Qualität und Quantität nach, verhält wie Gold zu Kupfer. Ich möchte diese letztere δικαιοσυνη πανδημος, die andere οὐρανια nennen; da ja sie es ist, welche, nach Hesiodus, im eisernen Zeitalter die Erde verläßt, um bei den himmlischen Göttern zu wohnen. Für diese seltene und auf Erden stets nur exotische Pflanze ist die nachgewiesene Wurzel stark genug.\n\nDie *Ungerechtigkeit*, oder das *Unrecht*, besteht demnach alle Mal in der *Verletzung* eines Andern. Daher ist der Begriff des *Unrechts* ein *positiver* und dem des *Rechts* vorhergängig, als welcher der *negative* ist und bloß die Handlungen bezeichnet, welche man ausüben kann, ohne Andere zu verletzen, d. h. ohne *Unrecht* zu thun. Daß zu diesen auch alle Handlungen gehören, welche allein den Zweck haben, versuchtes Unrecht abzuwehren, ist leicht abzusehen. Denn keine Theilnahme am Andern, kein Mitleid mit ihm kann mich auffodern, mich von ihm verletzen zu lassen, d. h. Unrecht zu leiden. Daß der Begriff des *Rechts* der *negative* sei, im Gegensatz des *Unrechts*, als des *positiven*, giebt sich auch zu erkennen in der ersten Erklärung, welche der Vater der philosophischen Rechtslehre, *Hugo Grotius*, am Eingange seines Werkes, von jenem Begriffe aufstellt: Jus hic nihil aliud, quam quod justum est significat, idque negante magis sensu, quam ajente, ut jus sit, quod injustum non est (De jure belli et pacis, L. I, c. 1, §. 3). Die Negativität der Gerechtigkeit bewährt sich, dem Anschein entgegen, selbst in der trivialen Definition: „Jedem das Seinige geben.“ Ist es das Seinige, braucht man es ihm nicht zu geben: bedeutet also: „Keinem das Seinige nehmen.“ — Weil die Forderung der Gerechtigkeit bloß negativ ist, läßt sie sich erzwingen: denn das neminem laede kann von Allen zugleich geübt werden. Die Zwangsanstalt hiezu ist der *Staat*, dessen alleiniger Zweck ist, die Einzelnen vor einander und das Ganze vor äußeren Feinden zu schützen. Einige deutsche Philosophaster dieses feilen Zeitalters möchten ihn verdrehen zu einer Moralitäts-Erziehungs- und Erbauungs-Anstalt: wobei im Hintergrunde der Jesuitische Zweck lauert, die persönliche Freiheit und individuelle Entwickelung des Einzelnen aufzuheben, um ihn zum bloßen Rade einer Chinesischen Staats- und Religions-Maschine zu machen. Dies aber ist der Weg, auf welchem man weiland zu Inquisitionen, Autos de Fé und Religionskriegen gelangt ist: Friedrichs des Großen Wort, „In meinem Lande soll Jeder seine Seligkeit nach seiner eigenen Façon besorgen können“, besagte, daß er ihn nie betreten wolle. Hingegen sehen wir auch jetzt noch überall (mit mehr scheinbarer, als wirklicher Ausnahme Nordamerikas) den Staat auch die Sorge für das metaphysische Bedürfniß seiner Mitglieder übernehmen. Die Regierungen scheinen zu ihrem Princip den Satz des Quintus Curtius gewählt zu haben: Nulla res efficacius multitudinem regit, quam superstitio: alioquin impotens, saeva, mutabilis; ubi vana religione capta est, melius vatibus, quam ducibus suis paret.\n\nDie Begriffe *Unrecht* und *Recht*, als gleichbedeutend mit Verletzung und Nichtverletzung, zu welcher letztern auch das Abwehren der Verletzung gehört, sind offenbar unabhängig von aller positiven Gesetzgebung und dieser vorhergehend: also giebt es ein rein ethisches Recht, oder Naturrecht, und eine reine, d. h. von aller positiven Satzung unabhängige Rechtslehre. Die Grundsätze derselben haben zwar insofern einen empirischen Ursprung, als sie auf Anlaß des Begriffs der *Verletzung* entstehen, an sich selbst aber beruhen sie auf dem reinen Verstande, welcher a priori das Princip an die Hand giebt: causa causae est causa effectus; welches hier besagt, daß von dem, was ich thun muß, um die Verletzung eines Andern von mir abzuwehren, er selbst die Ursache ist, und nicht ich; also ich mich allen Beeinträchtigungen von seiner Seite widersetzen kann, ohne ihm Unrecht zu thun. Es ist gleichsam ein moralisches Reperkussionsgesetz. Also aus der Verbindung des empirischen Begriffs der Verletzung mit jener Regel, die der reine Verstand an die Hand giebt, entstehen die Grundbegriffe von Unrecht und Recht, die Jeder a priori faßt und auf Anlaß der Erfahrung sogleich anwendet. Den dieses leugnenden Empiriker darf man, da bei ihm allein Erfahrung gilt, nur auf die Wilden hinweisen, die alle ganz richtig, oft auch fein und genau, Unrecht und Recht unterscheiden; welches sehr in die Augen fällt bei ihrem Tauschhandel und andern Uebereinkünften mit der Mannschaft Europäischer Schiffe, und bei ihren Besuchen auf diesen. Sie sind dreist und zuversichtlich, wo sie Recht haben, hingegen ängstlich, wenn das Recht nicht auf ihrer Seite ist. Bei Streitigkeiten lassen sie sich eine rechtliche Ausgleichung gefallen, hingegen reizt ungerechtes Verfahren sie zum Kriege. — Die *Rechtslehre* ist ein Theil der Moral, welcher die Handlungen feststellt, die man nicht ausüben darf, wenn man nicht Andere verletzen, d. h. Unrecht begehen will. Die Moral hat also hiebei den *aktiven* Theil im Auge. Die Gesetzgebung aber nimmt dieses Kapitel der Moral, um es in Rücksicht auf die *passive* Seite, also umgekehrt, zu gebrauchen und die selben Handlungen zu betrachten als solche, die Keiner, da ihm kein Unrecht widerfahren soll, zu leiden braucht. Gegen diese Handlungen errichtet nun der Staat das Bollwerk der Gesetze, als positives Recht. Seine Absicht ist, daß Keiner Unrecht *leide*: die Absicht der moralischen Rechtslehre hingegen, daß keiner Unrecht *thue*.[18]\n\nBei jeder ungerechten Handlung ist das Unrecht der *Qualität* nach das selbe, nämlich Verletzung eines Andern, es sei an seiner Person, seiner Freiheit, seinem Eigenthum, seiner Ehre. Aber der *Quantität* nach kann es sehr verschieden seyn. Diese Verschiedenheit der *Größe des Unrechts* scheint von den Moralisten noch nicht gehörig untersucht zu seyn, wird jedoch im wirklichen Leben überall anerkannt, indem die Größe des Tadels, den man darüber ergehen läßt, ihr entspricht. Gleichermaaßen verhält es sich mit der *Gerechtigkeit* der Handlungen. Um dies zu erläutern: z. B. wer, dem Hungertode nahe, ein Brot stiehlt, begeht ein Unrecht: aber wie klein ist seine Ungerechtigkeit gegen die eines Reichen, der auf irgend eine Weise einen Armen um sein letztes Eigenthum bringt. Der Reiche, welcher seinen Tagelöhner bezahlt, handelt gerecht: aber wie klein ist diese Gerechtigkeit gegen die eines Armen, der eine gefundene Goldbörse dem Reichen freiwillig zurückbringt. Das Maaß dieser so bedeutenden Verschiedenheit in der *Quantität* der Gerechtigkeit und Ungerechtigkeit (bei stets gleicher Qualität) ist aber kein direktes und absolutes, wie das auf dem Maaßstabe, sondern ein mittelbares und relatives, wie das der Sinus und Tangenten. Ich stelle dazu folgende Formel auf: die Größe der Ungerechtigkeit meiner Handlung ist gleich der Größe des Uebels, welches ich einem Andern dadurch zufüge, dividirt durch die Größe des Vortheils, den ich selbst dadurch erlange: — und die Größe der Gerechtigkeit meiner Handlung ist gleich der Größe des Vortheils, den mir die Verletzung des Andern bringen würde, dividirt durch die Größe des Schadens, den er dadurch erleiden würde. — Nun aber giebt es außerdem noch eine *doppelte Ungerechtigkeit*, die von jeder einfachen, sei diese noch so groß, specifisch verschieden ist, welches sich dadurch kund giebt, daß die Größe der Indignation des unbetheiligten Zeugen, welche stets der Größe der Ungerechtigkeit proportional ausfällt, bei der doppelten allein den höchsten Grad erreicht, und diese verabscheut als etwas Empörendes und Himmelschreiendes, als eine Unthat, ein ἄγος, bei welchem gleichsam die Götter ihr Antlitz verhüllen. Diese *doppelte Ungerechtigkeit* hat Statt, wo Jemand ausdrücklich die Verpflichtung übernommen hat, einen Andern in einer bestimmten Hinsicht zu schützen, folglich die Nichterfüllung dieser Verpflichtung schon Verletzung des Andern, mithin Unrecht wäre; er nun aber noch überdies jenen Andern, eben darin, wo er ihn schützen sollte, selbst angreift und verletzt. Dies ist z. B. der Fall, wo der bestellte Wächter, oder Geleitsmann, zum Mörder, der betraute Hüter zum Dieb wird, der Vormund die Mündel um ihr Eigenthum bringt, der Advokat prävaricirt, der Richter sich bestechen läßt, der um Rath Gebetene dem Frager absichtlich einen verderblichen Rath ertheilt; — welches Alles zusammen unter dem Begriff des *Verraths* gedacht wird, welcher der Abscheu der Welt ist: diesem gemäß setzt auch *Dante* die Verräther in den tiefuntersten Grund der Hölle, wo der Satan selbst sich aufhält (Inf., XI, 61—66).\n\nDa nun hier der Begriff der *Verpflichtung* zur Sprache gekommen, ist es der Ort, den in der Ethik, wie im Leben, so häufig angewandten Begriff der *Pflicht*, dem jedoch eine zu große Ausdehnung gegeben wird, festzustellen. Wir haben gefunden, daß das Unrecht allemal in der Verletzung eines Andern besteht, sei es an seiner Person, seiner Freiheit, seinem Eigenthum, oder seiner Ehre. Hieraus scheint zu folgen, daß jedes Unrecht ein positiver Angriff, eine That seyn müsse. Allein es giebt Handlungen, deren bloße *Unterlassung* ein Unrecht ist: solche Handlungen heißen *Pflichten*. Dieses ist die wahre philosophische Definition des Begriffs der *Pflicht*, welcher hingegen alle Eigenthümlichkeit einbüßt und dadurch verloren geht, wenn man, wie in der bisherigen Moral, jede lobenswerthe Handlungsweise *Pflicht* nennen will, wobei man vergißt, daß was *Pflicht* ist auch *Schuldigkeit* seyn muß. *Pflicht, το δεον, le devoir, duty, ist also eine Handlung, durch deren bloße Unterlassung man einen Andern verletzt, d. h. Unrecht begeht.* Offenbar kann dies nur dadurch der Fall seyn, daß der Unterlasser sich zu einer solchen Handlung anheischig gemacht, d. h. eben *verpflichtet* hat. Demnach beruhen alle Pflichten auf eingegangener Verpflichtung. Diese ist in der Regel eine ausdrückliche, gegenseitige Uebereinkunft, wie z. B. zwischen Fürst und Volk, Regierung und Beamten, Herrn und Diener, Advokat und Klienten, Arzt und Kranken, überhaupt zwischen einem Jeden, der eine Leistung irgend einer Art übernommen hat, und seinem Besteller, im weitesten Sinne des Worts. Darum giebt jede Pflicht ein Recht: weil Keiner sich ohne ein Motiv, d. h. hier, ohne irgend einen Vortheil für sich, verpflichten kann. Nur *eine* Verpflichtung ist mir bekannt, die *nicht* mittelst einer Uebereinkunft, sondern unmittelbar durch eine bloße Handlung übernommen wird; weil Der, gegen den man sie hat, noch nicht dawar, als man sie übernahm: es ist die der Eltern gegen ihre Kinder. Wer ein Kind in die Welt setzt, hat die *Pflicht* es zu erhalten, bis es sich selbst zu erhalten fähig ist: und sollte diese Zeit, wie bei einem Blinden, Krüppel, Kretinen u. dgl. *nie* eintreten, so hört auch die Pflicht nie auf. Denn durch das bloße Nichtleisten der Hülfe, also eine Unterlassung, würde er sein Kind verletzen, ja, dem Untergange zuführen. Die moralische Pflicht der Kinder gegen die Eltern ist nicht so unmittelbar und entschieden. Sie beruht darauf, daß, weil jede Pflicht ein Recht giebt, auch die Eltern eines gegen die Kinder haben müssen, welches bei diesen die Pflicht des Gehorsams begründet, die aber nachmals, mit dem Recht, aus welchem sie entstanden ist, auch aufhört. An ihre Stelle wird alsdann Dankbarkeit treten für Das, was die Eltern mehr gethan, als strenge ihre Pflicht war. Jedoch, ein so häßliches, oft selbst empörendes Laster auch der Undank ist; so ist Dankbarkeit doch nicht Pflicht zu nennen: weil ihr Ausbleiben keine Verletzung des Andern, also kein *Unrecht* ist. Außerdem müßte der Wohlthäter vermeint haben, stillschweigend einen Handel abzuschließen. — Allenfalls könnte man als unmittelbar durch eine Handlung entstehende Verpflichtung den Ersatz für angerichteten Schaden geltend machen. Jedoch ist dieser, als Aufhebung der Folgen einer ungerechten Handlung, eine bloße Bemühung sie auszulöschen, etwas rein Negatives, das darauf beruht, daß die Handlung selbst hätte unterbleiben sollen. — Noch sei hier bemerkt, daß die Billigkeit der Feind der Gerechtigkeit ist und ihr oft gröblich zusetzt: daher man ihr nicht zu viel einräumen soll. Der Deutsche ist ein Freund der Billigkeit, der Engländer hält es mit der Gerechtigkeit.\n\nDas Gesetz der Motivation ist eben so streng, wie das der physischen Kausalität, führt also einen eben so unwiderstehlichen Zwang mit sich. Dem entsprechend giebt es zur Ausübung des Unrechts zwei Wege, den der *Gewalt* und den der *List*. Wie ich durch Gewalt einen Andern tödten, oder berauben, oder mir zu gehorchen zwingen kann; so kann ich alles dieses auch durch List ausführen, indem ich seinem Intellekt falsche Motive vorschiebe, in Folge welcher er thun muß, was er außerdem nicht thun würde. Dies geschieht mittelst der *Lüge*; deren Unrechtmäßigkeit allein hierauf beruht, ihr also nur anhängt, sofern sie ein Werkzeug der List, d. h. des Zwanges mittelst der Motivation, ist. Dies aber ist sie in der Regel. Denn zunächst kann mein Lügen selbst nicht ohne Motiv geschehen: dies Motiv aber wird, mit den seltensten Ausnahmen, ein ungerechtes, nämlich die Absicht seyn, Andere, über die ich keine Gewalt habe, nach meinem Willen zu leiten, d. h. sie mittelst der Motivation zu zwingen. Diese Absicht liegt sogar auch der bloß windbeutelnden Lüge zum Grunde, indem wer sie braucht sich dadurch bei Andern in höheres Ansehen, als ihm zusteht, zu setzen sucht. — Die Verbindlichkeit des *Versprechens* und des *Vertrages* beruht darauf, daß sie, wenn nicht erfüllt, die feierlichste Lüge sind, deren Absicht, moralischen Zwang über Andere auszuüben, hier um so evidenter ist, als das Motiv der Lüge, die verlangte Leistung des Gegenparts, ausdrücklich ausgesprochen ist. Das Verächtliche des Betrugs kommt daher, daß er durch Gleißnerei seinen Mann entwaffnet, ehe er ihn angreift. Der *Verrath* ist sein Gipfel und wird, weil er in die Kategorie der *doppelten Ungerechtigkeit* gehört, tief verabscheut. Aber wie ich, ohne Unrecht, also mit Recht, Gewalt durch Gewalt vertreiben kann; so kann ich, wo mir die Gewalt abgeht, oder es mir bequemer scheint, es auch durch List. Ich habe also in den Fällen, wo ich ein Recht zur Gewalt habe, es auch *zur Lüge*: so z. B. gegen Räuber und unberechtigte Gewältiger jeder Art, die ich demnach durch List in eine Falle locke. Darum bindet ein gewaltsam abgezwungenes Versprechen nicht. — Aber *das Recht zur Lüge* geht in der That noch weiter: es tritt ein bei jeder völlig unbefugten Frage, welche meine persönlichen, oder meine Geschäftsangelegenheiten betrifft, mithin vorwitzig ist, und deren Beantwortung nicht nur, sondern schon deren bloße Zurückweisung durch „ich will’s nicht sagen“, als Verdacht erweckend, mich in Gefahr bringen würde. Hier ist die Lüge die Nothwehr gegen unbefugte Neugier, deren Motiv meistens kein wohlwollendes ist. Denn, wie ich das Recht habe, dem vorausgesetzten bösen Willen Anderer und der demnach präsumirten physischen Gewalt physischen Widerstand, auf Gefahr des Beeinträchtigers, zum voraus entgegenzustellen und also, als Präventivmaaßregel, meine Gartenmauer mit scharfen Spitzen zu verwahren, Nachts auf meinem Hofe böse Hunde loszulassen, ja, nach Umständen, selbst Fußangeln und Selbstschüsse zu stellen, deren schlimme Folgen der Eindringer sich selber zuzuschreiben hat; so habe ich auch das Recht, dasjenige auf alle Weise geheim zu halten, dessen Kenntniß mich dem Angriff Anderer bloßstellen würde, und habe auch Ursache dazu, weil ich auch hier den bösen Willen Anderer als sehr leicht möglich annehmen und die Vorkehrungen dagegen zum voraus treffen muß. Daher sagt Ariosto:\n\nQuantunque il simular sia le più volte\nRipreso, e dia di mala mente indici,\nSi trova pure in molte cose e molte\nAvere fatti evidenti benefici,\nE danni e biasmi e morti avere tolte:\nChe non conversiam’ sempre con gli amici,\nIn questa assai più oscura che serena\nVita mortal, tutta d’invidia piena.[19]\n\n(Orl. fur., IV, 1.)\n\nIch darf also, ohne Unrecht, selbst der bloß präsumirten Beeinträchtigung durch List, zum voraus List entgegenstellen, und brauche daher nicht Dem, der unbefugt in meine Privatverhältnisse späht, Rede zu stehen, noch durch die Antwort: „Dies will ich geheim halten“, die Stelle anzuzeigen, wo ein mir gefährliches, ihm vielleicht vortheilhaftes, jedenfalls ihm Macht über mich verleihendes Geheimniß liegt:\n\nScire volunt secreta domus, atque inde timeri.\n\nSondern ich bin alsdann befugt, ihn mit einer Lüge abzufertigen, auf seine Gefahr, falls sie ihn in schädlichen Irrthum versetzt. Denn hier ist die Lüge das einzige Mittel, der vorwitzigen und verdächtigen Neugier zu begegnen: ich stehe daher im Fall der Nothwehr. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies[20], ist hier die richtige Maxime. Nämlich bei den Engländern, denen der Vorwurf der Lüge als die schwerste Beleidigung gilt, und die eben daher wirklich weniger lügen, als die andern Nationen, werden dem entsprechend alle unbefugten, die Verhältnisse des Andern betreffenden Fragen als eine Ungezogenheit angesehen, welche der Ausdruck to ask questions bezeichnet. — Auch verfährt nach dem oben aufgestellten Princip jeder Verständige, selbst wenn er von der strengsten Rechtlichkeit ist. Kehrt er z. B. von einem entlegenen Orte zurück, wo er Geld erhoben hat, und ein unbekannter Reisender gesellt sich zu ihm, frägt, wie gewöhnlich, erst *wohin*, und dann *woher*, darauf allmälig auch, was ihn an jenen Ort geführt haben mag; — so wird Jener eine Lüge antworten, um der Gefahr des Raubes vorzubeugen. Wer in dem Hause, in welchem ein Mann, um dessen Tochter er wirbt, wohnt, angetroffen und nach der Ursache seiner unvermutheten Anwesenheit gefragt wird, giebt, wenn er nicht auf den Kopf gefallen ist, unbedenklich eine falsche an. Und so kommen gar viele Fälle vor, in denen jeder Vernünftige, ohne allen Gewissensskrupel, lügt. Diese Ansicht allein beseitigt den schreienden Widerspruch zwischen der Moral, die gelehrt, und der, die täglich, selbst von den Redlichsten und Besten, ausgeübt wird. Jedoch muß dabei die angegebene Einschränkung auf den Fall der Nothwehr streng festgehalten werden; da außerdem diese Lehre abscheulichem Mißbrauche offen stände: denn an sich ist die Lüge ein sehr gefährliches Werkzeug. Aber wie, trotz dem Landfrieden, das Gesetz Jedem erlaubt, Waffen zu tragen und zu gebrauchen, nämlich im Fall der Nothwehr; so gestattet für den selben Fall, aber eben so auch *nur* für diesen, die Moral den Gebrauch der Lüge. Diesen Fall der Nothwehr gegen Gewalt oder List ausgenommen, ist jede Lüge ein Unrecht; daher die Gerechtigkeit Wahrhaftigkeit gegen Jedermann fordert. Aber gegen die völlig unbedingte, ausnahmslose und im Wesen der Sache liegende Verwerflichkeit der Lüge spricht schon Dies, daß es Fälle giebt, wo lügen sogar *Pflicht* ist, namentlich für Aerzte; ebenfalls, daß es *edelmüthige* Lügen giebt, z. B. die des Marquis Posa im Don Carlos, die in der Gerusalemme liberata, II, 22, und überhaupt in allen den Fällen, wo Einer die Schuld des Andern auf sich laden will; endlich daß sogar Jesus Christus ein Mal absichtlich die Unwahrheit gesagt hat (Joh. 7, 8). Demgemäß sagt *Campanella*, in seinen Poesie filosofiche, madr. 9, geradezu: Bello è il mentir, se a fare gran ben’ si trova.[21] Dagegen aber ist die gangbare Lehre von der Nothlüge ein elender Flicken auf dem Kleide einer armsäligen Moral. — Die, auf *Kants* Veranlassung, in manchen Kompendien gegebenen Ableitungen der Unrechtmäßigkeit der Lüge, aus dem *Sprachvermögen* des Menschen, sind so platt, kindisch und abgeschmackt, daß man, nur um ihnen Hohn zu sprechen, versucht werden könnte, sich dem Teufel in die Arme zu werfen und mit *Talleyrand* zu sagen: l’homme a reçu la parole pour pouvoir cacher sa pensée. — *Kants* bei jeder Gelegenheit zur Schau getragener, unbedingter und gränzenloser Abscheu gegen die Lüge beruht entweder auf Affektation, oder auf Vorurtheil: in dem Kapitel seiner „Tugendlehre“ von der Lüge, schilt er diese zwar mit allen ehrenrührigen Prädikaten, bringt aber gar keinen eigentlichen Grund für ihre Verwerflichkeit bei; welches doch wirksamer gewesen wäre. Deklamiren ist leichter als Beweisen, und Moralisiren leichter als Aufrichtigseyn. *Kant* hätte besser gethan, jenen speciellen Eifer gegen die *Schadenfreude* loszulassen: diese, nicht die Lüge, ist das eigentlich teuflische Laster. Denn sie ist das gerade Gegentheil des Mitleids, und ist nichts Anderes, als die ohnmächtige Grausamkeit, welche die Leiden, in denen sie Andere so gern erblickt, selbst herbeizuführen unfähig, dem Zufall dankt, der es statt ihrer that. — Daß, nach dem Princip der ritterlichen Ehre, der Vorwurf der Lüge als so sehr schwer und eigentlich mit dem Blute des Anschuldigers abzuwaschen genommen wird, liegt nicht daran, daß die Lüge *unrecht* ist, da alsdann die Anschuldigung eines durch Gewalt verübten Unrechts eben so schwer kränken müßte, was bekanntlich nicht der Fall ist; sondern es liegt daran, daß, nach dem Princip der ritterlichen Ehre, eigentlich die Gewalt das Recht begründet: wer nun, um ein Unrecht auszuführen, zur Lüge greift, beweist, daß ihm die Gewalt, oder der zur Anwendung dieser nöthige Muth abgeht. Jede Lüge zeugt von Furcht: das bricht den Stab über ihn.\n\n18. Die ausgeführte Rechtslehre findet man in der „Welt als Wille und Vorstellung“, Bd. 1, §. 62.\n\n19. So sehr auch meistens die Verstellung getadelt wird und von schlechter Absicht zeugt; so hat sie dennoch in gar vielen Dingen augenfällig Gutes gestiftet, indem sie dem Schaden, der Schande und dem Tode vorbeugte: denn nicht immer reden wir mit Freunden, in diesem viel mehr finstern, als heitern, sterblichen Leben, welches von Neide strotzt.\n\n20. Frag’ du mich nicht aus, will ich dich nicht belügen.\n\n21. Schön ist das Lügen, wenn es viel Gutes stiftet.\n\n### Section 18\n\nDie Tugend der Menschenliebe.\n\nDie Gerechtigkeit ist also die erste und grundwesentliche Kardinaltugend. Als solche haben auch die Philosophen des Alterthums sie anerkannt, jedoch ihr drei andere unpassend gewählte koordinirt. Hingegen haben sie die Menschenliebe, caritas, ἀγαπη, noch nicht als Tugend aufgestellt: selbst der in der Moral sich am höchsten erhebende *Plato* gelangt doch nur bis zur freiwilligen, uneigennützigen Gerechtigkeit. Praktisch und faktisch ist zwar zu jeder Zeit Menschenliebe dagewesen: aber theoretisch zur Sprache gebracht und förmlich als Tugend, und zwar als die größte von allen, aufgestellt, sogar auch auf die Feinde ausgedehnt, wurde sie zuerst vom Christenthum, dessen allergrößtes Verdienst eben hierin besteht; wiewohl nur hinsichtlich auf Europa; da in Asien schon tausend Jahre früher die unbegränzte Liebe des Nächsten eben sowohl Gegenstand der Lehre und Vorschrift, wie der Ausübung gewesen war, indem Veda und Dharma-Sastra, Itihasa und Purana, wie auch die Lehre des Buddha’s Schakia Muni, nicht müde werden, sie zu predigen. — Und wenn wir es streng nehmen wollen, so lassen sich auch bei den Alten Spuren der Anempfehlung der Menschenliebe finden, z. B. beim *Cicero*, De finib., V, 23; sogar schon beim Pythagoras, nach Jamblichus, De vita Pythagorae, c. 33. Mir liegt jetzt die philosophische Ableitung dieser Tugend aus meinem Princip ob.\n\nDer zweite Grad, in welchem, mittelst des oben thatsächlich nachgewiesenen, wiewohl seinem Ursprung nach geheimnißvollen Vorgangs des *Mitleids*, das fremde Leiden an sich selbst und als solches unmittelbar mein Motiv wird, sondert sich von dem ersten deutlich ab, durch den *positiven Charakter* der daraus hervorgehenden Handlungen; indem alsdann das Mitleid nicht bloß mich abhält, den Andern zu verletzen, sondern sogar mich antreibt, ihm zu helfen. Je nachdem nun theils jene unmittelbare Theilnahme lebhaft und tiefgefühlt, theils die fremde Noth groß und dringend ist, werde ich durch jenes rein moralische Motiv bewogen werden, ein größeres oder geringeres Opfer dem Bedürfniß oder der Noth des Andern zu bringen, welches in der Anstrengung meiner leiblichen oder geistigen Kräfte für ihn, in meinem Eigenthum, in meiner Gesundheit, Freiheit, sogar in meinem Leben bestehen kann. Hier also, in der unmittelbaren, auf keine Argumentation gestützten, noch deren bedürfenden Theilnahme, liegt der allein lautere Ursprung der Menschenliebe, der caritas, ἀγαπη, also derjenigen Tugend, deren Maxime ist, omnes, quantum potes, juva, und aus welcher alles Das fließt, was die Ethik unter dem Namen Tugendpflichten, Liebespflichten, unvollkommene Pflichten vorschreibt. Diese ganz unmittelbare, ja, instinktartige Theilnahme am fremden Leiden, also das Mitleid, ist die alleinige Quelle solcher Handlungen, wenn sie *moralischen Werth haben*, d. h. von allen egoistischen Motiven rein seyn, und eben deshalb in uns selbst diejenige innere Zufriedenheit erwecken sollen, welche man das gute, befriedigte, lobende Gewissen nennt; wie auch bei dem Zuschauer die eigenthümliche Beistimmung, Hochachtung, Bewunderung und sogar demüthigenden Rückblick auf sich selbst hervorrufen sollen, welcher eine nicht abzuleugnende Thatsache ist. Hat hingegen eine wohlthätige Handlung irgend ein anderes Motiv; so kann sie nicht anders, als egoistisch seyn, wenn sie nicht gar boshaft ist. Denn, entsprechend den oben aufgestellten Urtriebfedern aller Handlungen, nämlich Egoismus, Bosheit, Mitleid, lassen sich die *Motive*, welche überhaupt den Menschen bewegen können, unter drei, ganz allgemeine und oberste Klassen bringen: 1) eigenes Wohl, 2) fremdes Wehe, 3) fremdes Wohl. Ist nun das Motiv einer wohlthätigen Handlung *nicht aus der dritten Klasse*; so muß es schlechterdings der *ersten* oder *zweiten* angehören. *Letzteres* ist wirklich bisweilen der Fall: z. B. wenn ich Einem wohlthue, um einen Andern, dem ich nicht wohlthue, zu kränken, oder ihm sein Leiden noch fühlbarer zu machen; oder auch um einen Dritten, der demselben nicht wohlthat, zu beschämen; oder endlich um den, dem ich wohlthue, dadurch zu demüthigen. *Ersteres* aber ist viel öfter der Fall, nämlich sobald ich, bei einer guten That, sei es auch noch so entfernt und auf weitestem Umwege, *mein eigenes Wohl* im Auge habe, also wenn mich Rücksicht auf Belohnung, in dieser oder einer andern Welt, oder die zu erlangende Hochschätzung und der Ruf eines edeln Herzens, oder die Ueberlegung, daß der, dem heute ich helfe, mir ein Mal wieder helfen, oder sonst nützen und dienen könne, endlich auch, wenn mich der Gedanke treibt, die Maxime des Edelmuths oder der Wohlthätigkeit müsse aufrecht erhalten werden, da sie mir doch auch ein Mal zu gute kommen könne, kurz, sobald mein Zweck irgend ein anderer ist, als ganz allein der rein *objektive*, daß ich dem Andern geholfen, ihn aus seiner Noth und Bedrängniß gerissen, ihn von seinem Leiden befreiet wissen will: und nichts darüber und nichts daneben! Nur dann, und ganz allein dann, habe ich wirklich jene Menschenliebe, caritas, ἀγαπη, bewiesen, welche gepredigt zu haben, das große, auszeichnende Verdienst des Christenthums ist. Aber gerade die Vorschriften, welche das Evangelium seinem Geheiß der Liebe hinzufügt, wie: μη γνώτω ἡ ἀριστερά σου, τί ποιεῖ ἡ δεξία σου (sinistra tua manus haud cognoscat, quae dextra facit) und ähnliche, sind auf das Gefühl dessen gegründet, was ich hier deducirt habe, daß nämlich ganz allein die fremde Noth und keine andre Rücksicht mein Motiv seyn muß, wenn meine Handlung moralischen Werth haben soll. Ganz richtig wird ebendaselbst (Matth. 6, 2) gesagt, daß Die, welche mit Ostentation geben, ihren Lohn dahin haben. Aber die Veden ertheilen auch hier uns gleichsam die höhere Weihe, indem sie wiederholentlich versichern, daß wer irgend einen Lohn seiner Werke begehrt, noch auf dem Wege der Finsterniß begriffen und zur Erlösung nicht reif sei. — Wenn Einer, indem er ein Almosen giebt, mich früge, was er davon hat; so wäre meine gewissenhafte Antwort: „Dieses, daß jenem Armen sein Schicksal um so viel erleichtert wird; außerdem aber schlechterdings nichts. Ist dir nun damit nicht gedient, und daran eigentlich nichts gelegen; so hast du eigentlich nicht ein Almosen geben, sondern einen Kauf thun wollen: da bist du um dein Geld betrogen. Ist dir aber daran gelegen, daß Jener, den der Mangel drückt, weniger leide; so hast du eben deinen Zweck erreicht, hast dies davon, daß er weniger leidet, und siehst genau, wie weit deine Gabe sich belohnt.“\n\nWie ist es nun aber möglich, daß ein Leiden, welches nicht *meines* ist, nicht *mich* trifft, doch eben so unmittelbar, wie sonst nur mein eigenes, Motiv für mich werden, mich zum Handeln bewegen soll? Wie gesagt, nur dadurch, daß ich es, obgleich mir nur als ein Aeußeres, bloß vermittelst der äußern Anschauung oder Kunde gegeben, dennoch *mitempfinde*, es als *meines fühle*, und doch nicht *in mir*, sondern *in einem Andern*, und also eintritt was schon *Calderon* ausdrückt:\n\nque entre el ver\nPadecer y el padecer\nNinguna distancia habia.\n\n„No siempre el peor es cierto“, Jorn. II, p. 229.\n\n(daß zwischen leiden sehen und leiden kein Unterschied sei.)\n\nDies aber setzt voraus, daß ich mich mit dem Andern gewissermaaßen identificirt habe, und folglich die Schranke zwischen Ich und Nicht-Ich, für den Augenblick, aufgehoben sei: nur dann wird die Angelegenheit des Andern, sein Bedürfniß, seine Noth, sein Leiden, unmittelbar zum meinigen: dann erblicke ich ihn nicht mehr, wie ihn doch die empirische Anschauung giebt, als ein mir Fremdes, mir Gleichgültiges, von mir gänzlich Verschiedenes; sondern *in ihm* leide ich mit, trotz dem, daß seine Haut meine Nerven nicht einschließt. Nur dadurch kann *sein* Wehe, *seine* Noth, Motiv für *mich* werden: außerdem kann es durchaus nur meine eigene. Dieser *Vorgang* ist, ich wiederhole es, *mysteriös*: denn er ist etwas, wovon die Vernunft keine unmittelbare Rechenschaft geben kann, und dessen Gründe auf dem Wege der Erfahrung nicht auszumitteln sind. Und doch ist er alltäglich. Jeder hat ihn oft an sich selbst erlebt, sogar dem Hartherzigsten und Selbstsüchtigsten ist er nicht fremd geblieben. Er tritt täglich ein, vor unsern Augen, im Einzelnen, im Kleinen, überall wo, auf unmittelbaren Antrieb, ohne viel Ueberlegung, ein Mensch dem Andern hilft und beispringt, ja, bisweilen selbst sein Leben für Einen, den er zum ersten Male sieht, in die augenscheinlichste Gefahr setzt, ohne mehr dabei zu denken, als eben daß er die große Noth und Gefahr des Andern sieht. Er tritt im Großen ein, wenn, nach langer Ueberlegung und schwerer Debatte, die hochherzige Brittische Nation 20 Millionen Pfund Sterling hingiebt, um den Negersklaven in ihren Kolonien die Freiheit zu erkaufen; unter dem Beifallsjubel einer ganzen Welt. Wer diese schöne Handlung im großen Stil, dem Mitleid als Triebfeder absprechen wollte, um sie dem Christenthum zuzuschreiben, bedenke, daß im ganzen Neuen Testament kein Wort gegen die Sklaverei gesagt ist; so allgemein auch damals die Sache war; und daß vielmehr, noch 1860, in Nord-Amerika, bei Debatten über die Sklaverei, Einer sich darauf berufen hat, daß Abraham und Jakob auch Sklaven gehalten haben.\n\nWas nun in jedem einzelnen Fall die praktischen Ergebnisse jenes mysteriösen innern Vorganges seyn werden, mag die Ethik in Kapiteln und Paragraphen über Tugendpflichten, oder Liebespflichten, oder unvollkommene Pflichten, oder wie sonst, auseinandersetzen. Die Wurzel, die Grundlage von dem Allen ist die hier dargelegte, aus welcher der Grundsatz entspringt: omnes, quantum potes, juva; und aus diesem ist hier alles Uebrige gar leicht abzuleiten, wie aus der ersten Hälfte meines Princips, also aus dem Neminem laede, alle Pflichten der Gerechtigkeit. Die Ethik ist in Wahrheit die leichteste aller Wissenschaften; wie es auch nicht anders zu erwarten steht, da Jeder die Obliegenheit hat, sie selbst zu konstruiren, selbst aus dem obersten Grundsatz, der in seinem Herzen wurzelt, die Regel für jeden vorkommenden Fall abzuleiten: denn Wenige haben die Muße und Geduld, eine fertig konstruirte Ethik zu erlernen. Aus der Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe fließen sämmtliche Tugenden, daher sind jene die Kardinaltugenden, mit deren Ableitung der Grundstein der Ethik gelegt ist. — Gerechtigkeit ist der ganze ethische Inhalt des Alten Testaments, und Menschenliebe der des Neuen: diese ist die καινη ἐντολη (Joh. 13, 34), in welcher, nach Paulus (Röm. 13, 8—10) alle Christlichen Tugenden enthalten sind.\n\n### Section 19\n\nBestätigungen des dargelegten Fundaments der Moral.\n\nDie jetzt ausgesprochene Wahrheit, daß das Mitleid, als die einzige nicht egoistische, auch die alleinige ächt moralische Triebfeder sei, ist, seltsamer, ja, fast unbegreiflicher Weise, paradox. Ich will daher versuchen, sie den Ueberzeugungen des Lesers dadurch zu entfremden, daß ich sie als durch die Erfahrung und die Aussprüche des allgemeinen Menschengefühls bestätigt nachweise.\n\n1) Zu diesem Zweck will ich zuvörderst einen beliebig erdachten Fall zum Beispiel nehmen, der in dieser Untersuchung als experimentum crucis gelten kann. Um mir aber nicht die Sache leicht zu machen, nehme ich keinen Fall der Menschenliebe, sondern eine Rechtsverletzung und zwar die stärkste. — Man setze zwei junge Leute, Kajus und Titus, beide leidenschaftlich verliebt, doch jeder in ein anderes Mädchen: und jedem stehe ein wegen äußerer Umstände bevorzugter Nebenbuhler durchaus im Wege. Beide seien entschlossen, jeder den seinigen aus der Welt zu schaffen, und Beide seien vor aller Entdeckung, sogar vor jedem Verdacht, vollkommen gesichert. Als jedoch Jeder seinerseits an die nähere Veranstaltung des Mordes geht, stehen Beide, nach einem Kampfe mit sich selbst, davon ab. Ueber die Gründe dieses Aufgebens ihres Entschlusses sollen sie uns aufrichtige und deutliche Rechenschaft ablegen. — Nun soll die Rechenschaft, welche Kajus giebt, ganz in die Wahl des Lesers gestellt seyn. Er mag etwan durch religiöse Gründe, wie den Willen Gottes, die dereinstige Vergeltung, das künftige Gericht u. dgl. abgehalten worden seyn. Oder aber er sage: „Ich bedachte, daß die Maxime meines Verfahrens in diesem Fall sich nicht geeignet haben würde, eine allgemein gültige Regel für alle möglichen vernünftigen Wesen abzugeben, indem ich ja meinen Nebenbuhler allein als Mittel und nicht zugleich als Zweck behandelt haben würde.“ — Oder er sage mit Fichte: „Jedes Menschenleben ist Mittel zur Realisation des Sittengesetzes: also kann ich nicht, ohne gegen die Realisation des Sittengesetzes gleichgültig zu seyn, Einen vernichten, der zu derselben beizutragen bestimmt ist.“ (Sittenlehre, S. 373.) — (Diesem Skrupel, beiläufig gesagt, könnte er dadurch begegnen, daß er, im Besitz seiner Geliebten, bald ein neues Instrument des Sittengesetzes zu produciren hofft.) — Oder er sage, nach *Wollastone*: „Ich habe überlegt, daß jene Handlung der Ausdruck eines unwahren Satzes seyn würde.“ — Oder er sage, nach *Hutcheson*: „Der moralische Sinn, dessen Empfindungen, wie die jedes andern Sinnes, nicht weiter erklärlich sind, hat mich bestimmt, es seyn zu lassen.“ — Oder er sage, nach *Adam Smith*: „Ich sah voraus, daß meine Handlung gar keine Sympathie mit mir in den Zuschauern derselben erregt haben würde.“ — Oder, nach *Christian Wolff*: „Ich erkannte, daß ich dadurch meiner eigenen Vervollkommnung entgegen arbeiten und auch keine fremde befördern würde.“ — Oder er sage, nach *Spinoza*: „Homini nihil utilius homine: ergo hominem interimere nolui.“ — Kurz, er sage, was man will. — Aber *Titus*, dessen Rechenschaft ich mir vorbehalte, der sage: „Wie es zu den Anstalten kam, und ich deshalb, für den Augenblick, mich nicht mit meiner Leidenschaft, sondern mit jenem Nebenbuhler zu beschäftigen hatte; da zuerst wurde mir recht deutlich, was jetzt mit ihm eigentlich vorgehen sollte. Aber nun ergriff mich Mitleid und Erbarmen, es jammerte mich seiner, ich konnte es nicht über’s Herz bringen: ich habe es nicht thun können.“ — Jetzt frage ich jeden redlichen und unbefangenen Leser: Welcher von Beiden ist der bessere Mensch? — Welchem von Beiden möchte er sein eigenes Schicksal lieber in die Hand geben? — Welcher von ihnen ist durch das reinere Motiv zurückgehalten worden? — Wo liegt demnach das Fundament der Moral?\n\n2) Nichts empört so im tiefsten Grunde unser moralisches Gefühl, wie Grausamkeit. Jedes andere Verbrechen können wir verzeihen, nur Grausamkeit nicht. Der Grund hievon ist, daß Grausamkeit das gerade Gegentheil des Mitleids ist. Wenn wir von einer sehr grausamen That Kunde erhalten, wie z. B. die ist, welche eben jetzt die Zeitungen berichten, von einer Mutter, die ihren fünfjährigen Knaben dadurch gemordet hat, daß sie ihm siedendes Oel in den Schlund goß, und ihr jüngeres Kind dadurch, daß sie es lebendig begrub; — oder die, welche eben aus Algier gemeldet wird, daß nach einem zufälligen Streit und Kampf zwischen einem Spanier und einem Algierer, dieser, als der stärkere, jenem die ganze untere Kinnlade rein ausriß und als Trophäe davon trug, jenen lebend zurücklassend; — dann werden wir von Entsetzen ergriffen und rufen aus: „Wie ist es möglich, so etwas zu thun?“ — Was ist der Sinn dieser Frage? Ist er vielleicht: Wie ist es möglich, die Strafen des künftigen Lebens so wenig zu fürchten? — Schwerlich. — Oder: Wie ist es möglich, nach einer Maxime zu handeln, die so gar nicht geeignet ist, ein allgemeines Gesetz für alle vernünftigen Wesen zu werden? — Gewiß nicht. — Oder: Wie ist es möglich, seine eigene und die fremde Vollkommenheit so sehr zu vernachlässigen? — Eben so wenig. — Der Sinn jener Frage ist ganz gewiß bloß dieser: Wie ist es möglich, so ganz ohne Mitleid zu seyn? — Also ist es der größte Mangel an Mitleid, der einer That den Stämpel der tiefsten moralischen Verworfenheit und Abscheulichkeit aufdrückt. Folglich ist Mitleid die eigentliche moralische Triebfeder.\n\n3) Ueberhaupt ist die von mir aufgestellte Grundlage der Moral und Triebfeder der Moralität die einzige, der sich eine reale, ja, ausgedehnte Wirksamkeit nachrühmen läßt. Denn von den übrigen Moralprincipien der Philosophen wird dies wohl Niemand behaupten wollen; da diese aus abstrakten, zum Theil selbst spitzfindigen Sätzen bestehen, ohne anderes Fundament, als eine künstliche Begriffskombination, so daß ihre Anwendung auf das wirkliche Handeln sogar oft eine lächerliche Seite haben würde. Eine gute That, bloß aus Rücksicht auf das Kantische Moralprincip vollbracht, würde im Grunde das Werk eines philosophischen Pedantismus seyn, oder aber auf Selbsttäuschung hinauslaufen, indem die Vernunft des Handelnden eine That, welche andere, vielleicht edlere Triebfedern hätte, als das Produkt des kategorischen Imperativs und des auf nichts gestützten Begriffs der Pflicht auslegte. Aber nicht nur von den *philosophischen*, auf bloße Theorie berechneten, sondern sogar auch von den ganz zum praktischen Behuf aufgestellten *religiösen* Moralprincipien läßt sich selten eine entschiedene Wirksamkeit nachweisen. Dies sehen wir zuvörderst daran, daß, trotz der großen Religionsverschiedenheit auf Erden, der Grad der Moralität, oder vielmehr Immoralität, durchaus keine jener entsprechende Verschiedenheit aufweist, sondern, im Wesentlichen, so ziemlich überall der selbe ist. Nur muß man nicht Rohheit und Verfeinerung mit Moralität und Immoralität verwechseln. Die Religion der Griechen hatte eine äußerst geringe, fast nur auf den Eid beschränkte moralische Tendenz; es wurde kein Dogma gelehrt und keine Moral öffentlich gepredigt: wir sehen aber nicht, daß deshalb die Griechen, Alles zusammengenommen, moralisch schlechter gewesen wären, als die Menschen der Christlichen Jahrhunderte. Die Moral des Christenthums ist viel höherer Art, als die der übrigen Religionen, die jemals in Europa aufgetreten sind: aber wer deshalb glauben wollte, daß die Europäische Moralität sich in eben dem Maaße verbessert hätte und jetzt wenigstens unter den gleichzeitigen excellirte, den würde man nicht nur bald überführen können, daß unter Mohammedanern, Gebern, Hindu und Buddhaisten mindestens eben so viel Redlichkeit, Treue, Toleranz, Sanftmuth, Wohlthätigkeit, Edelmuth und Selbstverleugnung gefunden wird, als unter den Christlichen Völkern; sondern sogar würde das lange Verzeichniß unmenschlicher Grausamkeiten, die das Christenthum begleitet haben, in den zahlreichen Religionskriegen, den unverantwortlichen Kreuzzügen, in der Ausrottung eines großen Theils der Ureinwohner Amerikas und Bevölkerung dieses Welttheils mit aus Afrika herangeschleppten, ohne Recht, ohne einen Schein des Rechts, ihren Familien, ihrem Vaterlande, ihrem Welttheil entrissenen und zu endloser Zuchthausarbeit verdammten Negersklaven[22], in den unermüdlichen Ketzerverfolgungen und himmelschreienden Inquisitionsgerichten, in der Bartholomäusnacht, in der Hinrichtung von 18000 Niederländern durch Alba, u. s. w. u. s. w. — eher einen Ausschlag zu Ungunsten des Christenthums besorgen lassen. Ueberhaupt aber, wenn man die vortreffliche Moral, welche die Christliche und mehr oder weniger jede Religion predigt, vergleicht mit der Praxis ihrer Bekenner, und sich vorstellt, wohin es mit dieser kommen würde, wenn nicht der weltliche Arm die Verbrechen verhinderte, ja, was wir zu befürchten hätten, wenn auch nur auf Einen Tag alle Gesetze aufgehoben würden; so wird man bekennen müssen, daß die Wirkung aller Religionen auf die Moralität eigentlich sehr geringe ist. Hieran ist freilich die Glaubensschwäche Schuld. Theoretisch und so lange es bei der frommen Betrachtung bleibt, scheint Jedem sein Glaube fest. Allein die That ist der harte Probierstein aller unserer Ueberzeugungen: wenn es zu ihr kommt und nun der Glaube durch große Entsagungen und schwere Opfer bewährt werden soll; da zeigt sich die Schwäche desselben. Wenn ein Mensch ein Verbrechen ernstlich meditirt; so hat er die Schranke der ächten reinen Moralität bereits durchbrochen: danach aber ist das Erste, was ihn aufhält, alle Mal der Gedanke an Justiz und Polizei. Entschlägt er sich dessen, durch die Hoffnung diesen zu entgehen; so ist die zweite Schranke, die sich ihm entgegenstellt, die Rücksicht auf seine Ehre. Kommt er nun aber auch über diese Schutzwehr hinweg; so ist sehr viel dagegen zu wetten, daß, nach Ueberwindung dieser zwei mächtigen Widerstände, jetzt noch irgend ein Religionsdogma Macht genug über ihn haben werde, um ihn von der That zurückzuhalten. Denn wen nahe und gewisse Gefahren nicht abschrecken, den werden die entfernten und bloß auf Glauben beruhenden schwerlich in Zaum halten. Ueberdies läßt sich gegen jede ganz allein aus religiösen Ueberzeugungen hervorgegangene gute Handlung noch einwenden, daß sie nicht uneigennützig gewesen, sondern aus Rücksicht auf Lohn und Strafe geschehen sei, folglich keinen rein moralischen Werth habe. Diese Einsicht finden wir stark ausgedrückt in einem Briefe des berühmten Großherzogs Karl August von Weimar, wo es heißt: „Baron *Weyhers* fand selber, das müsse ein schlechter Kerl sein, der durch Religion gut, und nicht von Natur dazu geneigt sei. In vino veritas.“ (Briefe an J. H. Merck, Br. 229.) — Nun betrachte man dagegen die von mir aufgestellte moralische Triebfeder. Wer wagt es, einen Augenblick in Abrede zu stellen, daß sie zu allen Zeiten, unter allen Völkern, in allen Lagen des Lebens, auch im gesetzlosen Zustande, auch mitten unter den Gräueln der Revolutionen und Kriege, und im Großen wie im Kleinen, jeden Tag und jede Stunde, eine entschiedene und wahrhaft wundersame Wirksamkeit äußert, täglich vieles Unrecht verhindert, gar manche gute That, ohne alle Hoffnung auf Lohn und oft ganz unerwartet ins Daseyn ruft, und daß wo sie und nur sie allein wirksam gewesen, wir Alle mit Rührung und Hochachtung der That den ächten moralischen Werth unbedingt zugestehen.\n\n4) Denn gränzenloses Mitleid mit allen lebenden Wesen ist der festeste und sicherste Bürge für das sittliche Wohlverhalten und bedarf keiner Kasuistik. Wer davon erfüllt ist, wird zuverlässig Keinen verletzen, Keinen beeinträchtigen, Keinem wehe thun, vielmehr mit Jedem Nachsicht haben, Jedem verzeihen, Jedem helfen, so viel er vermag, und alle seine Handlungen werden das Gepräge der Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe tragen. Hingegen versuche man ein Mal zu sagen: „Dieser Mensch ist tugendhaft, aber er kennt kein Mitleid.“ Oder: „Es ist ein ungerechter und boshafter Mensch; jedoch ist er sehr mitleidig“; so wird der Widerspruch fühlbar. — Der Geschmack ist verschieden; aber ich weiß mir kein schöneres Gebet, als Das, womit die Alt-Indischen Schauspiele (wie in früheren Zeiten die Englischen mit dem für den König) schließen. Es lautet: „Mögen alle lebende Wesen von Schmerzen frei bleiben.“\n\n5) Auch aus einzelnen Zügen läßt sich entnehmen, daß die wahre moralische Grundtriebfeder das Mitleid ist. Es ist, z. B., eben so unrecht, einen Reichen, wie einen Armen, durch gefahrlose legale Kniffe, um hundert Thaler zu bringen: aber die Vorwürfe des Gewissens und der Tadel der unbetheiligten Zeugen werden im zweiten Fall sehr viel lauter und heftiger ausfallen; daher auch schon Aristoteles sagt: δεινότερον δέ ἐστι τὸν ἀτυχοῦντα, ἢ τὸν εὐτυχοῦντα, ἀδικεῖν (iniquius autem est, injuriam homini infortunato, quam fortunato, intulisse), Probl., XXIX, 2. Hingegen werden die Vorwürfe noch leiser, als im ersten Falle seyn, wenn es eine Staatskasse ist, die man übervortheilt hat: denn diese kann kein Gegenstand des Mitleids seyn. Man sieht, daß nicht unmittelbar die Rechtsverletzung, sondern zunächst das dadurch auf den Andern gebrachte Leiden den Stoff des eigenen und fremden Tadels liefert. Die bloße Rechtsverletzung als solche, z. B. die obige gegen eine Staatskasse, wird zwar auch vom Gewissen und von Andern gemißbilligt werden, aber nur sofern die Maxime, *jedes* Recht zu achten, welche den wahrhaft ehrlichen Mann macht, dadurch gebrochen ist; also mittelbar und im geringern Grade. War es jedoch eine *anvertraute* Staatskasse, so ist der Fall ein ganz anderer, indem hier der oben festgestellte Begriff der *doppelten Ungerechtigkeit*, mit seinen specifischen Eigenschaften, eintritt. Auf dem hier Auseinandergesetzten beruht es, daß der schwerste Vorwurf, welcher habsüchtigen Erpressern und legalen Schurken überall gemacht wird, der ist, daß sie das Gut der Wittwen und Waisen an sich gerissen haben: eben weil diese, als ganz hülflos, mehr noch, als Andere, hätten das Mitleid erwecken sollen. Der gänzliche Mangel an diesem ist es also, welcher den Menschen der Ruchlosigkeit überführt.\n\n6) Noch augenscheinlicher, als der Gerechtigkeit, liegt der Menschenliebe Mitleid zum Grunde. Keiner wird von Andern Beweise ächter Menschenliebe erhalten, so lange es ihm in jedem Betracht wohl geht. Der Glückliche kann zwar das Wohlwollen seiner Angehörigen und Freunde vielfach erfahren: aber die Aeußerungen jener reinen, uneigennützigen, objektiven Theilnahme am fremden Zustand und Schicksal, welche Wirkung der Menschenliebe sind, bleiben dem in irgend einem Betracht Leidenden aufbehalten. Denn an dem Glücklichen *als solchem* nehmen wir nicht Theil; vielmehr bleibt er *als solcher* unserm Herzen fremd: habeat sibi sua. Ja, er wird, wenn er Viel vor Andern voraus hat, leicht Neid erregen, welcher droht, bei seinem einstigen Sturz von der Höhe des Glücks, sich in Schadenfreude zu verwandeln. Jedoch bleibt diese Drohung meistens unerfüllt und es kommt nicht zu dem Sophokleischen γελῶσι δ’ ἐχθροί (rident inimici). Denn sobald der Glückliche stürzt, geht eine große Umgestaltung in den Herzen der Uebrigen vor, welche für unsere Betrachtung belehrend ist. Nämlich zuvörderst zeigt sich jetzt, welcher Art der Antheil war, den die Freunde seines Glücks an ihm nahmen: diffugiunt cadis cum faece siccatis amici. Aber andererseits, was er mehr fürchtete, als das Unglück selbst, und was zu denken ihm unerträglich fiel, das Frohlocken der Neider seines Glücks, das Hohngelächter der Schadenfreude, bleibt meistens aus: der Neid ist versöhnt, er ist mit seiner Ursache verschwunden, und das jetzt an seine Stelle tretende Mitleid gebiert die Menschenliebe. Oft haben die Neider und Feinde eines Glücklichen, bei seinem Sturz, sich in schonende, tröstende und helfende Freunde verwandelt. Wer hat nicht, wenigstens in schwächeren Graden, etwas der Art an sich selbst erlebt und, von irgend einem Unglücksfall betroffen, mit Ueberraschung gesehen, daß Die, welche bisher die größte Kälte, sogar Uebelwollen gegen ihn verriethen, jetzt mit ungeheuchelter Theilnahme an ihn herantraten. Denn Unglück ist die Bedingung des Mitleids und Mitleid die Quelle der Menschenliebe. — Dieser Betrachtung verwandt ist die Bemerkung, daß unsern Zorn, selbst wenn er gerecht ist, nichts so schnell besänftigt, wie hinsichtlich des Gegenstandes desselben die Rede: „es ist ein Unglücklicher“. Denn was für das Feuer der Regen, das ist für den Zorn das Mitleid. Dieserhalb rathe ich Dem, der nicht gern etwas zu bereuen haben möchte, daß, wenn er von Zorn gegen einen Andern entbrannt, diesem ein großes Leid zuzufügen gedenkt, er sich lebhaft vorstellen möge, er hätte es ihm bereits zugefügt, sähe ihn jetzt mit seinen geistigen, oder körperlichen Schmerzen, oder Noth und Elend, ringen, und müßte zu sich sagen: das ist mein Werk. Wenn irgend Etwas, so vermag dieses seinen Zorn zu dämpfen. Denn Mitleid ist das rechte Gegengift des Zorns, und durch jenen Kunstgriff gegen sich selbst anticipirt man, während es noch Zeit ist,\n\nla pitié, dont la voix,\nAlors qu’on est vengé, fait entendre ses lois.\n*Volt.*, „Sémiramis“, A. 5, Sc. 6.\n\nUeberhaupt wird unsere gehässige Stimmung gegen Andere durch nichts so leicht beseitigt, als wenn wir einen Gesichtspunkt fassen, von welchem aus sie unser Mitleid in Anspruch nehmen. — Sogar daß Eltern, in der Regel, das kränkliche Kind am meisten lieben, beruht darauf, daß es immerfort Mitleid erregt.\n\n7) Die von mir aufgestellte moralische Triebfeder bewährt sich als die ächte ferner dadurch, daß sie auch die *Thiere* in ihren Schutz nimmt, für welche in den andern Europäischen Moralsystemen so unverantwortlich schlecht gesorgt ist. Die vermeinte Rechtlosigkeit der Thiere, der Wahn, daß unser Handeln gegen sie ohne moralische Bedeutung sei, oder, wie es in der Sprache jener Moral heißt, daß es gegen Thiere keine Pflichten gebe, ist geradezu eine empörende Rohheit und Barbarei des Occidents, deren Quelle im Judenthum liegt. In der Philosophie beruht sie auf der aller Evidenz zum Trotz angenommenen gänzlichen Verschiedenheit zwischen Mensch und Thier, welche bekanntlich am entschiedensten und grellsten von *Kartesius* ausgesprochen ward, als eine nothwendige Konsequenz seiner Irrthümer. Als nämlich die Kartesisch-Leibnitz-Wolffische Philosophie aus abstrakten Begriffen die rationale Psychologie aufbaute und eine unsterbliche anima rationalis konstruirte; da traten die natürlichen Ansprüche der Thierwelt diesem exklusiven Privilegio und Unsterblichkeits-Patent der Menschenspecies augenscheinlich entgegen, und die Natur legte, wie bei allen solchen Gelegenheiten, still ihren Protest ein. Nun mußten die von ihrem intellektuellen Gewissen geängstigten Philosophen suchen, die rationale Psychologie durch die empirische zu stützen und daher bemüht seyn, zwischen Mensch und Thier eine ungeheuere Kluft, einen unermeßlichen Abstand zu eröffnen, um, aller Evidenz zum Trotz, sie als von Grund aus verschieden darzustellen. Solcher Bemühungen spottet schon *Boileau*:\n\nLes animaux ont-ils des universités?\nVoit-on fleurir chez eux des quatre facultés?\n\nDa sollten am Ende gar die Thiere sich nicht von der Außenwelt zu unterscheiden wissen und kein Bewußtseyn ihrer selbst, kein Ich haben! Gegen solche abgeschmackte Behauptungen darf man nur auf den jedem Thiere, selbst dem kleinsten und letzten, inwohnenden gränzenlosen Egoismus hindeuten, der hinlänglich bezeugt, wie sehr die Thiere sich ihres Ichs, der Welt oder dem Nicht-Ich gegenüber, bewußt sind. Wenn so ein Kartesianer sich zwischen den Klauen eines Tigers befände, würde er auf das deutlichste inne werden, welchen scharfen Unterschied ein solcher zwischen seinem Ich und Nicht-Ich setzt. Solchen Sophistikationen der Philosophen entsprechend finden wir, auf dem populären Wege, die Eigenheit mancher Sprachen, namentlich der deutschen, daß sie für das Essen, Trinken, Schwangerseyn, Gebären, Sterben und den Leichnam der Thiere ganz eigene Worte haben, um nicht die gebrauchen zu müssen, welche jene Akte beim Menschen bezeichnen, und so unter der Diversität der Worte die vollkommene Identität der Sache zu verstecken. Da die alten Sprachen eine solche Duplicität der Ausdrücke nicht kennen, sondern unbefangen die selbe Sache mit dem selben Worte bezeichnen; so ist jener elende Kunstgriff ohne Zweifel das Werk Europäischer Pfaffenschaft, die, in ihrer Profanität, nicht glaubt weit genug gehen zu können im Verleugnen und Lästern des ewigen Wesens, welches in allen Thieren lebt; wodurch sie den Grund gelegt hat zu der in Europa üblichen Härte und Grausamkeit gegen Thiere, auf welche ein Hochasiate nur mit gerechtem Abscheu hinsehen kann. In der Englischen Sprache begegnen wir jenem nichtswürdigen Kunstgriff nicht; ohne Zweifel, weil die Sachsen, als sie England eroberten, noch keine Christen waren. Dagegen findet sich ein Analogon desselben in der Eigenthümlichkeit, daß im Englischen alle Thiere generis neutrius sind und daher durch das Pronomen it (es) vertreten werden, ganz wie leblose Dinge; welches, zumal bei den Primaten, wie Hunde, Affen u. s. w., ganz empörend ausfällt und unverkennbar ein Pfaffenkniff ist, um die Thiere zu Sachen herabzusetzen. Die alten Aegypter, deren ganzes Leben religiösen Zwecken geweiht war, setzten in den selben Grüften die Mumien der Menschen und die der Ibisse, Krokodile u. s. w. bei: aber in Europa ist es ein Gräuel und Verbrechen, wenn der treue Hund neben der Ruhestätte seines Herrn begraben wird, auf welcher er bisweilen, aus einer Treue und Anhänglichkeit, wie sie beim Menschengeschlechte nicht gefunden wird, seinen eigenen Tod abgewartet hat. — Auf die Erkenntniß der Identität des Wesentlichen in der Erscheinung des Thiers und der des Menschen leitet nichts entschiedener hin, als die Beschäftigung mit Zoologie und Anatomie: was soll man daher sagen, wenn heut zu Tage (1839) ein frömmelnder Zootom einen absoluten und radikalen Unterschied zwischen Mensch und Thier zu urgiren sich erdreistet und hierin so weit geht, die redlichen Zoologen, welche, fern von aller Pfäfferei, Augendienerei und Tartüffianismus, an der Hand der Natur und Wahrheit ihren Weg verfolgen, anzugreifen und zu verunglimpfen?\n\nMan muß wahrlich an allen Sinnen blind, oder vom foetor Judaicus total chloroformirt seyn, um nicht zu erkennen, daß das Wesentliche und Hauptsächliche im Thiere und im Menschen das Selbe ist, und daß was Beide unterscheidet, nicht im Primären, im Princip, im Archäus, im innern Wesen, im Kern beider Erscheinungen liegt, als welcher in der einen wie in der andern der *Wille* des Individuums ist, sondern allein im Sekundären, im Intellekt, im Grad der Erkenntnißkraft, welcher beim Menschen, durch das hinzugekommene Vermögen *abstrakter* Erkenntniß, genannt *Vernunft*, ein ungleich höherer ist, jedoch erweislich nur vermöge einer größern cerebralen Entwickelung, also der somatischen Verschiedenheit eines einzigen Theiles, des Gehirns, und namentlich seiner Quantität nach. Hingegen ist des Gleichartigen zwischen Thier und Mensch, sowohl psychisch als somatisch, ohne allen Vergleich mehr. So einem occidentalischen, judaisirten Thierverächter und Vernunftidolater muß man in Erinnerung bringen, daß, wie Er von *seiner* Mutter, so auch der Hund von der *seinigen* gesäugt worden ist. Daß sogar *Kant* in jenen Fehler der Zeit- und Landesgenossen gefallen ist, habe ich oben gerügt. Daß die Moral des Christenthums die Thiere nicht berücksichtigt, ist ein Mangel derselben, den es besser ist einzugestehen, als zu perpetuiren, und über den man sich um so mehr wundern muß, als diese Moral im Uebrigen die größte Uebereinstimmung zeigt mit der des Brahmanismus und Buddhaismus, bloß weniger stark ausgedrückt und nicht bis zu den Extremen durchgeführt ist; daher man kaum zweifeln kann, daß sie, wie auch die Idee von einem Mensch gewordenen Gotte (Avatar), aus Indien stammt und über Aegypten nach Judäa gekommen seyn mag; so daß das Christenthum ein Abglanz Indischen Urlichtes von den Ruinen Aegyptens wäre, welcher aber leider auf Jüdischen Boden fiel. Als ein artiges *Symbol* des eben gerügten Mangels in der christlichen Moral, bei ihrer sonstigen großen Uebereinstimmung mit der Indischen, ließe sich der Umstand auffassen, daß Johannes der Täufer ganz in der Weise eines Indischen Saniassi’s auftritt, dabei aber — in Thierfelle gekleidet! welches bekanntlich jedem Hindu ein Gräuel seyn würde; da sogar die Königliche Societät zu Kalkutta ihr Exemplar der Veden nur unter dem Versprechen erhielt, daß sie es nicht, nach Europäischer Weise, in Leder binden lassen würde: daher es sich in ihrer Bibliothek in Seide gebunden vorfindet. Einen ähnlichen, charakteristischen Kontrast bietet die Evangelische Geschichte vom Fischzuge Petri, den der Heiland, durch ein Wunder, dermaaßen segnet, daß die Böte mit Fischen bis zum Sinken überfüllt werden (Luk. 5), mit der Geschichte von dem in Aegyptische Weisheit eingeweihten Pythagoras, welcher den Fischern ihren Zug, während das Netz noch unter dem Wasser liegt, abkauft, um sodann allen gefangenen Fischen ihre Freiheit zu schenken (Apul. de magia, p. 36. Bip.). — Mitleid mit Thieren hängt mit der Güte des Charakters so genau zusammen, daß man zuversichtlich behaupten darf, wer gegen Thiere grausam ist, könne kein guter Mensch seyn. Auch zeigt dieses Mitleid sich als aus der selben Quelle mit der gegen Menschen zu übenden Tugend entsprungen. So z. B. werden fein fühlende Personen, bei der Erinnerung, daß sie, in übler Laune, im Zorn, oder vom Wein erhitzt, ihren Hund, ihr Pferd, ihren Affen unverdienter oder unnöthiger Weise, oder über die Gebühr gemißhandelt haben, die selbe Reue, die selbe Unzufriedenheit mit sich selbst empfinden, welche bei der Erinnerung an gegen Menschen verübtes Unrecht empfunden wird, wo sie die Stimme des strafenden Gewissens heißt. Ich erinnere mich, gelesen zu haben, daß ein Engländer, der in Indien, auf der Jagd, einen Affen geschossen hatte, den Blick, welchen dieser im Sterben auf ihn warf, nicht vergessen gekonnt und seitdem nie mehr auf Affen geschossen hat. Eben so Wilhelm Harris, ein wahrer Nimrod, der, bloß um das Vergnügen der Jagd zu genießen, in den Jahren 1836 und 1837 tief in das innere Afrika reiste. In seiner 1838 zu Bombay erschienenen Reise erzählt er, daß, nachdem er den ersten Elephanten, welches ein weiblicher war, erlegt hatte und am folgenden Morgen das gefallene Thier aufsuchte, alle anderen Elephanten aus der Gegend entflohen waren: bloß das Junge des gefallenen hatte die Nacht bei der todten Mutter zugebracht, kam jetzt, alle Furcht vergessend, den Jägern mit den lebhaftesten und deutlichsten Bezeugungen seines trostlosen Jammers entgegen, und umschlang sie mit seinem kleinen Rüssel, um ihre Hülfe anzurufen. Da, sagt Harris, habe ihn eine wahre Reue über seine That ergriffen und sei ihm zu Muthe gewesen, als hätte er einen Mord begangen. Diese fein fühlende Englische Nation sehen wir, vor allen anderen, durch ein hervorstechendes Mitleid mit Thieren ausgezeichnet, welches sich bei jeder Gelegenheit kund giebt und die Macht gehabt hat, dieselbe, dem sie übrigens degradirenden „kalten Aberglauben“ zum Trotz, dahin zu bewegen, daß sie die in der Moral von der Religion gelassene Lücke durch die Gesetzgebung ausfüllte. Denn diese Lücke eben ist Ursache, daß man in Europa und Amerika der Thier-Schutz-Vereine bedarf, welche selbst nur mittelst Hülfe der Justiz und Polizei wirken können. In Asien gewähren die Religionen den Thieren hinlänglichen Schutz, daher dort kein Mensch an dergleichen Vereine denkt. Indessen erwacht auch in Europa mehr und mehr der Sinn für die Rechte der Thiere, in dem Maaße, als die seltsamen Begriffe von einer bloß zum Nutzen und Ergötzen der Menschen ins Daseyn gekommenen Thierwelt, in Folge welcher man die Thiere ganz als Sachen behandelt, allmälig verblassen und verschwinden. Denn diese sind die Quelle der rohen und ganz rücksichtslosen Behandlung der Thiere in Europa, und habe ich den Alttestamentlichen Ursprung derselben nachgewiesen im zweiten Bande der Parerga, §. 177. Zum Ruhme der Engländer also sei es gesagt, daß bei ihnen zuerst das Gesetz auch die Thiere ganz ernstlich gegen grausame Behandlung in Schutz genommen hat, und der Bösewicht es wirklich büßen muß, daß er gegen Thiere, selbst wenn sie ihm gehören, gefrevelt hat. Ja, hiemit noch nicht zufrieden, besteht in London eine zum Schutz der Thiere freiwillig zusammengetretene Gesellschaft, Society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, welche, auf Privatwegen, mit bedeutendem Aufwande, sehr viel thut, um der Thierquälerei entgegen zu arbeiten. Ihre Emissarien passen heimlich auf, um nachher als Denunzianten der Quäler sprachloser, empfindender Wesen aufzutreten, und überall hat man deren Gegenwart zu befürchten.[23] Bei steilen Brücken in London hält die Gesellschaft ein Gespann Pferde, welches jedem schwer beladenen Wagen unentgeltlich vorgelegt wird. Ist das nicht schön? Erzwingt es nicht unsern Beifall, so gut wie eine Wohlthat gegen Menschen? Auch die Philantropic Society zu London setzte ihrerseits im Jahre 1837 einen Preis von 30 Pfund aus, für die beste Darlegung moralischer Gründe gegen Thierquälerei, welche jedoch hauptsächlich aus dem Christenthum genommen seyn sollten, wodurch freilich die Aufgabe erschwert war: der Preis ist 1839 dem Herrn Macnamara zuerkannt worden. In Philadelphia besteht, zu ähnlichen Zwecken, eine Animals friends Society. Dem Präsidenten derselben hat T. Forster (ein Engländer) sein Buch Philozoia, moral reflections on the actual condition of animals and the means of improving the same (Brüssel 1839) dedicirt. Das Buch ist originell und gut geschrieben. Als Engländer sucht der Verfasser seine Ermahnungen zu menschlicher Behandlung der Thiere natürlich auch auf die Bibel zu stützen, gleitet jedoch\n\nin der Procession sehr genirt ausgesehen haben. — Aber ein noch strengeres Exempel aus neuerer Zeit finden wir in den Times vom 6. April 1855, S. 6, und zwar eigentlich von dieser Zeitung selbst statuirt. Sie berichtet nämlich den gerichtlich gewordenen Fall der Tochter eines sehr begüterten Schottischen Baronets, welche ihr Pferd höchst grausam, mit Knüttel und Messer, gepeinigt hatte, wofür sie zu 5 Pfund Sterling Strafe verurtheilt worden war. Daraus nun aber macht so ein Mädchen sich nichts, und würde also eigentlich ungestraft davon gehüpft seyn, wenn nicht die Times mit der rechten und empfindlichen Züchtigung nachgekommen wären, indem sie, die Vor- und Zunamen des Mädchens zwei Mal, mit großen Buchstaben hinsetzend, fortfahren: „Wir können nicht umhin, zu sagen, daß ein Paar Monat Gefängnißstrafe, nebst einigen, privatim, aber vom handfestesten Weibe in Hampshire applicirten Auspeitschungen eine viel passendere Bestrafung der Miß N. N. gewesen seyn würde. Eine Elende dieser Art hat alle ihrem Geschlechte zustehenden Rücksichten und Vorrechte verwirkt: wir können sie nicht mehr als ein Weib betrachten.“ — Ich widme diese Zeitungsnachrichten besonders den jetzt in Deutschland errichteten Vereinen gegen Thierquälerei, damit sie sehen, wie man es angreifen muß, wenn es etwas werden soll; wiewohl ich dem preiswürdigen Eifer des Herrn Hofrath Perner in München, der sich diesem Zweige der Wohlthätigkeit gänzlich gewidmet hat und die Anregung dazu über ganz Deutschland verbreitet, meine volle Anerkennung zolle. überall ab; so daß er endlich zu dem Argument greift, Jesus Christus sei ja im Stalle bei Oechselein und Eselein geboren, wodurch symbolisch angedeutet wäre, daß wir die Thiere als unsere Brüder zu betrachten und demgemäß zu behandeln hätten. — Alles hier Angeführte bezeugt, daß die in Rede stehende moralische Seite nachgerade auch in der occidentalischen Welt anzuklingen beginnt. Daß übrigens das Mitleid mit Thieren nicht so weit führen muß, daß wir, wie die Brahmanen, uns der thierischen Nahrung zu enthalten hätten, beruht darauf, daß in der Natur die Fähigkeit zum Leiden gleichen Schritt hält mit der Intelligenz; weshalb der Mensch durch Entbehrung der thierischen Nahrung, zumal im Norden, mehr leiden würde, als das Thier durch einen schnellen und stets unvorhergesehenen Tod, welchen man jedoch mittelst Chloroform noch mehr erleichtern sollte. Ohne thierische Nahrung hingegen würde das Menschengeschlecht im Norden nicht ein Mal bestehen können. Nach dem selben Maaßstabe läßt der Mensch das Thier auch für sich arbeiten, und nur das Uebermaaß der aufgelegten Anstrengung wird zur Grausamkeit.\n\n8) Sehen wir ein Mal ganz ab von aller, vielleicht möglichen, metaphysischen Erforschung des letzten Grundes jenes Mitleids, aus welchem allein die nicht-egoistischen Handlungen hervorgehen können, und betrachten wir dasselbe vom empirischen Standpunkt aus, bloß als Naturanstalt; so wird Jedem einleuchten, daß zu möglichster Linderung der zahllosen und vielgestalteten Leiden, denen unser Leben ausgesetzt ist und welchen Keiner ganz entgeht, wie zugleich als Gegengewicht des brennenden Egoismus, der alle Wesen erfüllt und oft in Bosheit übergeht, — die Natur nichts Wirksameres leisten konnte, als daß sie in das menschliche Herz jene wundersame Anlage pflanzte, vermöge welcher das Leiden des Einen vom Andern mitempfunden wird, und aus der die Stimme hervorgeht, welche, je nachdem der Anlaß ist, Diesem „Schone!“ Jenem „Hilf!“ stark und vernehmlich zuruft. Gewiß war von dem hieraus entspringenden gegenseitigen Beistande für die Wohlfahrt Aller mehr zu hoffen, als von einem allgemeinen und abstrakten, aus gewissen Vernunftbetrachtungen und Begriffskombinationen sich ergebenden, strengen Pflichtgebot, von welchem um so weniger Erfolg zu erwarten stände, als dem rohen Menschen allgemeine Sätze und abstrakte Wahrheiten ganz unverständlich sind, indem für ihn nur das Konkrete etwas ist, — die ganze Menschheit aber, mit Ausnahme eines äußerst kleinen Theils, stets roh war und bleiben muß, weil die viele, für das Ganze unumgänglich nöthige körperliche Arbeit die Ausbildung des Geistes nicht zuläßt. Hingegen zur Erweckung des als die *alleinige Quelle uneigennütziger Handlungen und deshalb als die wahre Basis der Moralität* nachgewiesenen Mitleids, bedarf es keiner abstrakten, sondern nur der anschauenden Erkenntniß, der bloßen Auffassung des konkreten Falles, auf welche dasselbe, ohne weitere Gedankenvermittlung, sogleich anspricht.\n\n9) In völliger Uebereinstimmung mit dieser letzten Betrachtung werden wir folgenden Umstand finden. Die Begründung, welche ich der Ethik gegeben habe, läßt mich zwar unter den Schulphilosophen ohne Vorgänger, ja, sie ist, in Beziehung auf die Lehrmeinungen dieser, paradox, indem Manche von ihnen, z. B. die Stoiker (Sen., De clem., II, 5), Spinoza (Eth., IV, prop. 50), Kant (Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, S. 213; — R., S. 257), das Mitleid geradezu verwerfen und tadeln. Dagegen aber hat meine Begründung die Autorität des größten Moralisten der ganzen neuern Zeit für sich: denn dies ist, ohne Zweifel, J. J. Rousseau, der tiefe Kenner des menschlichen Herzens, der seine Weisheit nicht aus Büchern, sondern aus dem Leben schöpfte, und seine Lehre nicht für das Katheder, sondern für die Menschheit bestimmte, er, der Feind der Vorurtheile, der Zögling der Natur, welchem allein sie die Gabe verliehen hatte, moralisiren zu können, ohne langweilig zu seyn, weil er die Wahrheit traf und das Herz rührte. Von ihm also will ich einige Stellen zur Bestätigung meiner Ansicht herzusetzen mir erlauben, nachdem ich im Bisherigen mit Anführungen so sparsam wie möglich gewesen bin.\n\nIm Discours sur l’origine de l’inégalité, S. 91 (edit. Bip.), sagt er: Il y a un autre principe, que Hobbes n’a point apperçu, et qui ayant été donné à l’homme pour adoucir, en certaines circonstances, la férocité de son amour-propre, tempère l’ardeur qu’il a pour son bien-être par une *répugnance innée à voir souffrir son semblable*. Je ne crois pas avoir aucune contradiction à craindre en accordant à l’homme *la seule vertu naturelle* qu’ait été forcé de reconnaitre le détracteur le plus outré des vertus humaines. Je parle *de la pitié* etc. — S. 92: Mandeville a bien senti qu’avec toute leur morale les hommes n’eussent jamais été que des monstres, si la nature ne leur eut donné *la pitié* à l’appui de la raison: mais il n’a pas vû, que *de cette seule qualité découlent toutes les vertus sociales*, qu’il veut disputer aux hommes. En effet qu’est-ce-que la générosité, la clémence, l’humanité, sinon *la pitié* appliquée aux faibles, aux coupables, ou à l’espèce humaine en général? La bienveillance et l’amitié même sont, à le bien prendre, des productions d’une pitié constante, fixée sur un objet particulier; car désirer que quelqu’un ne souffre point, qu’est-ce autre-chose, que désirer qu’il soit heureux? — — La commisération sera d’autant plus énergique, que *l’animal spectateur s’identifiera* plus intimément *avec l’animal souffrant*. — S. 94: Il est donc bien certain, que la pitié est un sentiment naturel, qui, modérant dans chaque individu l’amour de soi-même, concourt à la conservation mutuelle de toute l’espèce. C’est elle, qui dans l’état de nature, tient lieu de lois, de moeurs et de vertus, avec cet avantage, que nul ne sera tenté de désobéir à sa douce voix: c’est elle, qui détournera tout sauvage robuste d’enlever à un faible enfant, ou à un vieillard infirme sa subsistence acquise avec peine, si lui même espère pouvoir trouver la sienne ailleurs: c’est elle qui, au lieu de cette maxime sublime de justice raisonnée „fais à autrui comme tu veux qu’on te fasse“, inspire à tous les hommes cette autre maxime de bonté naturelle, bien moins parfaite, mais plus utile peut-être que la précédente „fais ton bien avec le moindre mal d’autrui qu’il est possible“. C’est, en un mot, *dans ce sentiment naturel plutôt, que dans les argumens subtils, qu’il faut chercher la cause de la répugnance qu’éprouverait tout homme à mal faire*, même indépendamment des maximes de l’éducation. — Hiemit vergleiche man, was er sagt im Emile, L. IV, p. 115—120 (ed. Bip.), wo es unter Anderm heißt: En effet, comment nous laissons nos émouvoir à la pitié, si ce n’est en nous transportant hors de nous et en nous *identifiant avec l’animal souffrant; en quittant, pour ainsi dire, notre être, pour prendre le sien*? Nous ne souffrons qu’autant que nous jugeons qu’il souffre: *ce n’est pas dans nous, c’est dans lui, que nous souffrons*. — — — offrir au jeune homme des objets, sur lesquels puisse agir la force expansive de son coeur, qui le dilatent, qui l’étendent sur les autres êtres, qui le fassent partout *se retrouver hors de lui*; écarter avec soin ceux, qui le resserrent, le concentrent, et tendent le ressort *du moi humain* etc. —\n\nVon Autoritäten abseiten der Schulen, wie gesagt, entblößt, führe ich noch an, daß die *Chinesen* fünf Kardinaltugenden (Tschang) annehmen, unter welchen das Mitleid (Sin) obenansteht. Die übrigen vier sind: Gerechtigkeit, Höflichkeit, Weisheit und Aufrichtigkeit.[24] Dem entsprechend sehen wir auch bei den Hindu, auf den zum Andenken verstorbener Fürsten errichteten Gedächtnißtafeln, unter den ihnen nachgerühmten Tugenden das Mitleid mit Menschen und Thieren die erste Stelle einnehmen. In Athen hatte das Mitleid einen Altar auf dem Forum: Ἀθηναίοις δὲ ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ ἐστι Ἐλέου βωμός, ᾧ μάλιστα Θεῶν, ἐς ἀνθρώπινον βίον καὶ μεταβολὰς πραγμάτων ὅτι ὠφέλιμος, μόνοι τιμὰς Ἑλλήνων νέμουσιν Ἀθηναῖοι. Παυσ., I, 17. (Atheniensibus in foro commiserationis ara est, quippe cui, inter omnes Deos, vitam humanam et mutationem rerum maxime adjuvanti, soli inter Graecos, honores tribuunt Athenienses.) Diesen Altar erwähnt auch Lukianos im Timon, §. 99. — Ein von Stobäos uns aufbehaltener Ausspruch des Phokion stellt das Mitleid als das Allerheiligste im Menschen dar: οὔτε ἐξ ἱεροῦ βωμὸν, οὔτε ἐκ τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης φύσεως ἀφαιρετέον τὸν ἔλεον (nec aram e fano, nec commiserationem e vita humana tollendam esse). In der Sapientia Indorum, welches die Griechische Uebersetzung des Pantscha Tantra ist, heißt es (Sect. 3, p. 220): Λέγεται γὰρ, ὡς πρώτη τῶν ἀρετῶν ἡ ἐλεημοσύνη (princeps virtutum misericordia censetur). Man sieht, daß alle Zeiten und alle Länder sehr wohl die Quelle der Moralität erkannt haben; nur Europa nicht; woran allein der foetor Judaicus Schuld ist, der hier Alles und Alles durchzieht: da muß es dann schlechterdings ein Pflichtgebot, ein Sittengesetz, ein Imperativ, kurzum, eine Ordre und Kommando seyn, dem parirt wird: davon gehen sie nicht ab, und wollen nicht einsehen, daß Dergleichen immer nur den Egoismus zur Grundlage hat. Bei Einzelnen freilich und Ueberlegenen hat die gefühlte Wahrheit sich kund gegeben: so bei Rousseau, wie oben angeführt; und auch Lessing, in einem Briefe von 1756, sagt: „Der mitleidigste Mensch ist der beste Mensch, zu allen gesellschaftlichen Tugenden, zu allen Arten der Großmuth der aufgelegteste.“\n\n22. Noch jetzt wird, nach Buxton, The African slavetrade, 1839, ihre Zahl jährlich durch ungefähr 150000 frische Afrikaner, vermehrt, bei deren Einfangung und Reise über 200000 andere jämmerlich umkommen.\n\n23. Wie ernstlich die Sache genommen wird, zeigt das folgende ganz frische Beispiel, welches ich aus dem Birmingham-Journal vom December 1839 übersetze: „Gefangennehmung einer Gesellschaft von 84 Hundehetzern. — Da man erfahren hatte, daß gestern auf dem Plan in der Fuchsstraße zu Birmingham eine Hundehetze Statt finden sollte, ergriff die Gesellschaft der Thierfreunde Vorsichtsmaaßregeln, um sich der Hülfe der Polizei zu versichern, von welcher ein starkes Detachement nach dem Kampfplatze marschirte und, sobald es eingelassen worden, die gesammte gegenwärtige Gesellschaft arretirte. Diese Theilnehmer wurden nunmehr paarweise mit Handschlingen aneinandergebunden und dann das Ganze durch ein langes Seil in der Mitte vereinigt: so wurden sie nach dem Polizeiamt geführt, woselbst der Bürgermeister mit dem Magistrat Sitzung hielt. Die beiden Hauptpersonen wurden jede zu einer Strafe von 1 Pfund Sterling nebst 8½ Schilling Kosten und im Nichtzahlungsfall zu 14 Tage schwerer Arbeit im Zuchthause verurtheilt. Die übrigen wurden entlassen.“ — Die Stutzer, welche bei solchen noblen Pläsirs nie zu fehlen pflegen, werden\n\n24. Journ. Asiatique, Vol. 9, p. 62, zu vergleichen mit Meng-Tseu, ed. Stan. Julien, 1824, L. I, §. 45; auch mit Meng-Tseu in den Livres sacrés de l’Orient par Pauthier, p. 281.\n\n### Section 20\n\nVom ethischen Unterschiede der Charaktere.\n\nDie letzte Frage, deren Beantwortung zur Vollständigkeit des dargelegten Fundaments der Ethik gehört, ist diese: Worauf beruht der so große Unterschied im moralischen Verhalten der Menschen? Wenn Mitleid die Grundtriebfeder aller ächten, d. h. uneigennützigen Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe ist; warum wird der Eine, der Andere aber nicht dadurch bewogen? — Vermag vielleicht die Ethik, indem sie die moralische Triebfeder aufdeckt, auch sie in Thätigkeit zu versetzen? Kann sie den hartherzigen Menschen in einen mitleidigen und dadurch in einen gerechten und menschenfreundlichen umschaffen? — Gewiß nicht: der Unterschied der Charaktere ist angeboren und unvertilgbar. Dem Boshaften ist seine Bosheit so angeboren, wie der Schlange ihre Giftzähne und Giftblase; und so wenig wie sie kann er es ändern. Velle non discitur, hat der Erzieher des Nero gesagt. *Plato* untersucht im Meno ausführlich, ob die Tugend sich lehren lasse, oder nicht: er führt eine Stelle des Theognis an:\n\nἀλλὰ διδάσκων\nΟὔποτε ποιήσεις τὸν κακὸν ἄνδρ’ ἀγαθόν.\n\n(sed docendo nunquam ex malo bonum hominem facies)\n\nund gelangt zu dem Resultate: ἀρετὴ ἂν εἴη οὔτε φύσει, οὔτε διδακτόν· ἀλλὰ θείᾳ μοίρᾳ παραγιγνομένη, ἄνευ νοῦ, οἷς ἂν παραγίγνηται (virtus utique nec doctrina, neque natura nobis aderit; verum divina sorte, absque mente, in eum, qui illam sortitus fuerit, influet); wobei mir der Unterschied zwischen φύσει und θείᾳ μοίρᾳ ungefähr den zwischen Physisch und Metaphysisch zu bezeichnen scheint. Schon der Vater der Ethik, *Sokrates*, hat, nach Angabe des *Aristoteles*, behauptet: οὐκ ἐφ’ ἡμῖν γενέσθαι τὸ σπουδαίους εἶναι, ἢ φαύλους (in nostra potestate non est, bonos, aut malos esse). (Eth. magna, I, 9.) Aristoteles selbst äußert sich in gleichem Sinn: πᾶσι γὰρ δοκεῖ ἕκαστα τῶν ἠθῶν ὑπάρχειν φύσει πως· καὶ γὰρ δίκαιοι, καὶ σωφρονικοὶ, καὶ τ’ ἄλλα ἔχομεν εὐθὺς ἐκ γενετῆς (singuli enim mores in omnibus hominibus quodammodo videntur inesse natura: namque ad justitiam, temperantiam, fortitudinem, ceterasque virtutes apti atque habiles sumus, cum primum nascimur). (Eth. Nicom., VI, 13.) Desgleichen finden wir diese Ueberzeugung sehr entschieden ausgesprochen in den jedenfalls sehr alten, wenn auch vielleicht nicht ächten Fragmenten des Pythagoreers Archytas, welche uns Stobäos aufbehalten hat im Florilegio, Tit. I, §. 77. Sie sind auch abgedruckt in den Opusculis Graecorum sententiosis et moralibus, edente Orellio, Vol. 2, p. 240. Daselbst also heißt es, im Dorischen Dialekt: Τὰς γὰρ λόγοις καὶ ἀποδείξεσιν ποτιχρωμένας ἀρετὰς δέον ἐπιστάμας ποταγορεύεν, ἀρετὰν δέ, τὰν ἠθικὰν καὶ βελτίσταν ἕξιν τῶ ἀλόγω μέρεος τᾶς ψυχᾶς, καθ’ ἃν καὶ ποιοί τινες ἦμεν λεγόμεθα κατὰ τὸ ἦθος, οἷον ἐλευθέριοι, δίκαιοι καὶ σώφρονες. (Eas enim, quae ratione et demonstratione utuntur, virtutes fas est, scientias appellare; virtutis autem nomine intelligemus moralem et optimum *animi partis ratione carentis habitum*, secundum quem qualitatem aliquam moralem habere dicimur, vocamurque v. c. liberales, justi et temperantes.) Wenn man die sämmtlichen Tugenden und Laster, welche *Aristoteles* im Buche de virtutibus et vitiis zu kurzer Uebersicht zusammengestellt hat, überblickt; so wird man finden, daß sie alle sich nur denken lassen als angeborene Eigenschaften, ja, nur als solche ächt seyn können; hingegen wenn sie, in Folge vernünftiger Ueberlegung, willkührlich angenommen wären, eigentlich auf Verstellung hinauslaufen und unächt seyn würden: daher alsdann auf ihren Fortbestand und Bewährung im Drange der Umstände durchaus nicht zu rechnen wäre. Nicht anders verhält es sich auch mit der Tugend der Menschenliebe, die bei Aristoteles, wie bei allen Alten, fehlt. In gleichem Sinne daher, wenn auch seinen skeptischen Ton beibehaltend, sagt *Montaigne*: Seroit-il vrai, que pour être bon tout-à-fait, il nous le faille être par occulte, naturelle et universelle propriété, sans loi, sans raison, sans exemple? (L. II, c. 11.) *Lichtenberg* aber sagt geradezu: „Alle Tugend aus Vorsatz taugt nicht viel. Gefühl, oder Gewohnheit ist das Ding.“ (Vermischte Schriften, „Moralische Bemerkungen“.) Aber sogar die ursprüngliche Lehre des Christenthums stimmt dieser Ansicht bei, indem es, in der Bergpredigt selbst, bei Lukas, Kap. 6, V. 45, heißt: ὁ ἀγαθὸς ἄνθρωπος ἐκ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ θησαυροῦ τῆς καρδίας αὐτοῦ προφέρει τὸ ἀγαθὸν, καὶ ὁ πονηρὸς ἄνθρωπος ἐκ τοῦ πονηροῦ θησαυροῦ τῆς καρδίας αὐτοῦ προφέρει τὸ πονηρόν (homo bonus ex bono animi sui thesauro profert bonum, malusque ex malo animi sui thesauro profert malum), nachdem, in den beiden vorhergehenden Versen, die bildliche Erläuterung der Sache, durch die Frucht, welche stets dem Baum gemäß ausfällt, vorangeschickt war.\n\n*Kant* aber ist es, der zuerst diesen wichtigen Punkt vollkommen aufgeklärt hat, durch seine große Lehre, daß dem *empirischen Charakter*, der, als eine Erscheinung, sich in der Zeit und in einer Vielheit von Handlungen darstellt, der *intelligibele Charakter* zum Grunde liegt, welcher die Beschaffenheit des Dinges an sich jener Erscheinung und daher von Raum und Zeit, Vielheit und Veränderung, unabhängig ist. Hieraus allein wird die jedem Erfahrenen bekannte, so erstaunliche, starre Unveränderlichkeit der Charaktere erklärlich, welche die Wirklichkeit und Erfahrung den Versprechungen einer den Menschen moralisch bessern wollenden und von Fortschritten in der Tugend redenden Ethik allezeit siegreich entgegengehalten und dadurch bewiesen hat, daß die Tugend angeboren und nicht angepredigt wird. Wenn nicht der Charakter, als Ursprüngliches, unveränderlich und daher aller Besserung, mittelst Berichtigung der Erkenntniß, unzugänglich wäre; wenn vielmehr, wie jene platte Ethik es behauptet, eine Besserung des Charakters mittelst der Moral und demnach „ein stetiger Fortschritt zum Guten“ möglich wäre; — so müßte, sollen nicht alle die vielen religiösen Anstalten und moralisirenden Bemühungen ihren Zweck verfehlt haben, wenigstens im Durchschnitt, die ältere Hälfte der Menschen bedeutend besser als die jüngere seyn. Davon ist aber so wenig eine Spur, daß wir umgekehrt eher von jungen Leuten etwas Gutes hoffen, als von alten, als welche durch die Erfahrung schlimmer geworden sind. Es kann zwar kommen, daß ein Mensch im Alter etwas besser, ein anderer wiederum schlechter erscheint, als er in der Jugend war: Dies liegt aber bloß daran, daß im Alter, in Folge der reifern und vielfach berichtigten Erkenntniß, der Charakter reiner und deutlicher hervortritt; während in der Jugend Unwissenheit, Irrthümer und Chimären bald falsche Motive vorschoben, bald wirkliche verdeckten; — wie dies folgt aus dem in der vorhergehenden Abhandlung S. 50 ff. unter 3 Gesagten. — Daß unter den bestraften Verbrechern sich viel mehr junge als alte befinden, kommt daher, daß, wo Anlage zu dergleichen Thaten im Charakter liegt, sie auch bald den Anlaß findet, als That hervorzutreten, und ihr Ziel, Galeere oder Galgen, erreicht: und umgekehrt, wen die Anlässe eines langen Lebens nicht zu Verbrechen haben bewegen können, der wird auch späterhin nicht leicht auf Motive dazu stoßen. Daher scheint mir der wahre Grund der dem Alter gezollten Achtung darin zu liegen, daß ein Alter die Prüfung eines langen Lebens bestanden und seine Unbescholtenheit bewahrt hat: denn dies ist die Bedingung jener Achtung. — Dieser Ansicht gemäß hat man, im wirklichen Leben, sich durch jene Verheißungen der Moralisten auch niemals irre machen lassen; sondern hat Dem, der ein Mal sich schlecht erwiesen, nie mehr getraut, und auf den Edelmuth Dessen, der ein Mal Proben davon abgelegt, nach Allem, was sich auch verändert haben mochte, stets mit Zuversicht hingeblickt. Operari sequitur Esse, ist ein fruchtbarer Satz der Scholastik: jedes Ding in der Welt wirkt nach seiner unveränderlichen Beschaffenheit, die sein Wesen, seine Essentia ausmacht; so auch der Mensch. Wie Einer ist, so wird, so muß er handeln, und das liberum arbitrium indifferentiae ist eine längst explodirte Erfindung aus der Kindheit der Philosophie, mit welcher immerhin sich einige alte Weiber im Doktorhute noch schleppen mögen.\n\nDie drei ethischen Grundtriebfedern des Menschen, Egoismus, Bosheit, Mitleid, sind in Jedem in einem andern und unglaublich verschiedenen Verhältnisse vorhanden. Je nachdem dieses ist, werden die Motive auf ihn wirken und die Handlungen ausfallen. Ueber einen egoistischen Charakter werden nur egoistische Motive Gewalt haben, und die zum Mitleid, wie die zur Bosheit redenden werden nicht dagegen aufkommen: er wird so wenig sein Interesse opfern, um an seinem Feinde Rache zu nehmen, als um seinem Freunde zu helfen. Ein Anderer, der für boshafte Motive stark empfänglich ist, wird oft, um Andern zu schaden, großen eigenen Nachtheil nicht scheuen. Denn es giebt Charaktere, die im Verursachen des fremden Leidens einen Genuß finden, der das eigene eben so große überwiegt: dum alteri noceat sui negligens (Sen., De ira, I, 1). Diese gehen mit leidenschaftlicher Wonne in den Kampf, in welchem sie eben so große Verletzungen zu empfangen, als auszutheilen erwarten: ja, sie werden, mit Vorbedacht, Den, der ihnen ein Uebel verursacht hat, morden und gleich darauf, um der Strafe zu entgehen, sich selbst; wie dies die Erfahrung sehr oft gezeigt hat. Hingegen besteht die *Güte des Herzens* in einem tief gefühlten, universellen Mitleid mit Allem was Leben hat, zunächst aber mit dem Menschen; weil mit der Steigerung der Intelligenz die Empfänglichkeit für das Leiden gleichen Schritt hält: daher die unzähligen, geistigen und körperlichen Leiden des Menschen das Mitleid viel stärker in Anspruch nehmen, als der allein körperliche und selbst da dumpfere Schmerz des Thieres. Die Güte des Charakters wird demnach zunächst abhalten von jeder Verletzung des Andern, worin es auch sei, sodann aber auch zur Hülfe auffordern, wo immer ein fremdes Leiden sich darbietet. Und auch hiemit kann es eben so weit gehen, wie in umgekehrter Richtung mit der Bosheit, nämlich bis dahin, daß Charaktere von seltener Güte sich fremdes Leiden mehr zu Herzen nehmen, als eigenes, und daher für Andere Opfer bringen, durch welche sie selbst mehr leiden, als vorhin Der, dem sie geholfen. Wo Mehreren oder gar Vielen zugleich dadurch zu helfen ist, werden sie erforderlichenfalls sich ganz aufopfern: so Arnold von Winkelried. Vom *Paulinus*, Bischofe zu Nola, im 5. Jahrhundert, während des Einfalls der Vandalen aus Afrika in Italien, erzählt Joh. v. Müller (Weltgeschichte, Buch 10, Kap. 10): „Nachdem er, zum Lösegeld für Gefangene, alle Schätze der Kirche, sein und seiner Freunde eigenes Vermögen dargebracht, und er den Jammer einer Wittwe sah, deren einziger Sohn fortgeführt wurde, bot er für diesen sich selber zur Dienstbarkeit. Denn wer von gutem Alter war und nicht vom Schwerdte fiel, wurde gefangen nach Karthago geführt.“\n\nDieser unglaublich großen, angeborenen und ursprünglichen Verschiedenheit gemäß, werden Jeden nur die Motive vorwaltend anregen, für welche er überwiegende Empfänglichkeit hat; so wie der *eine* Körper nur auf Säuren, der andere nur auf Alkalien reagirt: und wie Dieses, so ist auch Jenes nicht zu ändern. Die menschenfreundlichen Motive, welche für den guten Charakter so mächtige Antriebe sind, vermögen als solche nichts über Den, der allein für egoistische Motive empfänglich ist. Will man nun diesen dennoch zu menschenfreundlichen Handlungen bringen; so kann es nur geschehen durch die Vorspiegelung, daß die Milderung der fremden Leiden mittelbar, auf irgend einem Wege, zu *seinem eigenen Vortheil* gereicht (wie denn auch die meisten Sittenlehren eigentlich verschiedenartige Versuche in diesem Sinne sind). Dadurch wird aber sein Wille bloß irre geleitet, nicht gebessert. Zu wirklicher Besserung wäre erfordert, daß man die ganze Art seiner Empfänglichkeit für Motive umwandelte, also z. B. machte, daß dem Einen fremdes Leiden als solches nicht mehr gleichgültig, dem Andern die Verursachung desselben nicht mehr Genuß wäre, oder einem Dritten nicht jede, selbst die geringste Vermehrung des eigenen Wohlseyns alle Motive anderer Art weit überwöge und unwirksam machte. Dies aber ist viel gewisser unmöglich, als daß man Blei in Gold umwandeln könnte. Denn es würde erfordern, daß man dem Menschen gleichsam das Herz im Leibe umkehrte, sein tief Innerstes umschüfe. Hingegen ist Alles, was man zu thun vermag, daß man den *Kopf* aufhellt, die *Einsicht* berichtigt, den Menschen zu einer richtigern Auffassung des objektiv Vorhandenen, der wahren Verhältnisse des Lebens bringt. Hiedurch aber wird nichts weiter erreicht, als daß die Beschaffenheit seines Willens sich konsequenter, deutlicher und entschiedener an den Tag legt, sich unverfälscht ausspricht. Denn, wie manche gute Handlungen im Grunde auf falschen Motiven, auf wohlgemeinten Vorspiegelungen eines dadurch in dieser, oder jener Welt zu erlangenden eigenen Vortheils beruhen; so beruhen auch manche Missethaten bloß auf falscher Erkenntniß der menschlichen Lebensverhältnisse. Hierauf gründet sich das Amerikanische Pönitentiarsystem: es beabsichtigt nicht, das *Herz* des Verbrechers zu bessern, sondern bloß, ihm den *Kopf* zurechtzusetzen, damit er zu der Einsicht gelange, daß Arbeit und Ehrlichkeit ein sichererer, ja leichterer Weg zum eigenen Wohle sind, als Spitzbüberei.\n\nDurch Motive läßt sich *Legalität* erzwingen, nicht *Moralität*: man kann das *Handeln* umgestalten, nicht aber das eigentliche *Wollen*, welchem allein moralischer Werth zusteht. Man kann nicht das Ziel verändern, dem der Wille zustrebt, sondern nur den Weg, den er dahin einschlägt. Belehrung kann die Wahl der Mittel ändern, nicht aber die der letzten allgemeinen Zwecke: diese setzt jeder Wille sich, seiner ursprünglichen Natur gemäß. Man kann dem Egoisten zeigen, daß er durch Aufgeben kleiner Vortheile größere erlangen wird; dem Boshaften, daß die Verursachung fremder Leiden größere auf ihn selbst bringen wird. Aber den Egoismus selbst, die Bosheit selbst wird man Keinem ausreden; so wenig, wie der Katze ihre Neigung zum Mausen. Sogar auch die Güte des Charakters kann, durch Vermehrung der Einsicht, durch Belehrung über die Verhältnisse des Lebens, also durch Aufhellung des Kopfes, zu einer folgerechtern und vollkommenern Aeußerung ihres Wesens gebracht werden, z. B. mittelst Nachweisung der entfernteren Folgen, welche unser Thun für Andere hat, wie etwan der Leiden, welche ihnen, mittelbar und erst im Laufe der Zeit, aus dieser oder jener Handlung, die wir für so schlimm nicht hielten, erwachsen; desgleichen durch Belehrung über die nachtheiligen Folgen mancher gutherzigen Handlung, z. B. der Verschonung eines Verbrechers; besonders auch über den Vorrang, welcher dem Neminem laede durchgängig vor dem Omnes juva zusteht u. s. f. In dieser Hinsicht giebt es allerdings eine moralische Bildung und eine bessernde Ethik: aber darüber hinaus geht sie nicht, und die Schranke ist leicht abzusehen. Der Kopf wird aufgehellt; das Herz bleibt ungebessert. Das Grundwesentliche, das Entschiedene, im Moralischen, wie im Intellektuellen und wie im Physischen, ist *das Angeborene*: die Kunst kann überall nur nachhelfen. Jeder ist, was er ist, gleichsam „von Gottes Gnaden“, jure divino, θείᾳ μοίρᾳ.\n\n„Du bist am Ende — *was du bist*.\nSetz’ dir Perrücken auf von Millionen Locken,\nSetz’ deinen Fuß auf ellenhohe Socken:\n*Du bleibst doch immer was du bist*.“\n\nAber schon lange höre ich den Leser die Frage aufwerfen: wo bleibt Schuld und Verdienst? — Zur Antwort hierauf verweise ich auf §. 10. Daselbst hat, was sonst hier vorzutragen wäre, schon seine Stelle gefunden, weil es in enger Verbindung mit *Kants* Lehre vom Zusammenbestehen der Freiheit mit der Nothwendigkeit steht. Das dort Gesagte also bitte ich hier nochmals zu lesen. In Gemäßheit desselben ist das Operari, beim Eintritt der Motive, durchweg nothwendig: daher kann die *Freiheit*, welche sich allein durch die *Verantwortlichkeit* ankündigt, nur im Esse liegen. Die Vorwürfe des Gewissens betreffen zwar zunächst und ostensibel Das, *was wir gethan haben*, eigentlich und im Grunde aber Das, was wir *sind*, als worüber unsere Thaten allein vollgültiges Zeugniß ablegen, indem sie zu unserm Charakter sich verhalten wie die Symptome zur Krankheit. In diesem Esse also, in dem was wir *sind*, muß auch Schuld und Verdienst liegen. Was wir an Andern entweder hochachten und lieben, oder verachten und hassen, ist nicht ein Wandelbares und Veränderliches, sondern ein Bleibendes, ein für alle Mal Bestehendes: das was sie *sind*: und kommen wir etwan von ihnen zurück; so sagen wir nicht, daß sie sich geändert, sondern daß wir uns in ihnen geirrt haben. Eben so ist der Gegenstand unserer Zufriedenheit und Unzufriedenheit mit uns selbst Das, *was wir sind*, unwiderruflich sind und bleiben: dies erstreckt sich sogar auf die intellektuellen, ja auf die physiognomischen Eigenschaften. Wie sollte also nicht in Dem, *was wir sind*, Schuld und Verdienst liegen? — Die immer vollständiger werdende Bekanntschaft mit uns selbst, das immer mehr sich füllende *Protokoll der Thaten*, ist das *Gewissen*. Das Thema des Gewissens sind zunächst unsere Handlungen, und zwar sind es diejenigen, in welchen wir dem Mitleid, das uns aufforderte, Andere wenigstens nicht zu verletzen, ja sogar ihnen Hülfe und Beistand zu leisten, entweder kein Gehör gegeben haben, weil Egoismus, oder gar Bosheit uns leitete; oder aber, mit Verleugnung dieser beiden, jenem Rufe gefolgt sind. Beide Fälle zeigen die Größe des *Unterschiedes* an, den wir *zwischen uns und Andern* machen. Auf *diesem Unterschiede* beruhen zuletzt die Grade der Moralität, oder Immoralität, d. h. der Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe, wie auch ihres Gegentheils. Die immer reicher werdende Erinnerung der in dieser Hinsicht bedeutsamen Handlungen vollendet mehr und mehr das Bild unsers Charakters, die wahre Bekanntschaft mit uns selbst. Aus dieser aber erwächst Zufriedenheit, oder Unzufriedenheit mit uns, mit dem, *was wir sind*, je nachdem Egoismus, Bosheit, oder Mitleid vorgewaltet haben, d. h. je nachdem der Unterschied, den wir zwischen unserer Person und dem übrigen gemacht haben, größer, oder kleiner gewesen ist. Nach dem selben Maaßstabe beurtheilen wir ebenfalls die Andern, deren Charakter wir eben so empirisch, wie den eigenen, nur unvollkommener, kennen lernen: hier tritt als Lob, Beifall, Hochachtung, oder Tadel, Unwille und Verachtung auf, was bei der Selbstbeurtheilung sich als Zufriedenheit, oder Unzufriedenheit, die bis zur Gewissensangst gehen kann, kund gab. Daß auch die Vorwürfe, welche wir Andern machen, nur *zunächst* auf die Thaten, *eigentlich* aber auf den unveränderlichen Charakter derselben gerichtet sind, und Tugend oder Laster als inhärirende, bleibende Eigenschaften angesehen werden, bezeugen manche sehr häufig vorkommende Redensarten, z. B. „Jetzt sehe ich, wie du bist!“ — „In dir habe ich mich geirrt.“ — Now I see what You are! — Voilà donc, comme tu es! — „So bin ich nicht!“ — „Ich bin nicht der Mann, der fähig wäre, Sie zu hintergehen“ u. dgl. m.; ferner auch: les ames bien nées; auch im Spanischen, bien nacido; εὐγενής, εὐγένεια, für tugendhaft, Tugend; generosioris animi amicus, u. s. w.\n\nDurch Vernunft ist das Gewissen bloß deshalb bedingt, weil nur vermöge ihrer eine deutliche und zusammenhängende Rückerinnerung möglich ist. Es liegt in der Natur der Sache, daß das Gewissen erst *hinterher* spricht; weshalb es auch das *richtende* Gewissen heißt. *Vorher* sprechen kann es nur im uneigentlichen Sinn, nämlich indirekt, indem die Reflexion aus der Erinnerung ähnlicher Fälle auf die künftige Mißbilligung einer erst projektirten That schließt. — So weit geht die ethische Thatsache des Bewußtseyns: sie selbst bleibt als metaphysisches Problem stehen, welches nicht unmittelbar zu unserer Aufgabe gehört, jedoch im letzten Abschnitt berührt werden wird. — Zu der Erkenntniß, daß das Gewissen nur die mittelst der Thaten entstehende Bekanntschaft mit dem eigenen unveränderlichen Charakter ist, stimmt es vollkommen, daß die in den verschiedenen Menschen so höchst verschiedene *Empfänglichkeit* für die Motive des Eigennutzes, der Bosheit und des Mitleids, worauf der ganze moralische Werth des Menschen beruht, nicht etwas aus einem Andern Erklärliches, noch durch Belehrung zu Erlangendes und daher in der Zeit Entstehendes und Veränderliches, ja, vom Zufall Abhängiges, sondern angeboren, unveränderlich und nicht weiter erklärlich ist. Demgemäß ist der Lebenslauf selbst, mit allem seinem vielgestalteten Treiben, nichts weiter, als das äußere Zifferblatt jenes innern, ursprünglichen Getriebes, oder der Spiegel, in welchem allein dem Intellekt eines Jeden die Beschaffenheit seines eigenen Willens, der sein Kern ist, offenbar werden kann.\n\nWer sich die Mühe giebt, das hier und im erwähnten §. 10 Gesagte recht zu durchdenken, wird in meiner Begründung der Ethik eine Konsequenz und abgerundete Ganzheit entdecken, welche allen andern abgeht, und andererseits eine Uebereinstimmung mit den Thatsachen der Erfahrung, welche jene noch weniger haben. Denn nur die Wahrheit kann durchgängig mit sich und mit der Natur übereinstimmen: hingegen streiten alle falsche Grundansichten innerlich mit sich selbst und nach Außen mit der Erfahrung, welche bei jedem Schritte ihren stillen Protest einlegt.\n\nDaß jedoch besonders die hier am Schlusse dargelegten Wahrheiten vielen festgewurzelten Vorurtheilen und Irrthümern, namentlich einer gewissen gangbaren Kinderschulen-Moral geradezu vor den Kopf stoßen, ist mir gar wohl, jedoch ohne Reue und Bedauern, bewußt. Denn erstlich spreche ich hier nicht zu Kindern, noch zum Volke, sondern zu einer erleuchteten Akademie, deren rein theoretische Frage auf die letzten Grundwahrheiten der Ethik gerichtet ist, und die auf eine höchst ernsthafte Frage auch eine ernste Antwort erwartet: und zweitens halte ich dafür, daß es weder privilegirte, noch nützliche, noch selbst unschädliche Irrthümer geben kann, sondern jeder Irrthum unendlich mehr Schaden als Nutzen stiftet. — Wollte man hingegen bestehende Vorurtheile zum Maaßstabe der Wahrheit, oder zum Gränzstein machen, den ihre Darlegung nicht überschreiten darf, so würde es redlicher seyn, philosophische Fakultäten und Akademien ganz eingehen zu lassen: denn was nicht ist, soll auch nicht scheinen.\n\n### Section 21\n\nIV.\n\nZur metaphysischen Auslegung des ethischen Urphänomens.\n\nVerständigung über diese Zugabe.\n\nIm Bisherigen habe ich die moralische Triebfeder als Thatsache nachgewiesen, und habe gezeigt, daß aus ihr allein uneigennützige Gerechtigkeit und ächte Menschenliebe hervorgehen können, auf welchen zwei Kardinaltugenden alle übrigen beruhen. Zur Begründung der Ethik ist dies hinreichend, sofern diese nothwendig auf irgend etwas thatsächlich und nachweisbar Vorhandenes, sei es nun in der Außenwelt oder im Bewußtseyn gegeben, gestützt werden muß; wenn man nicht etwan, wie manche meiner Vorgänger, bloß einen abstrakten Satz beliebig annehmen und aus ihm die ethischen Vorschriften ableiten, oder, wie *Kant*, mit einem bloßen Begriff, dem des *Gesetzes*, eben so verfahren will. Der von der Königlichen Societät gestellten Aufgabe scheint mir hiedurch genügt zu seyn, da solche auf das Fundament der Ethik gerichtet ist und nicht noch eine Metaphysik dazu verlangt, um wieder jenes zu begründen. Inzwischen sehe ich sehr wohl, daß der menschliche Geist hiebei die letzte Befriedigung und Beruhigung noch nicht findet. Wie am Ende jeder Forschung und jeder Realwissenschaft, so steht er auch hier vor einem Urphänomen, welches zwar Alles unter ihm Begriffene und aus ihm Folgende erklärt, selbst aber unerklärt bleibt und als ein Räthsel vorliegt. Auch hier also stellt sich die Forderung einer *Metaphysik* ein, d. h. einer letzten Erklärung der Urphänomene als solcher und, wenn in ihrer Gesammtheit genommen, der Welt. Diese Forderung erhebt auch hier die Frage, warum das Vorhandene und Verstandene sich so und nicht anders verhalte, und wie aus dem Wesen an sich der Dinge der dargelegte Charakter der Erscheinung hervorgehe. Ja, bei der Ethik ist das Bedürfniß einer metaphysischen Grundlage um so dringender, als die philosophischen, wie die religiösen Systeme darüber einig sind, daß die ethische Bedeutsamkeit der Handlungen zugleich eine metaphysische, d. h. über die bloße Erscheinung der Dinge und somit auch über alle Möglichkeit der Erfahrung hinausreichende, demnach mit dem ganzen Daseyn der Welt und dem Loose des Menschen in engster Beziehung stehende seyn müsse; indem die letzte Spitze, in welche die Bedeutung des Daseyns überhaupt auslaufe, zuverlässig das Ethische sei. Dies Letztere bewährt sich auch durch die unleugbare Thatsache, daß, bei Annäherung des Todes, der Gedankengang eines jeden Menschen, gleichviel ob dieser religiösen Dogmen angehangen habe oder nicht, eine *moralische* Richtung nimmt und er die Rechnung über seinen vollbrachten Lebenslauf durchaus in *moralischer* Rücksicht abzuschließen bemüht ist. Hierüber sind besonders die Zeugnisse der Alten von Gewicht; weil sie nicht unter Christlichem Einfluß stehen. Ich führe demnach an, daß wir diese Thatsache bereits ausgesprochen finden in einer, dem uralten Gesetzgeber Zaleukos zugeschriebenen, nach Bentley und Heyne jedoch von einem Pythagoreer herrührenden Stelle, welche Stobäos (Floril., Tit. 44, §. 20) uns aufbehalten hat: Δεῖ τίθεσθαι πρὸ ὀμμάτων τὸν καιρὸν τοῦτον, ἐν ᾧ γίνεται τὸ τέλος ἑκάστῳ τῆς ἀπαλλαγῆς τοῦ ζῆν. Πᾶσι γὰρ ἐμπίπτει μεταμέλεια τοῖς μέλλουσι τελευτᾶν, μεμνημένοις ὧν ἠδικήκασι, καὶ ὁρμὴ τοῦ βούλεσθαι πάντα πεπρᾶχθαι δικαίως αὐτοῖς. (Oportet ante oculos sibi ponere punctum temporis illud, quo unicuique e vita excedendum est: omnes enim moribundos poenitentia corripit, e memoria eorum, quae injuste egerint, ac vehementer optant, omnia sibi juste peracta fuisse.) Ingleichen sehen wir, um an ein historisches Beispiel zu erinnern, den Perikles, auf dem Sterbebette, von allen seinen Großthaten nichts hören wollen, sondern nur davon, daß er nie einen Bürger in Trauer versetzt hatte (Plut. in Pericl.). Um nun aber einen sehr heterogenen Fall daneben zu stellen, so ist mir aus dem Berichte der Aussagen vor einer Englischen Jury erinnerlich, daß ein roher, fünfzehnjähriger Negerjunge, auf einem Schiffe, im Begriff an einer so eben in einer Schlägerei erhaltenen Verletzung zu sterben, eilig alle Kameraden herbeiholen ließ, um sie zu fragen, ob er jemals einen von ihnen gekränkt oder beleidigt hätte, und bei der Verneinung große Beruhigung fand. Durchgängig lehrt die Erfahrung, daß Sterbende sich vor dem Scheiden mit Jedem zu versöhnen wünschen. Einen anderartigen Beleg zu unserm Satze giebt die bekannte Erfahrung, daß, während für intellektuelle Leistungen, und wären sie die ersten Meisterstücke der Welt, der Urheber sehr gern einen Lohn annimmt, wenn er ihn nur erhalten kann, fast Jeder, der etwas moralisch Ausgezeichnetes geleistet hat, allen Lohn dafür abweist. Dies ist besonders der Fall bei moralischen Großthaten, wann z. B. Einer das Leben eines Andern, oder gar Vieler, mit Gefährdung seines eigenen, gerettet hat; als wo er, in der Regel, selbst wenn er arm ist, schlechterdings keinen Lohn annimmt; weil er fühlt, daß der metaphysische Werth seiner Handlung darunter leiden würde. Eine poetische Darstellung dieses Herganges liefert uns *Bürger* am Schlusse des Liedes vom braven Mann. Aber auch in der Wirklichkeit fällt es meistens so aus, und ist mir in Englischen Zeitungen mehrmals vorgekommen. — Diese Thatsachen sind allgemein und treten ohne Unterschied der Religion ein. Wegen dieser unleugbaren ethisch-metaphysischen Tendenz des Lebens könnte auch, ohne eine in diesem Sinn gegebene Auslegung desselben, keine Religion in der Welt Fuß fassen: denn mittelst ihrer ethischen Seite hat jede ihren Anhaltspunkt in den Gemüthern. Jede Religion legt ihr Dogma der jedem Menschen fühlbaren, aber deshalb noch nicht verständlichen, moralischen Triebfeder zum Grunde und verknüpft es so eng mit derselben, daß beide als unzertrennlich erscheinen: ja, die Priester sind bemüht, Unglauben und Immoralität für Eins und Dasselbe auszugeben. Hierauf beruht es, daß dem Gläubigen der Ungläubige für identisch mit dem moralisch Schlechten gilt, wie wir schon daran sehen, daß Ausdrücke, wie Gottlos, Atheistisch, Unchristlich, Ketzer u. dgl. als synonym mit moralisch Schlecht gebraucht werden. Den Religionen ist die Sache dadurch leicht gemacht, daß sie, vom *Glauben* ausgehend, diesen für ihr Dogma schlechthin, ja, unter Drohungen fordern dürfen. Aber die philosophischen Systeme haben hier nicht so leichtes Spiel: daher man bei Untersuchung aller Systeme finden wird, daß es, wie mit der Begründung der Ethik, so auch mit dem Anknüpfungspunkte derselben an die gegebene Metaphysik überall äußerst schlecht bestellt ist. Und doch ist die Forderung, daß die Ethik sich auf die Metaphysik stütze, unabweisbar, wie ich dies schon in der Einleitung durch *Wolffs* und *Kants* Autorität bekräftigt habe.\n\nNun aber ist das Problem der Metaphysik so sehr das schwerste aller den menschlichen Geist beschäftigenden Probleme, daß es von vielen Denkern für schlechthin unauflösbar gehalten wird. Für mich kommt, in gegenwärtigem Fall, noch der ganz besondere Nachtheil hinzu, den die Form einer abgerissenen Monographie herbeiführt, daß ich nämlich nicht von einem bestimmten metaphysischen Systeme, zu welchem ich mich etwan bekenne, ausgehen darf; weil ich es entweder darzulegen, welches viel zu weitläuftig, oder als gegeben und gewiß anzunehmen hätte, welches höchst mißlich seyn würde. Hieraus wieder folgt, daß ich hier so wenig, als im Vorhergehenden, die synthetische, sondern nur die analytische Methode anwenden darf, d. h. nicht vom Grunde auf die Folgen, sondern von den Folgen auf den Grund zu gehen habe. Diese harte Nothwendigkeit aber, voraussetzungslos zu verfahren und von keinem andern, als dem Allen gemeinsamen Standpunkt auszugehen, hat mir schon die Darlegung des Fundaments der Ethik so sehr erschwert, daß ich jetzt auf dieselbe zurücksehe, wie auf ein zu Stande gebrachtes schweres Kunststück, dem analog, wo Einer aus freier Hand gemacht hat, was sonst überall nur auf einer festen Unterlage ausgeführt wird. Vollends aber jetzt, wo die Frage nach der metaphysischen Auslegung der ethischen Grundlage angeregt ist, wird die Schwierigkeit des voraussetzungslosen Verfahrens so überwiegend, daß ich nur den Ausweg sehe, es bei ganz allgemeinen Umrissen bewenden zu lassen, mehr Andeutungen, als Ausführungen zu geben, den Weg, der hier zum Ziele führt, zu zeigen, aber nicht ihn bis ans Ende zu verfolgen, und überhaupt nur einen sehr geringen Theil von dem zu sagen, was ich unter andern Umständen hier vorzubringen hätte. Bei diesem Verfahren aber berufe ich mich, neben den eben dargelegten Gründen, darauf, daß die eigentliche Aufgabe in den vorhergehenden Abschnitten gelöst ist, folglich was ich hier noch darüber leiste ein opus supererogationis, eine beliebig zu gebende und beliebig zu nehmende *Zugabe* ist.\n\n### Section 22\n\nMetaphysische Grundlage.\n\nDen festen Boden der Erfahrung, welcher bis hieher alle unsere Schritte getragen hat, sollen wir also jetzt verlassen, um in dem, wohin keine Erfahrung auch nur möglicherweise reichen kann, die letzte theoretische Befriedigung zu finden, glücklich, wenn uns auch nur ein Fingerzeig, ein flüchtiger Durchblick zu Theil wird, bei welchem wir uns einigermaaßen beruhigen können. Hingegen was uns nicht verlassen soll, ist die bisherige Redlichkeit des Verfahrens: wir werden nicht, nach der Weise der sogenannten Nach-Kantischen Philosophie, uns in Träumereien gefallen, Mährchen auftischen, durch Worte zu imponiren und dem Leser Sand in die Augen zu streuen suchen; sondern ein Weniges, redlich dargeboten, ist unsere Verheißung.\n\nDas, was bis hieher Erklärungsgrund war, wird jetzt selbst unser Problem, nämlich jenes jedem Menschen angeborene und unvertilgbare, natürliche Mitleid, welches sich uns als die alleinige Quelle *nicht-egoistischer Handlungen* ergeben hat: diesen aber ausschließlich kommt moralischer Werth zu. Die Weise vieler moderner Philosophen, welche die Begriffe *Gut* und *Böse* als *einfache*, d. h. keiner Erklärung bedürftige, noch fähige, Begriffe behandeln, und dann meistens sehr geheimnißvoll und andächtig von einer „*Idee des Guten*“ reden, aus welcher sie die Stütze ihrer Ethik, oder wenigstens einen Deckmantel ihrer Dürftigkeit machen[25], nöthigt mich, hier die Erklärung einzuschalten, daß diese Begriffe nichts weniger als einfach, geschweige a priori gegeben, sondern Ausdrücke einer Relation und aus der alltäglichsten Erfahrung geschöpft sind. Alles, was den Bestrebungen irgend eines individuellen Willens gemäß ist, heißt, in Beziehung auf diesen, *gut*: — gutes Essen, gute Wege, gute Vorbedeutung; — das Gegentheil *schlecht*, an belebten Wesen *böse*. Ein Mensch, der, vermöge seines Charakters, den Bestrebungen Anderer nicht gern hinderlich, vielmehr, so weit er füglich kann, günstig und förderlich ist, der also Andere nicht verletzt, vielmehr ihnen, wo er kann, Hülfe und Beistand leistet, wird von ihnen, in eben der selben Rücksicht, ein *guter Mensch* genannt, mithin der Begriff Gut, von dem selben relativen, empirischen und im passiven Subjekt gelegenen Gesichtspunkte aus, auf ihn angewandt. Untersuchen wir nun aber den Charakter eines solchen Menschen nicht bloß in Hinsicht auf Andere, sondern an sich selbst; so wissen wir aus dem Vorhergehenden, daß eine ganz unmittelbare Theilnahme am Wohl und Wehe Anderer, als deren Quelle wir das Mitleid erkannt haben, es ist, aus welcher die Tugenden der Gerechtigkeit und Menschenliebe in ihm hervorgehen. Gehen wir aber auf das Wesentliche eines solchen Charakters zurück; so finden wir es unleugbar darin, daß er *weniger als die Uebrigen einen Unterschied zwischen sich und Andern macht*. Dieser Unterschied ist in den Augen des boshaften Charakters so groß, daß ihm fremdes Leiden unmittelbar Genuß ist, den er deshalb, ohne weitern eigenen Vortheil, ja, selbst diesem entgegen, sucht. Der selbe *Unterschied* ist in den Augen des Egoisten noch groß genug, damit er, um einen kleinen Vortheil für sich zu erlangen, großen Schaden Anderer als Mittel gebrauche. Diesen Beiden ist also zwischen dem Ich, welches sich auf ihre eigene Person beschränkt, und dem Nicht-Ich, welches die übrige Welt begreift, eine weite Kluft, ein mächtiger *Unterschied*: Pereat mundus, dum ego salvus sim, ist ihre Maxime. Dem guten Menschen hingegen ist dieser *Unterschied* keineswegs so groß, ja, in den Handlungen des Edelmuths erscheint er als aufgehoben, indem hier das fremde Wohl auf Kosten des eigenen befördert, also das fremde Ich dem eigenen gleichgesetzt wird: und wo *viele* Andere zu retten sind, wird das eigene Ich ihnen gänzlich zum Opfer gebracht, indem der Einzelne für Viele sein Leben hingiebt.\n\nEs frägt sich jetzt, ob die letztere Auffassung des Verhältnisses zwischen dem eigenen und dem fremden Ich, welche den Handlungen des guten Charakters zum Grunde liegt, eine irrige sei und auf einer Täuschung beruhe? oder ob dies vielmehr der Fall der entgegengesetzten Auffassung sei, auf welcher der Egoismus und die Bosheit fußt? —\n\nDiese dem Egoismus zum Grunde liegende Auffassung ist, *empirisch*, streng gerechtfertigt. Der *Unterschied* zwischen der eigenen und der fremden Person erscheint erfahrungsmäßig als ein absoluter. Die Verschiedenheit des Raumes, welche mich von dem Andern trennt, trennt mich auch von seinem Wohl und Wehe. — Hiegegen wäre jedoch zunächst zu bemerken, daß die Erkenntniß, die wir vom eigenen Selbst haben, keineswegs eine erschöpfende und bis auf den letzten Grund klare ist. Durch die Anschauung, welche das Gehirn auf Data der Sinne vollzieht, also mittelbar, erkennen wir den eigenen Leib als ein Objekt im Raum, und durch den innern Sinn die fortlaufende Reihe unserer Bestrebungen und Willensakte, welche auf Anlaß äußerer Motive entstehen, endlich auch die mannichfaltigen, schwächeren, oder stärkeren Bewegungen des eigenen Willens, auf welche alle inneren Gefühle sich zurückführen lassen. Das ist Alles: denn das Erkennen wird nicht selbst wieder erkannt. Hingegen das eigentliche Substrat dieser ganzen Erscheinung, unser inneres *Wesen an sich*, das Wollende und Erkennende selbst, ist uns nicht zugänglich: wir sehen bloß nach Außen, Innen ist es finster. Demnach ist die Kenntniß, welche wir von uns selbst haben, keineswegs eine vollständige und erschöpfende, vielmehr sehr oberflächlich, und dem größern, ja, hauptsächlichen Theil nach sind wir uns selber unbekannt und ein Räthsel, oder, wie *Kant* sagt: Das Ich erkennt sich nur als Erscheinung, nicht nach dem, was es an sich seyn mag. Jenem andern Theile nach, der in unsere Erkenntniß fällt, ist zwar Jeder vom Andern gänzlich verschieden: aber hieraus folgt noch nicht, daß es sich eben so verhalte hinsichtlich des großen und wesentlichen Theiles, der Jedem verdeckt und unbekannt bleibt. Für diesen ist also wenigstens eine Möglichkeit übrig, daß er in Allen Eines und identisch sei.\n\nWorauf beruht alle Vielheit und numerische Verschiedenheit der Wesen? — Auf Raum und Zeit: durch diese allein ist sie möglich; da das Viele sich nur entweder als nebeneinander, oder als nacheinander denken und vorstellen läßt. Weil nun das gleichartige Viele die *Individuen* sind; so nenne ich Raum und Zeit, in der Hinsicht, daß sie die *Vielheit* möglich machen, das principium individuationis, unbekümmert, ob dies genau der Sinn sei, in welchem die Scholastiker diesen Ausdruck nahmen.\n\nWenn an den Aufschlüssen, welche *Kants* bewunderungswürdiger Tiefsinn der Welt gegeben hat, *irgend etwas* unbezweifelt wahr ist, so ist es die *transscendentale Aesthetik*, also die Lehre von der Idealität des Raumes und der Zeit. Sie ist so klar begründet, daß kein irgend scheinbarer Einwand dagegen hat aufgetrieben werden können. Sie ist *Kants* Triumph und gehört zu den höchst wenigen metaphysischen Lehren, die man als wirklich bewiesen und als eigentliche Eroberungen im Felde der Metaphysik ansehen kann. Nach ihr also sind Raum und Zeit die Formen unsers eigenen Anschauungsvermögens, gehören diesem, nicht den dadurch erkannten Dingen an, können also nimmermehr eine Bestimmung der Dinge an sich selbst seyn; sondern kommen nur der *Erscheinung* derselben zu, wie solche in unserm, an physiologische Bedingungen gebundenen Bewußtseyn der Außenwelt allein möglich ist. Ist aber dem Dinge an sich, d. h. dem wahren Wesen der Welt, *Zeit und Raum* fremd; so ist es nothwendig auch die *Vielheit*: folglich kann dasselbe in den zahllosen Erscheinungen dieser Sinnenwelt doch nur Eines seyn, und nur das Eine und identische Wesen sich in diesen allen manifestiren. Und umgekehrt, was sich als ein *Vieles*, mithin in Zeit und Raum darstellt, kann nicht Ding an sich, sondern nur *Erscheinung* seyn. Diese aber ist, als solche, bloß für unser durch vielerlei Bedingungen beschränktes, ja, auf einer organischen Funktion beruhendes Bewußtseyn vorhanden, nicht außer demselben.\n\nDiese Lehre, daß alle Vielheit nur scheinbar sei, daß in allen Individuen dieser Welt, in so unendlicher Zahl sie auch, nach und neben einander, sich darstellen, doch nur Eines und das selbe, in ihnen allen gegenwärtige und identische, wahrhaft seiende Wesen sich manifestire, diese Lehre ist freilich lange vor *Kant*, ja, man möchte sagen von jeher dagewesen. Denn zuvörderst ist sie die Haupt- und Grundlehre des ältesten Buches der Welt, der heiligen *Veden*, deren dogmatischer Theil, oder vielmehr esoterische Lehre, uns in den *Upanischaden* vorliegt.[26] Daselbst finden wir fast auf jeder Seite jene große Lehre: sie wird unermüdlich, in zahllosen Wendungen wiederholt und durch mannichfaltige Bilder und Gleichnisse erläutert. Daß sie gleichfalls der Weisheit des *Pythagoras* zum Grunde lag, ist, selbst nach den kärglichen Nachrichten, die von seiner Philosophie zu uns gelangt sind, durchaus nicht zu bezweifeln. Daß in ihr allein fast die ganze Philosophie der *Eleatischen* Schule enthalten war, ist allbekannt. Später waren von ihr die *Neu-Platoniker* durchdrungen, indem sie lehrten διὰ τὴν ἑνότητα ἁπάντων πάσας ψυχὰς μίαν εἶναι (propter omnium unitatem cunctas animas unam esse). Im 9. Jahrhundert sehen wir sie in Europa unerwartet auftreten durch *Skotus Erigena*, der, von ihr begeistert, sich bemüht, sie in die Formen und Ausdrücke der Christlichen Religion zu kleiden. Unter den Mohammedanern finden wir sie als begeisterte Mystik der *Sufis* wieder. Aber im Occident mußte *Jordanus Brunus* es mit einem schmählichen und qualvollen Tode büßen, daß er dem Drange, jene Wahrheit auszusprechen, nicht hatte widerstehen können. Dennoch sehen wir auch die christlichen Mystiker, wider Willen und Absicht, sich in sie verstricken, wann und wo sie auftreten. *Spinoza’s* Name ist mit ihr identificirt. In unsern Tagen endlich, nachdem *Kant* den alten Dogmatismus vernichtet hatte und die Welt erschrocken vor den rauchenden Trümmern stand, wurde jene Erkenntniß wieder auferweckt durch die eklektische Philosophie *Schellings*, der, die Lehren des Plotinos, Spinozas, Kants und Jakob Böhms mit den Ergebnissen der neuen Naturwissenschaft amalgamirend, schleunig ein Ganzes zusammensetzte, dem dringenden Bedürfniß seiner Zeitgenossen einstweilen zu genügen, und es dann mit Variationen abspielte; in Folge wovon jene Erkenntniß unter den Gelehrten Deutschlands zu durchgängiger Geltung gelangt, ja, selbst unter den bloß Gebildeten fast allgemein verbreitet ist.[27] Eine Ausnahme machen allein die heutigen Universitätsphilosophen, als welche die schwere Aufgabe haben, dem sogenannten *Pantheismus* entgegen zu arbeiten, wodurch in große Noth und Verlegenheit versetzt, sie in ihrer Herzensangst bald zu den kläglichsten Sophismen, bald zu den bombastischesten Phrasen greifen, um daraus irgend einen anständigen Maskenanzug zusammenzuflicken, eine beliebte und oktroyirte Rockenphilosophie darin zu kleiden. Kurzum, das Ἓν καὶ παν war zu allen Zeiten der Spott der Thoren und die endlose Meditation der Weisen. Jedoch läßt der strenge Beweis desselben sich allein aus *Kants* Lehre, wie oben geschehen, führen; obwohl *Kant* selbst dies nicht gethan hat, sondern, nach Weise kluger Redner, nur die Prämissen gab, den Zuhörern die Freude der Konklusion überlassend.\n\nGehört demnach Vielheit und Geschiedenheit allein der bloßen *Erscheinung* an, und ist es Ein und das selbe Wesen, welches in allem Lebenden sich darstellt; so ist diejenige Auffassung, welche den Unterschied zwischen Ich und Nicht-Ich aufhebt, nicht die irrige: vielmehr muß die ihr entgegengesetzte dies seyn. Auch finden wir diese letztere von den Hindus mit dem Namen Maja, d. h. Schein, Täuschung, Gaukelbild, bezeichnet. Jene erstere Ansicht ist es, welche wir als dem Phänomen des Mitleids zum Grunde liegend, ja, dieses als den realen Ausdruck derselben gefunden haben. Sie wäre demnach die metaphysische Basis der Ethik, und bestände darin, daß das *eine* Individuum im *andern* unmittelbar sich selbst, sein eigenes wahres Wesen wiedererkenne. Demnach träfe die praktische Weisheit, das Rechtthun und Wohlthun, im Resultat genau zusammen mit der tiefsten Lehre der am weitesten gelangten theoretischen Weisheit; und der praktische Philosoph, d. h. der Gerechte, der Wohlthätige, der Edelmüthige, spräche durch die That nur die selbe Erkenntniß aus, welche das Ergebniß des größten Tiefsinns und der mühseligsten Forschung des theoretischen Philosophen ist. Indessen steht die moralische Trefflichkeit höher denn alle theoretische Weisheit, als welche immer nur Stückwerk ist und auf dem langsamen Wege der Schlüsse zu dem Ziele gelangt, welches jene mit Einem Schlage erreicht; und der moralisch Edle, wenn ihm auch noch so sehr die intellektuelle Trefflichkeit abgeht, legt durch sein Handeln die tiefste Erkenntniß, die höchste Weisheit an den Tag, und beschämt den Genialsten und Gelehrtesten, wenn dieser durch sein Thun verräth, daß jene große Wahrheit ihm doch im Herzen fremd geblieben ist.\n\n„Die Individuation ist real, das principium individuationis und die auf demselben beruhende Verschiedenheit der Individuen ist die Ordnung der Dinge an sich. Jedes Individuum ist ein von allen andern von Grund aus verschiedenes Wesen. Im eigenen Selbst allein habe ich mein wahres Seyn, alles Andere hingegen ist Nicht-Ich und mir fremd.“ — Dies ist die Erkenntniß, für deren Wahrheit Fleisch und Bein Zeugniß ablegen, die allem Egoismus zum Grunde liegt, und deren realer Ausdruck jede lieblose, ungerechte, oder boshafte Handlung ist. —\n\n„Die Individuation ist bloße Erscheinung, entstehend mittelst Raum und Zeit, welche nichts weiter als die durch mein cerebrales Erkenntnißvermögen bedingten Formen aller seiner Objekte sind; daher auch die Vielheit und Verschiedenheit der Individuen bloße Erscheinung, d. h. nur in meiner *Vorstellung* vorhanden ist. Mein wahres, inneres Wesen existirt in jedem Lebenden so unmittelbar, wie es in meinem Selbstbewußtseyn sich nur mir selber kund giebt.“ — Diese Erkenntniß, für welche im Sanskrit die Formel tat-twam asi, d. h. „dies bist Du“, der stehende Ausdruck ist, ist es, die als *Mitleid* hervorbricht, auf welcher daher alle ächte, d. h. uneigennützige Tugend beruht und deren realer Ausdruck jede gute That ist. Diese Erkenntniß ist es im letzten Grunde, an welche jede Appellation an Milde, an Menschenliebe, an Gnade für Recht sich richtet: denn eine solche ist eine Erinnerung an die Rücksicht, in welcher wir Alle Eins und dasselbe Wesen sind. Hingegen beruft Egoismus, Neid, Haß, Verfolgung, Härte, Rache, Schadenfreude, Grausamkeit sich auf jene erstere Erkenntniß, und beruhigt sich bei ihr. Die Rührung und Wonne, welche wir beim Anhören, noch mehr beim Anblick, am meisten beim eigenen Vollbringen einer edlen Handlung empfinden, beruht im tiefsten Grunde darauf, daß sie uns die Gewißheit giebt, daß jenseit aller Vielheit und Verschiedenheit der Individuen, die das principium individuationis uns vorhält, eine Einheit derselben liege, welche wahrhaft vorhanden, ja, uns zugänglich ist, da sie ja eben faktisch hervortrat.\n\nJe nachdem die eine oder die andere Erkenntnißweise festgehalten wird, tritt, zwischen Wesen und Wesen, die φιλια oder der νεικος des Empedokles hervor. Aber wer, vom νεικος beseelt, feindlich eindränge auf seinen verhaßtesten Widersacher, und bis in das Tiefinnerste desselben gelangte; der würde in diesem, zu seiner Ueberraschung, sich selbst entdecken. Denn so gut wie im Traum in allen uns erscheinenden Personen wir selbst stecken, so gut ist es im Wachen der Fall, — wenn auch nicht so leicht einzusehen. Aber tat-twam asi.\n\nDas Vorwalten der einen oder der andern jener beiden Erkenntnißweisen zeigt sich nicht bloß in den einzelnen Handlungen, sondern in der ganzen Art des Bewußtseyns und der Stimmung, welche daher beim *guten* Charakter eine von der des *schlechten* so wesentlich verschiedene ist. Dieser empfindet überall eine starke Scheidewand zwischen sich und allem Außer ihm. Die Welt ist ihm ein *absolutes Nicht-Ich* und sein Verhältniß zu ihr ein ursprünglich feindliches: dadurch wird der Grundton seiner Stimmung Gehässigkeit, Argwohn, Neid, Schadenfreude. — Der gute Charakter hingegen lebt in einer seinem Wesen homogenen Außenwelt: die Andern sind ihm kein Nicht-Ich, sondern „Ich noch ein Mal“. Daher ist sein ursprüngliches Verhältniß zu Jedem ein befreundetes: er fühlt sich allen Wesen im Innern verwandt, nimmt unmittelbar Theil an ihrem Wohl und Wehe, und setzt mit Zuversicht die selbe Theilnahme bei ihnen voraus. Hieraus erwächst der tiefe Friede seines Innern und jene getroste, beruhigte, zufriedene Stimmung, vermöge welcher in seiner Nähe Jedem wohl wird. — Der böse Charakter vertraut in der Noth nicht auf den Beistand Anderer: ruft er ihn an, so geschieht es ohne Zuversicht: erlangt er ihn, so empfängt er ihn ohne wahre Dankbarkeit: weil er ihn kaum anders denn als Wirkung der Thorheit Anderer begreifen kann. Denn sein eigenes im fremden Wesen wieder zu erkennen, ist er selbst dann noch unfähig, nachdem es von dort aus sich durch unzweideutige Zeichen kund gegeben hat. Hierauf beruht eigentlich das Empörende alles Undanks. Diese moralische Isolation, in der er sich wesentlich und unausweichbar befindet, läßt ihn auch leicht in Verzweiflung gerathen. — Der gute Charakter wird mit eben so vieler Zuversicht den Beistand Anderer anrufen, als er sich der Bereitwilligkeit bewußt ist, ihnen den seinigen zu leisten. Denn, wie gesagt, dem Einen ist die Menschenwelt Nicht-Ich, dem Andern „Ich noch ein Mal“. — Der Großmüthige, welcher dem Feinde verzeiht und das Böse mit Gutem erwidert, ist erhaben und erhält das höchste Lob; weil er sein selbsteigenes Wesen auch da noch erkannte, wo es sich entschieden verleugnete.\n\nJede ganz lautere Wohlthat, jede völlig und wahrhaft uneigennützige Hülfe, welche, als solche, ausschließlich die Noth des Andern zum Motiv hat, ist, wenn wir bis auf den letzten Grund forschen, eigentlich eine mysteriöse Handlung, eine praktische Mystik, sofern sie zuletzt aus der selben Erkenntniß, die das Wesen aller eigentlichen Mystik ausmacht, entspringt und auf keine andere Weise mit Wahrheit erklärbar ist. Denn daß Einer auch nur ein Almosen gebe, ohne dabei auf die entfernteste Weise etwas Anderes zu bezwecken, als daß der Mangel, welcher den Andern drückt, gemindert werde, ist nur möglich, sofern er erkennt, daß er selbst es ist, was ihm jetzt unter jener traurigen Gestalt erscheint, also daß er sein eigenes Wesen an sich in der fremden Erscheinung wiedererkenne. Daher habe ich, in der vorigen Abtheilung, das Mitleid das große Mysterium der Ethik genannt.\n\nWer für sein Vaterland in den Tod geht, ist von der Täuschung frei geworden, welche das Daseyn auf die eigene Person beschränkt: er dehnt sein eigenes Wesen auf seine Landsleute aus, in denen er fortlebt, ja, auf die kommenden Geschlechter derselben, für welche er wirkt; — wobei er den Tod betrachtet, wie das Winken der Augen, welches das Sehen nicht unterbricht.\n\nDer, dem alle Andern stets Nicht-Ich waren, ja, der im Grunde allein seine eigene Person für wahrhaft real hielt, die Andern hingegen eigentlich nur als Phantome ansah, denen er bloß eine relative Existenz, sofern sie Mittel zu seinen Zwecken seyn oder diesen entgegenstehen konnten, zuerkannte, so daß ein unermeßlicher Unterschied, eine tiefe Kluft zwischen seiner Person und allem jenem Nicht-Ich blieb, der also ausschließlich in dieser eigenen Person existirte, dieser sieht, im Tode, mit seinem Selbst auch alle Realität und die ganze Welt untergehen. Hingegen Der, welcher in allen Andern, ja in Allem, was Leben hat, sein eigenes Wesen, sich selbst erblickte, dessen Daseyn daher mit dem Daseyn alles Lebenden zusammenfloß, der verliert durch den Tod nur einen kleinen Theil seines Daseyns: er besteht fort in allen Andern, in welchen er ja sein Wesen und sein Selbst stets erkannt und geliebt hat, und die Täuschung verschwindet, welche sein Bewußtseyn von dem der Uebrigen trennte. Hierauf mag, zwar nicht ganz, aber doch zum großen Theil, die Verschiedenheit beruhen zwischen der Art, wie besonders gute und überwiegend böse Menschen die Todesstunde entgegennehmen. —\n\nIn allen Jahrhunderten hat die arme Wahrheit darüber erröthen müssen, daß sie paradox war: und es ist doch nicht ihre Schuld. Sie kann nicht die Gestalt des thronenden allgemeinen Irrthums annehmen. Da sieht sie seufzend auf zu ihrem Schutzgott, der Zeit, welcher ihr Sieg und Ruhm zuwinkt, aber dessen Flügelschläge so groß und langsam sind, daß das Individuum darüber hinstirbt. So bin denn auch ich mir des Paradoxen, welches diese metaphysische Auslegung des ethischen Urphänomens für die an ganz anderartige Begründungen der Ethik gewöhnten occidentalisch Gebildeten haben muß, sehr wohl bewußt, kann jedoch nicht der Wahrheit Gewalt anthun. Vielmehr ist Alles, was ich, aus dieser Rücksicht, über mich vermag, daß ich durch eine Anführung belege, wie jene Metaphysik der Ethik schon vor Jahrtausenden die Grundansicht der Indischen Weisheit war, auf welche ich zurückdeute, wie Kopernikus auf das von Aristoteles und Ptolemäos verdrängte Weltsystem der Pythagoreer. Im Bhagavad-Gita, Lectio 13; 27, 28, heißt es, nach A. W. v. Schlegels Uebersetzung: Eundem in omnibus animantibus consistentem summum dominum, istis pereuntibus haud pereuntem qui cernit, is vere cernit. — Eundem vero cernens ubique praesentem dominum, non violat semet ipsum sua ipsius culpa: exinde pergit ad summum iter.\n\nBei diesen Andeutungen zur Metaphysik der Ethik muß ich es bewenden lassen, obwohl noch ein bedeutender Schritt in derselben zu thun übrig bleibt. Allein dieser setzt voraus, daß man auch in der Ethik selbst einen Schritt weiter gegangen wäre, welches ich nicht thun durfte, weil in Europa der Ethik ihr höchstes Ziel in der Rechts- und Tugendlehre gesteckt ist, und man was über diese hinausgeht nicht kennt, oder doch nicht gelten läßt. Dieser nothwendigen Unterlassung also ist es zuzuschreiben, daß die dargelegten Umrisse zur Metaphysik der Ethik noch nicht, auch nur aus der Ferne, den Schlußstein des ganzen Gebäudes der Metaphysik, oder den eigentlichen Zusammenhang der Divina Commedia absehen lassen. Dies lag aber auch weder in der Aufgabe, noch in meinem Plan. Denn man kann nicht Alles in Einem Tage sagen, und soll auch nicht mehr antworten, als man gefragt ist.\n\nIndem man sucht, menschliche Erkenntniß und Einsicht zu fördern, wird man stets den Widerstand des Zeitalters empfinden, gleich dem einer Last, die man zu ziehen hätte, und die schwer auf den Boden drückt, aller Anstrengung trotzend. Dann muß man sich trösten mit der Gewißheit, zwar die Vorurtheile gegen sich, aber die Wahrheit für sich zu haben, welche, sobald nur ihr Bundesgenosse, die Zeit, zu ihr gestoßen seyn wird, des Sieges vollkommen gewiß ist, mithin, wenn auch nicht heute, doch morgen.\n\n25. Der Begriff des *Guten*, in seiner Reinheit, ist ein *Urbegriff*, „eine *absolute Idee*, deren Inhalt sich im Unendlichen verliert“.\n\n*Bouterweck*, praktische Aphorismen, S. 54.\n\nMan sieht, er möchte aus dem schlichten, ja, trivialen Begriff *Gut* am liebsten einen Διϊπετης machen, um ihn als Götzen im Tempel aufstellen zu können.\n\n26. Die Aechtheit des *Oupnekhat* war auf Grund einiger, von Mohammedanischen Abschreibern beigefügter und in den Text gerathener Randglossen angefochten worden. Allein sie wird vollkommen vindicirt von dem Sanskrit-Gelehrten *F. H. H. Windischmann* (dem Sohn) in seinem Sancara, sive de theologumenis Vedanticorum, 1833, p. XIX, ebenfalls von *Bochinger*, De la vie contemplative chez les Indous, 1831, p. 12. — Sogar der des Sanskrits unkundige Leser kann sich, durch Vergleichung der neueren Uebersetzungen einzelner Upanischaden, von *Rammohun Roy*, *Poley* und selbst der von *Colebrooke*, wie auch der neuesten von *Röer*, deutlich überzeugen, daß der von *Anquetil* streng wörtlich ins Lateinische übertragenen Persischen Uebersetzung des Märtyrers dieser Lehre, Sultans *Daraschakoh*, ein genaues und vollkommenes Wortverständniß zum Grunde gelegen hat; hingegen jene Andern sich großentheils mit Tappen und Errathen geholfen haben, daher sie ganz gewiß viel ungenauer sind. — Näheres hierüber findet man im zweiten Bande der Parerga, Kap. 16, §. 184.\n\n27. On peut assez longtems, chez notre espèce,\nFermer la porte à la raison.\nMais, dés qu’elle entre avec adresse,\nElle reste dans la maison,\nEt bientôt elle en est maîtresse.\n\n*Volt.*\n\n### Judgment\n\nJudicium\n\nRegiae Danicae Scientiarum Societatis.\n\nQuaestionem anno 1837 propositam, „utrum philosophiae moralis fons et fundamentum in idea moralitatis, quae immediate conscientia contineatur, et ceteris notionibus fundamentalibus, quae ex illa prodeant, explicandis quaerenda sint, an in alio cognoscendi principio“, unus tantum scriptor explicare conatus est, cujus commentationem, germanico sermone compositam et his verbis notatam: Moral predigen ist leicht, Moral begründen ist[28] schwer, praemio dignam judicare nequivimus. Omisso enim eo, quod potissimum postulabatur, hoc expeti putavit, ut principium aliquod ethicae conderetur, itaque eam partem commentationis suae, in qua principii ethicae a se propositi et metaphysicae suae nexum exponit, appendicis loco habuit, in qua plus quam postulatum esset praestaret, quum tamen ipsum thema ejusmodi disputationem flagitaret, in qua vel praecipuo loco metaphysicae et ethicae nexus consideraretur. Quod autem scriptor in sympathia fundamentum ethicae constituere conatus est, neque ipsa disserendi forma nobis satisfecit, neque reapse, hoc fundamentum sufficere, evicit; quin ipse contra esse confiteri coactus est. Neque reticendum videtur, plures recentioris aetatis summos philosophos tam indecenter commemorari, ut justam et gravem offensionem habeat.\n\n28. Dieses zweite „ist“ hat die Akademie aus eigenen Mitteln hinzugefügt, um einen Beleg zu liefern zur Lehre des Longinus (de sublim., c. 39), daß man durch Hinzufügung, oder Wegnahme, *einer* Silbe die ganze Energie einer Sentenz vernichten kann.","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/schopenhauer-basis-of-morality/original.txt"},"translations":[{"id":"trn_schopenhauer_basis_of_morality_mouseia","translator":"Mouseia","kind":"curated","note":"Machine-assisted Musean translation made directly from the complete 1860 German edition, including its quotations, author’s notes, prize question and judgment. Source-language reviewed.","text":"### Prize Question\n\nPrize Essay on the Basis of Morality,\n\nnot awarded the prize by the Royal Danish Society of Sciences in Copenhagen, on January 30, 1840.\n\nMotto:\n\nPreaching morality is easy; grounding it, hard.\n(Schopenhauer, On the Will in Nature, S. 128.)\n\nThe question posed by the Royal Society, with its prefatory introduction, reads:\n\nSince the original idea of morality, or the fundamental conception of the supreme moral law, manifests itself with a necessity peculiar to it and by no means logical, both in the discipline whose purpose is to set out knowledge of the ethical and in life, partly in conscience's judgment of our own actions, partly in our moral assessment of the actions of other people; and since several fundamental ethical concepts inseparable from that idea and looking to it as their origin, such as the concepts of duty and accountability, assert their force with the same necessity and over the same range—and yet, amid the courses and paths pursued by the philosophical thought of our age, it seems a matter of great importance to reopen this subject for discussion—the Society wishes the following question to be carefully considered and examined:\n\nAre *the source and foundation of moral philosophy* to be sought in an exposition of the idea of morality immediately contained in consciousness, and of the other fundamental concepts that arise from it, or in some other principle of knowledge?\n\nIn German:\n\nSince the original idea of morality, or the principal conception of the supreme moral law, emerges with a necessity peculiar to it, yet by no means logical, both in the science whose purpose is to set out knowledge of the moral and in actual life, where it appears partly in conscience's judgment of our own actions, partly in our moral assessment of the actions of others; and since, further, several fundamental moral concepts inseparable from that idea and arising from it, such as the concepts of duty and accountability, assert themselves with the same necessity and over the same range—and since, given the paths pursued by the philosophical inquiry of our age, it nevertheless seems very important to bring this subject under examination once again—the Society wishes the following question to be carefully considered and discussed:\n\n*Are the source and foundation of morality* to be sought in an idea of morality immediately present in consciousness (or conscience), and in an analysis of the other fundamental moral concepts arising from it, or in some other ground of knowledge?\n\n### Section 1\n\nI. Introduction.\n\nOn the Problem.\n\nA prize question posed by the Royal *Dutch* Society at Haarlem in 1810 and answered by J. C. F. Meister—\"Why do philosophers differ so greatly in the first principles of morality, yet agree in the conclusions and duties they derive from those principles?\"—was a very easy task compared with the present one. For:\n\n1) The Royal Society's present question aims at nothing less than the objectively true foundation of ethics, and consequently of moral worth as well. It is an academy that raises the question. As such, it wants no exhortation to integrity and virtue directed toward practical ends, supported by reasons whose plausibility is heightened and whose weakness is concealed, as happens in addresses to the public. Rather, since an academy recognizes only theoretical, not practical, ends, it wants a purely philosophical account—independent, that is, of all established precepts, all unproved assumptions, and therefore all metaphysical or even mythical entities posited as real—an objective, unveiled, naked account of the ultimate ground of all morally good conduct.—But this is a problem whose immense difficulty is attested not only by the philosophers of every age and country who have blunted their teeth on it, but also by all the gods of East and West, who owe their very existence to it. If it is solved on this occasion, then the Royal Society will certainly not have spent its gold badly.\n\n2) Moreover, theoretical inquiry into the foundation of morality suffers from the peculiar disadvantage that it can easily be taken for an undermining of that foundation, which might bring down the building itself. Here practical concerns lie so close to theoretical ones that their well-intentioned zeal can scarcely be kept from untimely interference. Not everyone can clearly distinguish a purely theoretical search for objective truth, detached from every interest, even the moral and practical, from a sacrilegious attack on the heart's sacred convictions. Anyone who sets to work here must therefore always keep this thought before him for encouragement: nothing stands farther from human activity and bustle, or from the marketplace's tumult and noise, than the academy's sanctuary, withdrawn into profound stillness, where no sound from outside may enter and no deity has a statue except sublime, naked truth alone.\n\nThe conclusion from these two premises is that I must be allowed complete freedom of speech, together with the right to doubt everything; and that if, even on these terms, I accomplish anything real in this matter, much will have been accomplished.\n\nBut other difficulties still confront me. In addition, the Royal Society requires the foundation of ethics to be set out on its own, in isolation, in a short monograph, and thus apart from its connection with the complete system of any philosophy—that is, with metaphysics proper. This must not only make the task harder but necessarily make its fulfillment imperfect. Christian Wolf already says: \"The darkness in practical philosophy is dispelled only when the light of metaphysics shines upon it\" (Phil. pract., P. II. §. 28), and Kant: \"Metaphysics must come first, and without it there can be no moral philosophy at all.\" (Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Preface.) For just as every religion on earth, when it prescribes morality, does not leave morality to stand on its own but supports it with dogma, whose chief purpose is precisely this, so in philosophy the ethical foundation, whatever it may be, must itself find its anchor and support in some metaphysics—that is, in the account given of the world and of existence in general. The final and true explanation of the inner nature of things as a whole must necessarily be closely connected with the explanation of the ethical significance of human action. In any event, whatever is put forward as the foundation of morality, if it is not to be a mere abstract proposition floating freely in the air without a foothold in the real world, must be some fact located either in the objective world or in human consciousness. As such, it can itself be only a phenomenon and consequently, like all phenomena in the world, requires a further explanation, which must then be sought from metaphysics. Indeed, philosophy is so thoroughly an interconnected whole that it is impossible to give an exhaustive account of any part without including all the rest. Plato therefore says quite rightly: \"Do you think it possible to understand the nature of the soul adequately without understanding the nature of the whole?\" (\"But do you think the nature of the soul can be sufficiently known without the nature of the whole?\"—Phaedr., p. 371, Bip.) The metaphysics of nature, the metaphysics of morals, and the metaphysics of beauty presuppose one another, and only in their connection do they complete the explanation of the nature of things and of existence in general. Anyone who had pursued one of these three to its ultimate ground would therefore necessarily have drawn the others into his explanation as well; just as anyone who had an exhaustive understanding of any *one* thing in the world, clear down to its ultimate ground, would also have understood the whole rest of the world completely.\n\nStarting from a given metaphysics accepted as true, one would arrive at the foundation of ethics by the synthetic method. This foundation would itself have been built from the ground up, and ethics would accordingly stand firmly supported. But since the question requires ethics to be separated from all metaphysics, nothing remains but the *analytical* method, which begins with facts either of external experience or of consciousness. It can indeed trace the latter back to their deepest root in the human mind; but that root must then be left standing as a fundamental fact, a primal phenomenon, without being traced back to anything further. The entire explanation thus remains merely *psychological*. At most, its connection with some general metaphysical view can be indicated as a supplement. That fundamental fact, that primal ethical phenomenon, could, by contrast, itself be given a foundation if one were permitted to treat metaphysics first and derive ethics from it by the synthetic method. But this would mean setting out a complete system of philosophy, far exceeding the limits of the question posed. I am therefore compelled to answer the question within the limits it has itself drawn by being isolated in this way.\n\nFinally, the foundation on which I intend to place ethics will prove very narrow. Of the many human actions that conform to law and deserve approval and praise, only the smaller part will turn out to spring from purely moral incentives; the larger part will be attributable to motives of another kind. This is less satisfying and less dazzling to the eye than, say, a categorical imperative that is always at your command, ready in turn to command what is to be done and what left undone—not to mention other, substantive foundations of morality. All I can do here is recall the saying of Ecclesiastes (4, 6): \"Better one handful with peace than both fists full with toil and vanity.\" In all knowledge, what is genuine, stands the test, and cannot be destroyed is always little; just as a sample of ore conceals a few ounces of gold in a hundredweight of stone. But whether people will indeed join me in preferring *secure possession* to *great possessions*, the little gold left in the crucible to the great mass hauled in—or will instead accuse me of having taken away morality's foundation rather than given it one, insofar as I show that human actions which conform to law and deserve praise often contain no purely moral substance at all, and usually only a *small* amount, while otherwise resting on motives whose efficacy can ultimately be traced back to the agent's egoism—all this I must leave open, not without apprehension, indeed with resignation. For I have long agreed with *the knight von Zimmermann* when he says: \"Hold this thought in your heart until death: nothing in the world is so rare as a good judge.\" (On Solitude, Th. I, Cap. 3, S. 93.) Indeed, I already see in my mind's eye how poor and subdued my account will look, with only so narrow a basis to offer for all genuine, freely chosen right conduct, all human kindness, all nobility of heart, wherever they may be found, beside the accounts of my competitors. They confidently erect broad foundations of morality, capable of bearing any burden and, with a threatening sidelong glance at the doubter's own morality, of being pressed upon his conscience. My account will stand beside theirs like Cordelia before King Lear, with her few words affirming her dutiful devotion beside the extravagant protestations of her more eloquent sisters.—Here one surely needs to fortify the heart with a learned hunter's motto, such as: \"Great is the power of truth, and it will prevail\"—though this no longer gives much encouragement to anyone who has lived and accomplished something. Still, I will venture out with truth for once: for whatever happens to me will have happened to it as well.\n\n### Section 2\n\nGeneral Retrospect.\n\nFor the people, morality is grounded in theology, as the declared will of God. Philosophers, by contrast, with few exceptions, take pains to exclude this kind of foundation altogether; indeed, simply to avoid it, they would rather take refuge in sophistical arguments. Why this opposition? Certainly no more effective foundation for morality can be imagined than a theological one: who would be so presumptuous as to resist the will of the Almighty and All-knowing? Certainly no one—if only that will had been proclaimed in a wholly authentic way, leaving no room for doubt, officially, so to speak. But this is precisely the condition that cannot be fulfilled. Instead, the process is reversed: people try to authenticate the law proclaimed as God's will by showing that it agrees with our moral insights from other sources, which are therefore natural. They thus appeal to these insights as the more immediate and certain authority. Added to this is the recognition that moral action brought about merely by threatened punishment and promised reward would be moral more in appearance than in truth, since at bottom it would rest on egoism. What ultimately tipped the scales would be the greater or lesser readiness of one person, compared with another, to believe on insufficient grounds. But ever since *Kant* destroyed the foundations of *speculative theology*, previously regarded as secure, and then sought to support theology—which until then had supported ethics—on ethics instead, thus securing for it an existence, even if only in thought, there has been less reason than ever to consider grounding ethics in theology. For now we no longer know which is to be the burden and which the support, and would end up in a vicious circle.\n\nThrough the influence of *Kantian philosophy*, then through the simultaneous impact of the unprecedented advances in all the natural sciences, beside which every earlier age seems an age of childhood compared with our own, and finally through acquaintance with Sanskrit literature, Brahmanism, and Buddhism—these oldest and most widespread religions, and thus the foremost religions of humanity in time and space, which are also the original, native religions of our own stock, known to be Asian, now receiving belated news of them once more in its foreign homeland—through all this, I say, the fundamental philosophical convictions of Europe's scholars have undergone a transformation in the course of the last fifty years. Some may admit it to themselves only reluctantly, but it cannot be denied. As a result, the old supports of ethics have also grown rotten; yet the confidence remains that ethics itself can never fall. From this comes the conviction that it must have supports other than those it has had until now, supports suited to the advanced understanding of the age. It was undoubtedly recognition of this increasingly felt need that prompted the Royal Society to pose the present important prize question.—\n\nIn every age, much good morality has been preached; but its foundation has always been in a sorry state. On the whole, efforts to establish it show a search for some objective truth from which ethical precepts could be logically derived. People have looked for it in the nature of things or in human nature, but in vain. The result was always that the human will aims only at its own well-being, the sum of which is conceived under the term *happiness*; and this striving leads it along a very different path from the one morality would like to prescribe. Attempts were then made to present *happiness* now as *identical* with virtue, now as its *consequence* and *effect*. Both attempts have always failed, though there has been no shortage of sophistry. Next came attempts with purely objective, abstract propositions, discovered sometimes through experience, sometimes independently of it, from which morally good conduct could at least be inferred. But these lacked any anchor in human nature that could have given them the power to guide a person's endeavors against his egoistic inclination. I consider it unnecessary to substantiate all this here by enumerating and criticizing every previous foundation of morality—not only because I share Augustine's view that \"what people have thought is not to be considered of great importance, but rather what the truth of the matter is,\" but also because it would mean \"carrying owls to Athens.\" The Royal Society is sufficiently familiar with earlier attempts to ground ethics, and by posing the prize question itself shows that it too is convinced of their inadequacy. The less learned reader will find an account of previous attempts, incomplete but sufficient in its essentials, in *Garve's* \"Survey of the Chief Principles of Ethics,\" as well as in *Stäudlin's* \"History of Moral Philosophy\" and similar books.—\n\nIt is certainly disheartening to reflect that ethics, the science that bears directly on life, has fared no better than abstruse metaphysics: continually pursued ever since Socrates founded it, it is still searching for its first principle. On the other hand, far more than in any other science, what is essential in ethics is contained in its first principles, since the deductions here are so easy that they make themselves. For everyone is capable of *drawing conclusions*, but few are capable of *judgment*. This is precisely why lengthy textbooks and lectures on morality are as superfluous as they are tedious. Meanwhile, it is a relief to me that I may assume familiarity with all the earlier foundations of ethics. For anyone who surveys the extraordinarily varied and sometimes bizarre arguments to which philosophers both ancient and modern have resorted—the Middle Ages were content with the Church's faith—in order to provide a demonstrable foundation for the so universally acknowledged demands of morality, and with such plainly poor results, will appreciate the difficulty of the problem and judge my achievement accordingly. And anyone who has seen how every path taken so far has failed to reach the goal will be more willing to join me on a very different one, a path previously either overlooked or scornfully passed by, perhaps because it was the most natural.[1] In fact, my solution to the problem will remind some people of Columbus's egg.\n\nOnly the *most recent* attempt to ground ethics, the *Kantian* one, will receive a critical examination from me, and a particularly thorough one. This is partly because *Kant's* great reform of morality gave this science a foundation with genuine advantages over its predecessors, and partly because it is still the last significant event in ethics. Hence *Kant's* foundation of ethics remains generally accepted and is taught everywhere to this day, even if dressed up differently through a few changes in presentation and expression. It is the ethics of the last sixty years, and must be cleared away before we strike out on another path. Moreover, examining it will give me occasion to investigate and discuss most of the fundamental ethical concepts, so that I can later take the results for granted. Above all, since opposites illuminate each other, a critique of Kant's foundation of morality will be the best preparation and guide, indeed the direct path, to my own, which is diametrically opposed to Kant's in the most essential points. For this reason, it would be entirely misguided to skip the critique that follows and go straight to the positive part of my account, which would then be only half intelligible.\n\nIndeed, it is now high time for ethics to be seriously called to account. For more than half a century it has lain on the comfortable cushion *Kant* laid beneath it: the categorical imperative of practical reason. In our day, however, this is usually introduced under the less imposing but smoother and more readily accepted title of \"the *moral law*,\" under which, after a slight bow to reason and experience, it slips through unexamined. Once inside the house, however, there is no end to its orders and commands, though it never offers any further account of itself.—It was right and necessary that *Kant*, as its inventor, should have rested content with it after using it to displace cruder errors. But now to have to watch even the donkeys rolling on the cushion he laid down, trampled ever wider since then—that is hard. I mean the everyday writers of compendiums, who, with the serene assurance of incomprehension, imagine they have given ethics a foundation if they merely appeal to that \"*moral law*\" supposedly dwelling in our reason. They then confidently pile onto it that long-winded, confused web of phrases with which they know how to make life's clearest and simplest relations unintelligible—without ever seriously asking themselves in the course of this undertaking whether such a \"*moral law*\" really is inscribed in our heads, breasts, or hearts, as a convenient lure for morality. I therefore confess the particular pleasure with which I now set about pulling this broad cushion out from under morality. I openly declare my intention to show that *Kant's* practical reason and categorical imperative are wholly unwarranted, groundless, fabricated assumptions; to demonstrate that *Kant's* ethics, too, lacks a solid foundation; and thus to return morality to its old state of utter helplessness, in which it must stand before I set about presenting the true moral principle of human nature, rooted in our being and unquestionably effective. For since this principle offers no foundation as broad as that cushion, those accustomed to greater comfort in the matter will not abandon their old resting place until they clearly perceive the deep hollow beneath the ground on which it stands.\n\n1. I could not tell you by what mischance,\nOr rather by what fatality,\nDeceit wins greater credit among us\nThan simple and naked truth.—\nCasti.\n\n(I cannot say by what accident, or rather by what misfortune, deception finds readier belief among us than simple and naked truth.)\n\n### Section 3\n\nII.\n\nCritique of the Foundation *Kant* Gave to Ethics.\n\nOverview.\n\n*Kant's* great service to ethics was to purify it of all *eudaimonism*. The ethics of the ancients was a theory of happiness; that of the moderns was mostly a doctrine of salvation. The ancients sought to prove virtue and happiness identical, but these were like two figures that can never be made to coincide, however they are placed. The moderns sought to connect the two not through the *principle of identity*, but through the *principle of sufficient reason*, thus making happiness the consequence of virtue. To do so, however, they had to enlist either a world other than the one that can possibly be known, or sophistries. Among the ancients, *Plato* alone is an exception: his ethics is not eudaimonistic, but instead becomes mystical. Even the ethics of the Cynics and Stoics, however, is only a special kind of *eudaimonism*. To prove this I lack neither reasons nor evidence, but, in my present undertaking, space.[2]—Among both ancients and moderns, then, *Plato* alone excepted, virtue was merely a means to an end. Admittedly, if we wished to be strict, Kant too would have banished eudaimonism from ethics more in appearance than in reality. For he still leaves a secret connection between virtue and happiness in his doctrine of the highest good, where they meet in a remote and obscure chapter, while in public virtue acts as a complete stranger to happiness. Apart from this, in Kant the ethical principle appears as wholly independent of experience and its instruction, as a transcendental or metaphysical principle. He recognizes that human conduct has a significance that reaches beyond all possible experience and, for that very reason, is the true bridge to what he calls the intelligible world, the world of noumena, the world of things in themselves.\n\nBesides the merits just touched on, Kant's ethics owes its fame to the moral purity and sublimity of its results. Most people fastened on these without troubling themselves much about their foundation, which is highly complex and abstract, and presented in an exceedingly contrived form. Kant had to bring all his acuteness and ingenuity to bear on this form to give it an appearance of solidity. Fortunately, he devoted a separate work to setting out the *foundation* of his ethics apart from ethics itself: the \"*Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals*,\" whose subject is therefore exactly the same as that of our prize question. For he says there, S. XIII of the preface: \"The present *Groundwork* is nothing more than the search for and establishment of the supreme principle of morality, which alone constitutes a task complete in its purpose and to be separated from every other moral inquiry.\" In this book we find the foundation, and thus the essential substance, of his ethics presented with a rigorous system, concision, and precision found in none of his other works. It also has the considerable advantage of being the earliest of his moral works, only four years later than the Critique of Pure Reason, and thus dating from a time when, although he was already 61, the harmful influence of age on his mind was not yet noticeable. By contrast, that influence can already be clearly felt in the *Critique of Practical Reason*, which appeared in 1788, a year after the unfortunate revision of the Critique of Pure Reason for its second edition, through which he plainly spoiled this immortal masterpiece. The preface to the new edition prepared by *Rosenkranz* gives us an account of this with which, after examining the matter for myself, I can only agree.[3] The *Critique of Practical Reason* contains essentially the same material as the \"*Groundwork*\" mentioned above; only the latter gives it in a concise and more rigorous form, while the former elaborates it at great length, interrupts it with digressions, and reinforces it with a few moral declamations to heighten the effect. When Kant wrote this, he had finally, late in life, attained his well-deserved fame. Assured by this of boundless attention, he gave the loquacity of age more scope. As distinctive features of the *Critique of Practical Reason*, however, we must mention, first, its account of the relation between freedom and necessity, beyond all praise and certainly written earlier (S. 169–179 of the fourth edition, and S. 223–231 in *Rosenkranz*). This agrees entirely, however, with the account he gives in the Critique of Pure Reason (S. 560–586; R., S. 438 ff.). Second, there is its moral theology, which will increasingly be recognized as what Kant really intended it to be. Finally, in the \"*Metaphysical First Principles of the Doctrine of Virtue*,\" the counterpart to his deplorable \"Doctrine of Right,\" written in 1797, the influence of senile weakness predominates. For all these reasons I take the first-mentioned \"*Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals*\" as my guide in the present critique, and all page numbers I cite without further qualification refer to it; I ask the reader to bear this in mind. I shall consider the other two works only incidentally and secondarily.\n\nIt will greatly assist the *understanding* of the present critique, which undermines Kant's ethics at its deepest foundation, if the reader will first attentively reread *Kant's* \"*Groundwork*,\" to which it chiefly refers, and thus bring its contents fully back to mind—especially since it occupies only 128 and XIV pages (only 100 pages in all in *Rosenkranz*). I cite it from the third edition of 1792 and add the page number in *Rosenkranz's* new collected edition, preceded by R.\n\n2. The detailed account will be found in \"The World as Will and Representation\", Bd. 1, §. 16, S. 103 ff., and Bd. 2, Kap. 16, S. 166 ff., of the third edition.\n\n3. I wrote it myself; but here I am speaking incognito.\n\n### Section 4\n\nOn the Imperative Form of *Kantian* Ethics.\n\n*Kant's* fundamental error lies in his very conception of ethics, which we find most clearly expressed on p. 62 (R., p. 54): \"In practical philosophy, the task is not to give reasons for what happens, but laws for *what ought to happen, even if it never does*.\"—This already plainly begs the question. Who tells you that there are laws to which our conduct ought to submit? Who tells you that *what never happens ought to happen*?—What entitles you to assume this in advance, and then immediately impose on us an ethics in a legislative, imperative form as the only possible one? In opposition to Kant, I maintain that the moral philosopher, like the philosopher generally, must content himself with explaining and interpreting what is given—that is, what actually exists or happens—in order to reach an *understanding* of it; and that this gives him more than enough to do, far more than has been done to this day, after thousands of years. In keeping with this *Kantian* begging of the question, the preface, which is entirely relevant to the subject, assumes before any investigation that purely *moral laws* exist. This assumption then stands unchallenged as the deepest foundation of the entire system. But let us first examine the concept of a *law*. Its proper and original meaning is confined to civil law—law or statute, a human institution resting on human choice. The concept acquires a second, derivative sense, a figurative or metaphorical one, when applied to nature, whose unvarying modes of operation—some known independently of experience, others learned by empirical observation—we metaphorically call laws of nature. Only a very small portion of these natural laws can be discerned independently of experience; these constitute what Kant so acutely and admirably distinguished and brought together under the name Metaphysics of Nature. There is indeed also a law for the *human will*, insofar as the human being belongs to nature: a law that can be rigorously demonstrated, inviolable, without exception, rock-solid, and entailing necessity not merely in a manner of speaking, as the categorical imperative does, but in reality. It is the *law of motivation*, a form of the law of causality: namely, causality mediated by cognition. This is the only demonstrable law for the *human will* to which it is subject *as such*. It states that every action can occur only as the consequence of a sufficient motive. Like the law of causality generally, it is a law of nature. Moral laws, by contrast, independent of human enactment, political institutions, or religious doctrine, cannot be assumed to exist without proof. Kant therefore begs the question by assuming them in advance. The assumption appears all the bolder because he immediately adds, on p. VI of the preface, that a moral law must entail \"*absolute necessity*.\" Yet the mark of such necessity is always that its effect cannot fail to occur. How, then, can there be any talk of absolute necessity in these alleged moral laws—of which he gives as an example \"you shall not lie,\" with the wording \"*du sollt* (sic)\"—when, as everyone knows and he himself admits, they mostly, indeed as a rule, remain without effect? Before admitting into a scientific ethics any laws for the will besides the law of motivation—laws that are original and independent of all human enactment—we must prove and derive their very existence, if we intend not merely to recommend honesty in ethics but also to practice it. Until that proof has been supplied, I recognize no other source for the introduction into ethics of the concepts of law, precept, and ought than one foreign to philosophy: the Mosaic Decalogue. Even the spelling \"*du sollt*\"—\"you shall\"—naively betrays this origin in the example above, the first moral law Kant puts forward. But a concept that can point to no other origin than this cannot simply force its way into philosophical ethics; it must be turned away until legitimate proof has authenticated it and secured its admission. In Kant it constitutes the first instance of begging the question, and a large one.\n\nJust as Kant, by this means, had simply taken the concept of the *moral law* in the preface as given and indisputably real, so on p. 8 (R., p. 16) he treats the closely related concept of *duty*, admitting it into ethics without further examination of its credentials. But here I must once again enter a protest. This concept, together with its relatives—those of *law, command, ought*, and the like—when taken in this unconditional sense, originates in theological morality and remains a stranger to philosophical morality until it has produced valid credentials drawn from the essential nature of humanity or of the objective world. Until then, I recognize no other origin for it and its relatives than the Decalogue. Throughout the Christian centuries, philosophical ethics has, in general, unconsciously taken its form from theological ethics. Since the latter is essentially *commanding*, philosophical ethics too has appeared in the form of precepts and a doctrine of duties, in all innocence, without suspecting that it first needed an independent warrant for doing so; rather, it supposed this to be its own natural form. The metaphysical ethical significance of human conduct—its significance extending beyond this phenomenal existence and touching eternity—is undeniable, and is recognized by all peoples, ages, and religions, as well as by all philosophers except the thoroughgoing materialists. Yet it is by no means essential to this significance that it be conceived in terms of commanding and obeying, of law and *duty*. Moreover, detached from the theological premises from which they arose, these concepts really lose all meaning. If, like Kant, we think we can replace those premises by speaking of an *absolute ought* and *unconditional duty*, we are fobbing the reader off with words, indeed giving him a contradiction in terms to digest. Every *ought* derives all its sense and meaning solely from a threatened punishment or a promised reward. Hence, long before anyone thought of Kant, Locke had already said: \"For since it would be utterly in vain, to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will; we must, where-ever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law.\" (On Understanding, Bk. II, c. 33, §. 6.)[4] Every ought is therefore necessarily conditioned by punishment or reward and thus, in Kant's language, is essentially and inescapably *hypothetical*, never, as he claims, *categorical*. But if those conditions are thought away, the concept of ought is left devoid of meaning; an *absolute ought* is therefore indeed a contradiction in terms. It is quite impossible to conceive of a commanding voice, whether it comes from within or without, as anything but threatening or promising. Obedience to it will then, according to circumstances, be wise or foolish, but always self-interested and therefore without moral worth. The utter inconceivability and absurdity of this concept of an *unconditional ought*, on which Kant's ethics rests, later emerges within his system itself, in the Critique of Practical Reason, just as a concealed poison cannot remain within an organism but must finally break out and find an outlet. For this supposedly *unconditional ought* subsequently postulates a condition after all, indeed more than one: a reward, the immortality of the person to be rewarded, and someone to confer the reward. This is of course necessary once *duty* and *ought* have been made the fundamental concepts of ethics, since these concepts are essentially relative and acquire all their meaning through threatened punishment or promised reward. But this reward, postulated after the event for virtue, which had thus only appeared to labor without payment, makes its entrance respectably veiled under the name of the *highest good*: the union of virtue and happiness. At bottom, however, this is nothing other than a morality aimed at happiness and therefore founded on self-interest, or eudaimonism, which Kant had solemnly thrown out through his system's front door as heteronomous, and which now slips back in through the rear door under the name of the *highest good*. Thus the assumption of an *unconditional, absolute ought*, harboring a contradiction, takes its revenge. A *conditional ought*, on the other hand, can certainly be no fundamental ethical concept, because everything done with a view to reward or punishment is necessarily egoistic action and, as such, without purely moral worth.—All this makes clear that a more expansive and unprejudiced conception of ethics is needed if we are serious about truly fathoming the eternal significance of human conduct, which reaches beyond appearance.\n\nJust as every *ought* is wholly bound to a condition, so is every *duty*. For the two concepts are very closely related and almost identical. The sole difference between them may be that an *ought* can also rest on mere coercion, whereas *duty* presupposes *obligation*, that is, the acceptance of a *duty*. Such an obligation exists between master and servant, superior and subordinate, government and subject. Precisely because no one accepts a *duty* for nothing, every *duty* also confers a right. The slave has no *duty*, because he has no right; but there is an *ought* for him, resting on mere coercion. In the following part I shall establish the only meaning the concept of *duty* has in ethics.\n\nThe conception of ethics in an *imperative* form, as a *doctrine of duties*, and the conception of the moral worth or unworthiness of human actions as the fulfillment or violation of *duties*, together with the *ought*, undeniably derive solely from theological morality and ultimately from the Decalogue. Accordingly, this conception rests essentially on the assumption that the human being depends on another will, which commands him and announces reward or punishment; it cannot be separated from that assumption. However firmly established the assumption of such a will may be in theology, it cannot simply and silently be imported into philosophical morality. Nor, then, may we assume in advance that the *imperative form*, the laying down of commandments, laws, and duties, is self-evident in philosophical morality and essential to it. It is a poor expedient to replace the external condition intrinsically attached to such concepts by the word \"absolute\" or \"categorical,\" thereby producing, as I have said, a contradiction in terms.\n\nBut once Kant had silently and uncritically borrowed this *imperative form* of ethics from theological morality—whose premises, that is, theology, actually underlie that form and, as the sole source of its sense and meaning, are inseparable from it, indeed implicitly contained in it—he then had an easy task at the end of his exposition in developing a theology out of his morality in turn: the familiar moral theology. He needed only to bring expressly to light the concepts which the *ought* implicitly posited, and which lay concealed beneath his morality, and now set them forth explicitly as postulates of practical reason. Thus, to the world's great edification, there appeared a theology supported solely by morality, indeed born from it. But this happened because that morality itself rested on concealed theological premises. I intend no mocking comparison, but in its form the affair resembles the surprise a performer of natural magic prepares for us when he has us find something in the place where he had prudently planted it beforehand.—Stated in the abstract, Kant's procedure is this: he made into the result what ought to have been the principle or premise—theology—and took as the premise what ought to have been derived as the result—the commandment. But once he had stood the thing on its head in this way, no one, not even he himself, recognized it for what it was: the old, familiar theological morality. We shall examine the execution of this trick in the sixth and seventh sections.\n\nEven before *Kant*, to be sure, the conception of morality in the imperative form and as a doctrine of duties had frequently been used in philosophy as well. But morality itself was then also founded on the will of a God already proved by other means, and so remained consistent. Once, however, one undertook, as Kant did, to establish an independent foundation and to secure ethics without metaphysical premises, one was no longer entitled to take that imperative form, that \"you shall\" and \"it is your duty,\" as the basis without deriving it independently.\n\n4. \"For since it would be utterly futile to assume a guiding rule laid down for a person's free actions without attaching something to it that gave it force by determining his will through well-being and suffering, wherever we assume a law we must also assume some reward or punishment attached to that law.\" (On Understanding, vol. II, c. 33, §. 6.)\n\n### Section 5\n\nOn the Assumption of Duties to Ourselves in Particular.\n\n*Kant* also left this form of a doctrine of duties, so welcome to him, untouched in its application insofar as, like his predecessors, he laid down duties to ourselves alongside duties to others. Since I reject this assumption outright, I shall insert my explanation here as a digression, where it best suits the course of the argument.\n\nDuties to ourselves, like all duties, must be either duties of justice or duties of love. *Duties of justice* to ourselves are impossible, by the self-evident principle that no wrong is done to one who consents: for since what I do is always what I will, what I do to myself is likewise always only what I will, and therefore never a wrong. As for *duties of love* to ourselves, morality finds its work already done and arrives too late. The impossibility of violating the duty of self-love is already presupposed by the supreme commandment of Christian morality: \"Love your neighbor as yourself.\" Here the love each person bears himself is assumed in advance as the maximum and the condition of every other love. By no means is it added: \"Love yourself as your neighbor\"—for everyone would feel that this asked too little. It would also be the one duty in which doing more than was required would be the order of the day. Even Kant says, in the \"Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue,\" p. 13 (R., p. 230): \"What everyone inevitably already wills of his own accord does not fall under the concept of duty.\" Nevertheless, this concept of duties to ourselves has retained its standing and enjoys particular favor everywhere, which is hardly surprising. But it has an amusing effect when people begin to fear for their own safety and then speak in all seriousness of the duty of self-preservation, although it is plain enough that fear will set them running without any command of duty to give them a push.\n\nWhat is usually set forth as duties to ourselves consists, first of all, in an argument against *suicide*, deeply entangled in prejudices and conducted on the shallowest grounds. The human being alone is exposed not merely, like the animal, to *bodily* sufferings confined to the present, but also to the incomparably greater sufferings of the *mind*, which borrow from the future and the past. As compensation, nature has granted him the privilege of ending his life at will, even before she herself sets its limit: thus, unlike the animal, he need not live as long as he can, but only as long as he *wants* to. Whether ethical grounds require him to renounce this privilege is a difficult question, one that certainly cannot be settled by the customary shallow arguments. Even the reasons against suicide which Kant does not disdain to advance on p. 53 (R., p. 48) and p. 67 (R., p. 57) I cannot in good conscience call anything but paltry things that do not even deserve an answer. One cannot help laughing at the thought that reflections of this kind were supposed to have wrested the dagger from the hands of Cato, Cleopatra, Cocceius Nerva (Tac. Ann., VI, 26), or Arria, the wife of Paetus (Plin. Ep., III, 16). If genuinely moral motives against suicide do exist, they lie very deep in any case and cannot be reached by the plumb line of ordinary ethics; rather, they belong to a higher mode of reflection than even the standpoint of the present essay permits.[5]\n\nWhat is usually presented besides this under the heading of duties to oneself consists partly of rules of prudence, partly of precepts for healthy living, neither of which belongs to morality proper. Finally, the prohibition of unnatural sexual pleasure is also placed here: masturbation, pederasty, and bestiality. Of these, masturbation is chiefly a vice of childhood, and combating it is far more a matter of health regimens than of ethics. That is precisely why the books against it have been written by physicians, such as Tissot and others, not by moralists. Once the science of health regimens and hygiene have done their part in this matter and struck it down with irrefutable arguments, if morality now wishes to take it in hand, it finds the work so thoroughly done that little remains for it.—Bestiality, in turn, is a wholly abnormal offense, very rarely encountered, and thus truly exceptional; it is also so profoundly repugnant and contrary to human nature that it speaks against itself and deters more powerfully than any rational arguments could. Moreover, as a degradation of human nature, it is quite properly an offense against the species as such and in the abstract, not against individual human beings.—Of the three sexual offenses under discussion, then, only pederasty falls within the province of ethics, where it will naturally find its place in the treatment of justice. For it violates justice, and the principle that no wrong is done to one who consents cannot be invoked against this: the wrong lies in seducing the younger, inexperienced party, who is thereby corrupted physically and morally.\n\n5. These are ascetic grounds: they can be found in the fourth book of my principal work, vol. I, §. 69.\n\n### Section 6\n\nOn the Foundation of Kantian Ethics.\n\nClosely bound up with the *imperative form* of ethics, shown in §. 4 to beg the question, is a favorite conception of Kant's, which may be excused but cannot be accepted.—We sometimes see a physician who, having used a remedy with brilliant success, proceeds to prescribe it for almost every illness: I compare Kant to such a physician. By separating the a priori from the a posteriori in human knowledge, he made the most brilliant and consequential discovery of which metaphysics can boast. What wonder that he should now seek to apply this method and distinction everywhere? Thus *ethics*, too, is to consist of a pure part, that is, one knowable a priori, and an empirical part. He rejects the latter as inadmissible for *establishing the foundation* of ethics. To discover the former and present it separately is his purpose in the \"Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals,\" which is accordingly to be a science entirely a priori, in the same sense as his \"Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science.\" Thus this *moral law*, assumed in advance to exist without warrant, derivation, or proof, is also to be knowable a priori, independent of all *inner as well as outer experience*, \"*resting solely on concepts of pure reason*; it is to be a *synthetic proposition a priori*\" (Critique of Practical Reason, S. 56 of the fourth edition;—R., S. 142). Closely connected with this is the requirement that, like everything known a priori, it must be merely *formal*, and thus concern only the *form*, not the *content*, of actions.—Consider what that means!—He expressly adds (S. VI of the preface to the Groundwork;—R., S. 5) that it \"must not be sought in human nature (the subjective), nor in the circumstances of the world (the objective),\" and (in the same place, S. VII; R., S. 6) that \"*not the slightest thing may be borrowed here from knowledge of the human being*, that is, from *anthropology*.\" He repeats (S. 59;—R., S. 52) \"that one must not so much as entertain the thought of deriving the reality of one's moral principle from the particular constitution of human nature\"; likewise (S. 60;—R., S. 52), that \"anything derived from a particular natural predisposition of humanity, from certain feelings and inclinations, or even, if possible, from a particular tendency peculiar to human nature that need not necessarily hold for the will of *every rational being*,\" can furnish no foundation for the moral law. This proves beyond dispute that he does *not present the alleged moral law as a fact of consciousness*, something empirically demonstrable—as the philosophizers of more recent times, one and all, would like to make it out to be. As he rejects all inner experience, so he rejects all outer experience still more decisively, repudiating every empirical foundation of morality. Thus—and I ask that this be carefully noted—he does not base his moral principle on any demonstrable *fact of consciousness*, such as an inner predisposition, any more than on some objective relation between things in the external world. No! That would be an empirical foundation. Instead, *pure concepts a priori*, that is, concepts which as yet have no content whatever drawn from outer or inner experience, and are therefore mere shells without kernels, are to be the foundation of morality. Consider how much this means: human consciousness, together with the entire external world and all the experience and facts within them, has been pulled away from beneath our feet. We have nothing to stand on. But what are we to hold on to? A pair of wholly abstract concepts, still entirely devoid of substance, themselves suspended in midair. From these—indeed, strictly speaking, from the mere form of their combination into judgments—a *law* is to emerge, one that is to hold with so-called *absolute necessity*, and to have the power to bridle and curb the pressure of desires, the storm of passion, the gigantic force of egoism. We shall see about that.\n\nClosely linked to this preconceived notion that the foundation of morality must possess *a priori character* and purity from everything empirical is a second favorite conception of Kant's: namely, since the moral principle to be established must be a *synthetic proposition a priori, with merely formal content*, and thus wholly a matter of *pure reason*, it is as such to hold not for *human beings* alone, but *for all possible rational beings*, and \"for that reason alone\"—thus incidentally and by accident—for human beings as well. For that is why it is based on pure reason, which knows nothing but itself and the principle of contradiction, rather than on any feeling. Here, then, this *pure reason* is not taken as a human faculty of knowledge, which is all it actually is; instead, it is *hypostatized as something existing in its own right*, without any warrant, and as a most pernicious example and precedent—as our present wretched philosophical age can testify. Yet this establishment of morality not for human beings as human beings, but for *all rational beings* as such, is so central a concern and so cherished a conception for *Kant* that he never tires of repeating it at every opportunity. Against this I maintain that we are never entitled to establish a genus given to us in only a single species. We could put absolutely nothing into its concept except what we had drawn from this *one* species; hence whatever we asserted of the genus would still have to be understood as applying only to the *one* species. Meanwhile, by unwarrantedly thinking away what belongs to this species in order to form the genus, we might have abolished precisely the condition that makes possible the remaining properties hypostatized as a genus. Just as we know *intelligence in general* only as a property of animal beings, and are therefore never entitled to think of it as existing apart from and independently of animal nature, so we know *reason* only as a property of the human race, and are absolutely not entitled to think of it as existing outside that race, or to establish a genus, \"rational beings,\" distinct from its sole species, \"human being\"; still less are we entitled to lay down laws for such imaginary *rational beings in the abstract*. To speak of rational beings other than human beings is no different from speaking of *heavy beings* other than bodies. One cannot escape the suspicion that *Kant* was thinking a little of the dear little angels here, or at least counting on their help in persuading the reader. At any rate, this tacitly presupposes the rational soul, which, wholly distinct from the sentient soul and the vegetative soul, would remain after death and then be nothing more than rational. Yet in the Critique of Pure Reason he himself explicitly and at length put an end to this wholly transcendent hypostasis. Meanwhile, in Kantian ethics, especially in the Critique of Practical Reason, the thought that the inner and eternal essence of the human being consists in *reason* can always be seen hovering in the background. Here, where the matter arises only incidentally, I must content myself with merely asserting the opposite: namely, that reason, like the faculty of knowledge in general, is something secondary, something belonging to appearance, indeed something conditioned by the organism, whereas the true core, the sole metaphysical and therefore indestructible element in the human being, is *the will*.\n\nThus, wishing to transfer to practical philosophy the method he had applied with such success in theoretical philosophy, and accordingly to separate pure a priori knowledge from empirical a posteriori knowledge here as well, Kant assumed that, just as we know the laws of space, time, and causality a priori, so too, or at least in an analogous manner, the moral standard for our conduct is given to us before all experience and expresses itself as a categorical imperative, as an absolute ought. But what a world of *difference* there is between those theoretical cognitions a priori and this alleged moral law a priori! The former rest on their expressing the mere forms, that is, functions, of our intellect, through which alone we are capable of apprehending an objective world, and in which that world therefore *must* present itself. For this very reason those forms legislate absolutely for it, so that all experience must invariably conform to them exactly, just as everything I see through blue glass *must* appear blue. The latter, by contrast, is mocked by experience at every turn; indeed, according to *Kant* himself, experience leaves it doubtful whether it has ever actually conformed to this law even once. What utterly disparate things are brought together here under the concept of *a priori character*! Moreover, Kant overlooked the fact that, according to his own doctrine in theoretical philosophy, it is precisely the *a priori character* of the cognitions just mentioned, their independence of experience, that restricts them to mere *appearance*, that is, to the representation of the world in our heads, and entirely deprives them of all validity with regard to the *essence in itself* of things, that is, what exists independently of our apprehension. Accordingly, in practical philosophy too, his alleged moral law, if it arises a priori in our heads, would likewise have to be merely a form of *appearance*, leaving the essence in itself of things untouched. But this consequence would stand in the sharpest contradiction both to the matter itself and to Kant's views of it, since he consistently presents precisely the *moral element in us* as most intimately connected with the true *essence in itself* of things, indeed as directly reaching it (for example, Critique of Practical Reason, S. 175;—R., S. 228). In the Critique of Pure Reason, too, wherever the mysterious *thing in itself* emerges at all more distinctly, it reveals itself as *the moral element* in us, as *will*.—But he passed over this.\n\nI showed in §. 4 that Kant simply took the *imperative form* of ethics, and thus the concepts of ought, law, and duty, from theological morality, while having to leave behind what alone gives those concepts force and meaning there. Yet to provide a foundation for these concepts nonetheless, he goes so far as to demand that the *concept of duty* itself should also be the *ground of its fulfillment*, and thus *what obligates us*. An action, he says (S. 11;—R., S. 18), has genuine moral worth only when it is done solely from *duty* and merely for the sake of *duty*, without any inclination toward it. The worth of character begins only when someone without sympathy in his heart, cold and indifferent to the sufferings of others, and *not really born a friend of humanity*, nevertheless bestows benefits merely for the sake of tiresome duty. This assertion, which outrages genuine moral feeling; this apotheosis of lovelessness, directly opposed to Christian moral teaching, which places love above all else and allows nothing to count without it (1 Corinthians, 13, 3); this tactless moral pedantry was satirized by *Schiller* in two apt epigrams entitled \"Scruples of Conscience and Decision.\" Their immediate occasion seems to have been certain passages of the Critique of Practical Reason that belong entirely to the present discussion, for example, S. 150;—R., S. 211: \"The disposition incumbent on a human being in obeying the moral law is to obey it from *duty*, not from *voluntary affection*, nor even from some endeavor gladly undertaken of one's own accord and *without being commanded*.\"—It must be *commanded*! What a slave morality! And in the same work, S. 213;—R., S. 257, we read \"that feelings of compassion and tenderhearted sympathy would be burdensome even to right-minded people, because they would throw their considered maxims into confusion and thus produce the wish to be rid of them and subject to legislative reason alone.\" I confidently maintain that what opens the hand of the loveless benefactor described above (S. 11;—R., S. 18), indifferent to the sufferings of others—unless he has ulterior motives—can never be anything but slavish *superstitious fear*, whether he calls his fetish the \"categorical imperative\" or Fitzlipuzli.[6] What else could move a hard heart but fear alone?\n\nIn keeping with the foregoing views, according to S. 13;—R., S. 19, the moral worth of an action is by no means to lie in the *intention* with which it was done, but in the maxim one followed. Against this I submit that the *intention alone* decides the moral worth or unworthiness of a deed, which is why the same deed can be reprehensible or praiseworthy according to its intention. Thus, whenever people discuss an action of any moral significance, everyone inquires into the *intention* and judges the action by this alone; conversely, everyone appeals to the *intention* alone to justify himself when he sees his action misconstrued, or to excuse himself when it has had a harmful outcome.\n\nOn page 14;—R., S. 20, we finally receive the definition of the fundamental concept of all Kantian ethics, *duty*: it is \"*the necessity of an action from respect for the law*.\"—But what is *necessary* happens and is inevitable; whereas actions from pure duty not only fail to occur in most cases, but Kant himself even admits, S. 25;—R., S. 28, that we have *no certain examples at all* of the disposition to act from pure duty; and on S. 26;—R., S. 29, \"it is absolutely impossible through experience to establish with certainty *a single case* in which an action conforming to duty rested solely on the representation of duty\"; likewise S. 28;—R., S. 30, and S. 49;—R., S. 50. In what sense, then, can *necessity* be ascribed to such an action? Since it is only fair always to interpret an author as favorably as possible, let us say he means that an action conforming to duty is *objectively* necessary but *subjectively* contingent. Yet precisely this is not as easy to conceive as to say: where is the *object* of this *objective* necessity, whose effect in objective reality fails to appear in most cases, and perhaps always? With all fairness of interpretation, I still cannot help saying that the expression \"*necessity of an action*\" in the definition is nothing but an artfully concealed, highly strained paraphrase of the word *ought*. This purpose becomes clearer still when we notice that the same definition uses the word *respect* where *obedience* was meant. For the note on S. 16;—R., S. 20, says: \"*Respect* means merely the subordination of my will to a law. The immediate determination by the law, and the consciousness of it, is called *respect*.\" In what language? In German, what is described here is called *obedience*. But since the word respect cannot have been substituted so inappropriately for the word *obedience* without a reason, it must serve some purpose; and this is plainly none other than to obscure the descent of the imperative form and the concept of duty from theological morality. We saw above, similarly, that the expression *necessity of an action*, which takes the place of *ought* in so strained and clumsy a fashion, was chosen only because *ought* is precisely the language of the *Decalogue*. The foregoing definition, \"Duty is the necessity of an action from respect for the law,\" would therefore read, in natural and undisguised language, that is, without a mask: \"*Duty* means an action that *ought* to be done in *obedience* to a law.\"—That is \"the poodle's core.\"\n\nBut now for the *law*, this final foundation stone of Kantian ethics! *What is its content? And where is it written?* This is the chief question. I note first that these are *two* questions: one concerns the *principle*, the other the *foundation* of ethics—two entirely different things, though they are usually, and sometimes perhaps deliberately, confused.\n\nThe *principle*, or supreme *fundamental proposition*, of an ethics is the shortest and most concise expression of the conduct it prescribes, or, if it had no imperative form, of the conduct to which it attributes genuine moral worth. It is therefore its direction toward virtue in general expressed in *one* proposition, and thus the what of virtue.—The *foundation* of an ethics, by contrast, is the why of virtue, the *ground* of that obligation, recommendation, or praise, whether this is sought in human nature, in the external circumstances of the world, or anywhere else. In ethics, as in all sciences, one should clearly distinguish the what from the why. Most writers on ethics, however, deliberately blur this distinction, probably because the what is so easy to state, while the why is so terribly difficult. Hence they gladly seek to compensate for poverty on the *one* side with riches on the *other*, and, by combining both in *one* proposition, to bring about a happy marriage of Penia (Poverty) with Poros (Resource). This usually happens by not stating the what, familiar to everyone, in its simplicity, but forcing it into an artificial formula from which it must first be inferred as the conclusion from given premises. The reader then feels as though he had learned not merely the matter itself, but also its ground. Most of the well-known moral principles readily bear this out. But since, in the following part, I do not intend to perform such tricks myself, but to proceed honestly—not to pass off the *principle* of ethics as its *foundation* at the same time, but to distinguish the two quite clearly—I will here and now reduce that what, that is, the *principle*, the *fundamental proposition* on whose content all writers on ethics are really agreed, however variously they clothe it, to the expression I consider the simplest and purest of all: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. This is really the proposition that all moral teachers labor to *establish*: the common result of their very diverse deductions. It is the what for which the why is still being sought, the consequence for which the ground is demanded, and thus itself only the given, for which the sought-for answer is the problem of every ethics, as of the present prize question. The solution of this problem will provide the true *foundation* of ethics, sought for thousands of years like the philosopher's stone. That the given, the what, the principle, really finds its purest expression in the formula above is evident from the fact that this formula stands to every other moral principle as the conclusion to the premises, and thus as the point one actually wishes to reach. Every other moral principle must therefore be regarded as a paraphrase, an indirect or veiled expression, of that simple proposition. This applies, for example, even to the commonplace principle regarded as simple: What you do not want done to you, do not do to another[7]. Its deficiency—that it expresses only duties of justice, not duties of virtue—is easily remedied by repeating it without the two negatives. For then it too really means: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. But it reaches this by a detour, thereby acquiring the appearance of having also supplied the real ground, the why, of that precept. This is not the case, since it by no means follows from my not wanting something done to me that I ought not to do it to others. The same applies to every *principle* or supreme *fundamental proposition* of morality put forward so far.\n\nIf we now return to our earlier question—what does the *law* say, obedience to which constitutes duty according to Kant, and on what is it founded?—we shall find that Kant too has closely bound the *principle* of morality to its *foundation* in a highly artificial manner. I now recall Kant's demand, considered at the outset, that the moral principle should be purely a priori and purely formal, indeed a synthetic proposition a priori, and therefore must have no material content and rest on nothing empirical whatever: neither on anything objective in the external world nor on anything subjective in consciousness, such as a feeling, inclination, or drive. Kant was clearly aware of the difficulty of this task, for on S. 60;—R., S. 53, he says: \"Here we now see philosophy placed in a precarious position indeed, one that is supposed to be firm although it neither hangs from nor rests on anything in heaven or on earth.\" All the more eagerly, then, must we look forward to the solution of the task he has set himself, and await with curiosity how something is now to arise from nothing—that is, how laws of material human action are to take solid form out of purely a priori concepts, without any empirical or material content at all. As a symbol of this process we may take the chemical one through which solid sal ammoniac forms before our eyes from three invisible gases (nitrogen, hydrogen, chlorine), and thus in apparently empty space.—But I will present the process by which Kant solves this difficult task more clearly than he himself wished or was able to do. This may be all the more necessary since it seems seldom to have been properly understood. For almost all Kantians have fallen into the error of supposing that Kant directly presents the categorical imperative as a fact of consciousness. But then it would have an *anthropological* foundation, established through *experience*, albeit inner experience, and thus *empirically*—which runs directly counter to Kant's view and is repeatedly rejected by him. Accordingly, on S. 48;—R., S. 44, he says that \"it cannot be determined empirically whether any such categorical imperative exists at all\"; and likewise on S. 49;—R., S. 45, that \"the possibility of the categorical imperative must be investigated entirely a priori, since here we do not have the advantage of its actuality being given in experience.\" Yet already his first disciple, *Reinhold*, is caught in this error, saying in his \"Contributions to a Survey of Philosophy at the Beginning of the 19th Century,\" issue 2, S. 21: \"Kant assumes the moral law as an immediately certain fact, as an original fact of moral consciousness.\" But had Kant wished to establish the categorical imperative as a fact of consciousness, and thus empirically, he would not have failed at least to demonstrate it as such. Yet nothing of the kind is found anywhere. To my knowledge, the categorical imperative makes its first appearance in the Critique of Pure Reason (S. 802 of the first and S. 830 of the fifth edition), where it appears entirely out of the blue, unannounced and connected with the preceding sentence only by a wholly unwarranted \"therefore.\" It is first formally introduced in the \"Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals,\" to which we are here giving particular attention, and introduced entirely by an *a priori* route, through a deduction from concepts. By contrast, a \"Formula of Concord for Critical Philosophy\" in the fifth issue of *Reinhold's* journal just mentioned, so important for critical philosophy, even advances the following proposition on S. 122: \"We distinguish moral self-consciousness from the *experience* with which it is connected in human consciousness as an original *fact* beyond which no knowledge can go; and by that self-consciousness we understand the *immediate consciousness of duty*, that is, of the *necessity* of adopting the will's conformity to law, independent of pleasure and displeasure, as the incentive and guiding standard of acts of will.\"—There indeed we would have \"a substantial proposition, yes, and one that really posits something.\" (Schiller.)\n\nBut seriously: into what an impudent begging of the question do we see Kant's moral law grown here! If this were true, ethics would indeed have a foundation of incomparable solidity, and no prize questions would be needed to encourage the search for it. But then the greatest wonder would also be that such a fact of consciousness had been discovered so late, while for thousands of years people had been earnestly and laboriously seeking a foundation for morality. How Kant himself gave occasion for the error censured here I shall show below. One might nevertheless wonder at the unchallenged reign of such a fundamental error among the Kantians. Yet while writing countless books about Kant's philosophy, they did not even notice the disfigurement suffered by the Critique of Pure Reason in its second edition, which made it an incoherent, self-contradictory book. This has only now come to light and has, I think, been explained entirely correctly in Rosenkranz's preface to the second volume of the collected edition of Kant's works. We must remember that, for many scholars, incessant teaching from the lectern and in print leaves little time for thorough learning. \"By teaching I learn\" is not unconditionally true; rather, one might sometimes parody it: \"By always teaching I learn nothing.\" There is even some justification for what *Diderot* puts into the mouth of Rameau's nephew: \"And these teachers—do you think they will understand the sciences they teach? Nonsense, my dear sir, nonsense. If they possessed enough knowledge to teach them, they would not teach them.\"—\"And why?\"—\"They would have spent their lives studying them.\" (Goethe's translation, S. 104.)—Lichtenberg too says: \"I have noticed this often before: the professionals frequently do not know the best of it.\" But as for the public—to return to Kantian morality—most people, provided only that the result accords with their moral feelings, immediately assume that its derivation must be sound. If it looks difficult, they will not probe it deeply, but rely in this on the people \"in the field.\"\n\n*Kant's grounding of his moral law* is therefore by no means its empirical demonstration as a fact of consciousness, nor an appeal to moral feeling, nor a begging of the question under the fashionable, imposing name of an \"absolute postulate.\" Rather, it is a very subtle process of thought, which he presents to us twice, S. 17 and 51;—R., S. 22 and 46, and of which the following is a clarified account.\n\nSince Kant, in disdaining all empirical incentives of the will, has removed in advance as empirical everything objective and everything subjective on which a law for it could be founded, nothing remains to him as the *matter* of this *law* but its own *form*. This, however, is merely *lawfulness*. But *lawfulness* consists in holding for everyone, and thus in *universal validity*. This, then, becomes the *matter*. Consequently, the content of the law is nothing other than its own *universal validity*. Accordingly, it will read: \"Act only on the maxim that you can at the same time will to become a universal law for all rational beings.\"—This, then, is Kant's actual *grounding of the moral principle*, so generally misunderstood, and thus the *foundation* of his entire ethics.—Compare also Critique of Practical Reason, S. 61;—R., S. 147, the end of note 1.—I offer my sincere admiration for the great ingenuity with which Kant has performed this feat, but continue my earnest examination by the standard of truth. I merely note further, with a view to taking it up again later, that *reason*, when and insofar as it carries out the particular reasoning just set forth, receives the name *practical reason*. The categorical imperative of practical reason, however, is the law that results from the process of thought described. Thus practical reason is by no means, as most people, and already Fichte, regarded it, a special faculty that cannot be traced further back, a hidden quality, a kind of instinct for morality resembling Hutcheson's moral sense. Rather, it is—as Kant also says in the preface, S. XII;—R., S. 8, and often enough elsewhere—one and the same as *theoretical reason*: it is precisely theoretical reason itself insofar as it carries out the process of thought described. For Fichte calls Kant's categorical imperative an *absolute postulate* (Foundation of the Entire Science of Knowledge, Tübingen 1802, S. 240, note). This is the modern euphemistic expression for begging the question, and this is how he himself consistently understood the categorical imperative; he is therefore also caught in the error censured above.\n\nThe first and most direct objection to this foundation Kant has given morality is that such an origin for a moral law within us is impossible: it presupposes that a human being would quite spontaneously conceive the idea of looking and asking for a *law* for his will, to which that will would have to submit and conform. Yet this cannot possibly occur to him of its own accord, but at most only after some other moral incentive—positively effective, real, and as such making itself known of its own accord, acting upon him unbidden, indeed pressing in upon him—had supplied the first impulse and occasion. But anything of this kind would conflict with Kant's assumption that the process of thought described above is *itself* supposed to be the origin of all moral concepts, the first vital impulse of morality. So long, then, as this is *not* the case, since by hypothesis there is no moral incentive other than the process of thought set out above, egoism alone remains the guiding rule of human action, following the law of motivation. That is, in every individual case, the particular motives, entirely empirical and egoistic, determine human action alone and undisturbed. For on this assumption there is nothing to prompt a person, and no reason whatever why it should occur to him to ask after a law that would restrict his willing and to which he would have to subject it, let alone to investigate and ponder over such a law—which alone would first make it possible for him to arrive at the peculiar train of thought of the foregoing reflection. It makes no difference here what degree of clarity one wishes to assign to Kant's reflective process, or whether one would prefer to tone it down into a merely dimly felt deliberation. No alteration on this point affects the fundamental truths that nothing comes from nothing and that an effect requires a cause. The moral incentive, like every motive that moves the will, must absolutely be something that makes itself known of its own accord, and therefore acts positively, and is consequently *real*. And since, for human beings, only what is empirical, or at least presupposed as possibly existing empirically, has reality, the moral incentive must in fact be *empirical*, and as such make itself known unbidden, come to us without waiting for us to inquire after it, press in upon us of its own accord—and with such force that it can at least possibly overcome the opposing egoistic motives, powerful as giants. For morality concerns human beings' *actual* conduct, not the building of houses of cards a priori, whose results no one would heed amid the gravity and urgency of life, and whose effect against the storm of the passions would therefore be that of an enema syringe against a conflagration. I have already mentioned that Kant regards it as a great merit of his moral law that it rests solely on abstract, pure concepts a priori, hence on *pure reason*, and is thereby valid not merely for human beings but for all rational beings as such. We must regret all the more that pure, abstract concepts a priori, without real content and without any empirical foundation whatever, can never set *human beings*, at least, in motion; of other rational beings I cannot speak. The second defect in Kant's foundation of morality is therefore its lack of real content. This has hitherto escaped notice because probably very few of those who have celebrated and propagated Kant's morality have ever thoroughly understood its actual *foundation*, clearly set out above. The second defect, then, is a complete lack of reality and consequently of any possible efficacy. It hangs in the air, a cobweb of the subtlest and emptiest concepts, resting on nothing, and therefore able to support nothing and move nothing. And yet Kant has loaded it with a burden of infinite weight: the presupposition of freedom of the will.\n\nDespite his repeatedly expressed conviction that freedom cannot possibly occur in human actions, that theoretically not even its possibility can be understood (Critique of Practical Reason, S. 168;—R., S. 223), and that, given exact knowledge of a person's character and of all the motives acting upon him, his conduct could be calculated as certainly and precisely as a lunar eclipse (in the same work, S. 177;—R., S. 230), freedom is nevertheless assumed, if only in idea and as a postulate, solely on the credit of this foundation of morality that hangs so unsupported in the air, through the famous inference: \"You can, because you ought.\" But once we have clearly recognized that something does not and cannot exist, what good is any amount of postulating? Rather, we should reject that on which the postulate rests, because it is an impossible presupposition, following the rule that the inference from impossibility to nonexistence is valid, and by a proof by contradiction—which here would overthrow the categorical imperative. Instead, one false doctrine is built upon another.\n\nKant himself must secretly have been aware of the inadequacy of a foundation of morality consisting solely of a few entirely abstract and empty concepts. For in the Critique of Practical Reason, where, as I have said, his procedure is already less rigorous and methodical overall, and the fame he has now won has made him bolder, the foundation of ethics very gradually changes its nature, almost forgets that it is a mere web of combinations of abstract concepts, and seems to aspire to something more substantial. Thus, for example, in that work, S. 81;—R., S. 163, \"the moral law\" is \"*as it were a fact of pure reason*.\" What are we to make of this strange expression? Everywhere else, the factual is contrasted with what can be known through pure reason.—Likewise, in the same work, S. 83;—R., S. 164, there is talk of \"a reason that determines the will *immediately*,\" and so on.—Here we should remember that in the *Groundwork* he expressly and repeatedly rejects any anthropological grounding, any demonstration of the categorical imperative as a fact of consciousness, because it would be *empirical*.—Yet, emboldened by such incidental remarks, Kant's successors went much farther down this path. *Fichte* (System of Ethics, S. 49) warns outright \"that we should not allow ourselves to be tempted to explain further the consciousness that we have duties, or to seek to derive it from grounds outside itself, because this would impair the dignity and absoluteness of the law.\" A fine excuse!—And then, in the same work, S. 66, he says that \"the principle of morality is a thought grounded in the *intellectual intuitive perception* of the absolute activity of intelligence, and is pure intelligence's immediate concept of itself.\" What phrases a windbag like this uses to conceal his helplessness!—Anyone wishing to see how completely the Kantians gradually forgot and ignored Kant's original grounding and derivation of the moral law should consult a very readable essay in *Reinhold's* Contributions to a Survey of Philosophy at the Beginning of the 19th Century, issue 2, 1801. There, S. 105 and 106, it is asserted \"that in Kantian philosophy autonomy (which is one with the categorical imperative) is a fact of consciousness and cannot be traced back to anything further, since it makes itself known through an immediate consciousness.\"—In that case it would have an anthropological, hence empirical, foundation, contrary to Kant's explicit and repeated declarations.—Nevertheless, in the same work, S. 108, we read: \"Both in the practical philosophy of criticism and in the whole of purified or higher transcendental philosophy, autonomy is that which grounds itself and supplies a ground, which is neither capable of nor in need of any further grounding, the absolutely original, the true and certain through itself, the primal truth, the prior in the highest sense, the absolute principle.—Anyone, therefore, who suspects, demands, or seeks a ground for this autonomy outside itself—of him the Kantian school must believe either that he lacks moral consciousness[8] or that he misconstrues it in speculation through false fundamental concepts. The Fichte-Schelling school declares him afflicted with that lack of spirit which makes a person incapable of philosophizing and constitutes the character of the unholy rabble and sluggish cattle—or, as Schelling puts it more gently, of the profane crowd and the sluggish herd.\" Everyone can feel what the truth of a doctrine must amount to when people seek to extort assent to it with such trump cards. Yet it is from the respect these inspired that we must explain the truly childlike credulity with which the Kantians accepted the categorical imperative and thereafter treated it as an established fact. For since disputing a theoretical assertion could here readily be confused with moral depravity, everyone, even if he discerned little of the categorical imperative in his own consciousness, preferred to keep quiet about it, secretly supposing that in others it must be more strongly developed and emerge more distinctly. For no one gladly turns the inside of his conscience outward.\n\nThus, increasingly, practical reason with its categorical imperative appears in the Kantian school as a hyperphysical fact, as a Delphic temple in the human mind, from whose dark sanctuary oracles infallibly announce—not, unfortunately, what *will* happen, but at least what *ought to* happen. Once assumed—or rather smuggled in and wrung out by sheer defiance—this *immediacy of practical reason* was later unfortunately transferred to *theoretical* reason as well, especially since Kant himself had often said that the two were, after all, one and the same reason (for example, Preface, S. XII;—R., S. 8). For once it had been conceded that in *practical* matters there was a reason issuing decrees from the prophetic tripod, it was a very short step to grant the same privilege to its sister—indeed, strictly speaking, its consubstantial sister—*theoretical reason*, and to declare it equally free of intermediate authority. The advantage of this was as immeasurable as it was obvious. Now all the sham philosophers and fantasists, led by J. H. Jacobi, the denouncer of atheists, streamed toward this little door that had unexpectedly opened for them, to bring their trifles to market, or at least to rescue their favorite pieces from the old inheritance that Kant's doctrine threatened to grind to dust.—Just as in an individual's life a single youthful misstep often ruins the whole course of life, so *Kant's* one false assumption of a practical *reason* equipped with entirely transcendent credentials and deciding, like the highest courts of appeal, \"without grounds,\" had the consequence that doctrines utterly foreign to the rigorous, sober critical philosophy sprang from it: doctrines of a *reason* that at first merely had a faint \"*presentiment*\" of the \"*supersensible*,\" then distinctly \"*apprehended*\" it, and finally even \"*intellectually intuited*\" it in person. Any fantasist could now pass off his dreams as this reason's \"absolute\" pronouncements and revelations—that is, pronouncements delivered from the prophetic tripod. This new privilege was conscientiously exploited. Here, then, lies the origin of that philosophical method which appeared immediately after Kant's doctrine and consists in mystifying, overawing, deceiving, throwing dust in people's eyes, and windbaggery, whose era the history of philosophy will one day list under the title \"Period of Dishonesty.\" For the *character of honesty*, of investigating in company with the reader, which marks the writings of all earlier philosophers, has vanished here: the sham philosopher of this age seeks not to instruct his reader but to befool him; every page bears witness to it. *Fichte* and *Schelling* shine as the heroes of this period, but finally so does *Hegel*, the clumsy, witless charlatan, wholly unworthy even of them and standing far below these men of talent. The chorus was supplied by all manner of professors of philosophy who, with solemn faces, told their public stories about the Infinite, the Absolute, and many other things of which they could know absolutely nothing.\n\nEven the paltry witticism that because the word *\"Vernunft\" (\"reason\")* comes from *\"Vernehmen\" (\"apprehending\")*, it means that *reason* is a faculty for apprehending that so-called \"*supersensible*\" (Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, Cloud-Cuckoo-Land), had to serve as a stepping-stone to this *prophethood of reason*. The notion met with boundless applause and was incessantly repeated in Germany for 30 years with unspeakable satisfaction, indeed made the cornerstone of philosophical systems—although it is plain that *\"Vernunft\"* does indeed come from *\"Vernehmen\"*, but only because it gives human beings the advantage over animals of not merely *hearing* but also *apprehending*: not, however, what goes on in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, but what one rational person says to another. This is *apprehended* by the other, and the capacity to do so is called *reason*. Thus have all peoples, all ages, and all languages understood the concept of *reason*: as the faculty of universal, abstract, nonperceptual representations, called *concepts*, which are designated and fixed by words. This faculty alone is what human beings really possess beyond animals. For these *abstract* representations, *concepts*—that is, collective representations of many individual things—make language possible; through language, thinking proper; through thinking, consciousness not merely of the present, which animals too possess, but of the past and future as such; and through this in turn, distinct recollection, reflection, foresight, intention, the planned cooperation of many, the state, trades, arts, sciences, religions, and philosophies—in short, everything that so strikingly distinguishes human life from animal life. For animals there are only *perceptual* representations and therefore only *perceptual* motives: the dependence of their acts of will on motives is consequently obvious. This dependence is no less present in human beings, and motives move them too, given their individual characters, with the strictest necessity. Yet these motives are mostly not *perceptual* but *abstract* representations—that is, *concepts*, *thoughts*, which are nevertheless the result of earlier intuitive perceptions, hence of influences acting on them from outside. But this gives human beings a *relative* freedom, namely in comparison with animals. For they are determined not, like animals, by their *perceptually given*, present surroundings, but by their *thoughts*, drawn from earlier experiences or received through instruction. Hence the motive that moves them too with necessity is not before the spectator's eyes together with the deed: they carry it around in their heads. This gives not only their conduct and activity as a whole, but even all their movements, a character visibly different from those of animals: they are drawn, as it were, by finer, invisible threads. Hence all their movements bear the stamp of deliberateness and intention, giving them an appearance of independence that visibly distinguishes them from those of animals. Yet all these great differences depend entirely on the capacity for *abstract representations*, concepts. This capacity, therefore, is the essence of *reason*, that is, of the faculty distinguishing *human beings*, called the rational faculty, the reasoning faculty, reason, reason, discourse, reason, reason, discourse of reason.—But if I am asked what, in contrast, *understanding*—mind, intellect, understanding, understanding—is, I say: it is the cognitive faculty that animals also possess, though to varying degrees, and we possess to the highest degree; namely, the immediate consciousness, preceding all experience, of the *law of causality*, which constitutes the very form of understanding and in which its entire essence consists. On it depends, first of all, *intuitive perception* of the external world. For the senses by themselves are capable only of *sensation*, which is far from being *intuitive perception*, but is merely its material: the mind sees and the mind hears; all else is deaf and blind (mind sees, mind hears; the rest is deaf and blind). *Intuitive perception* arises when we immediately refer the *sensation* of the sense organs to its *cause*, which, through precisely this act of intelligence, presents itself as an *external object* in space, our form of intuitive perception. This proves that we are conscious of the law of causality a priori and that it does not come from experience, since experience itself, presupposing *intuitive perception*, becomes possible only through that law. In the *perfection* of this entirely immediate apprehension of *causal relations* lies all superiority of understanding, all cleverness, sagacity, penetration, and acuteness: for it underlies all knowledge of the *connections* between things, in the widest sense of the word. Its acuity and accuracy make *one* person *stronger in understanding*, cleverer, shrewder than *another*. By contrast, the person called *rational* in every age has been *one* who lets himself be guided not by perceptual impressions but by *thoughts and concepts*, and therefore always proceeds with deliberation, consistency, and reflection. Such conduct is everywhere called *rational conduct*. Yet it by no means implies integrity and human kindness. On the contrary, we can proceed with the utmost rationality, hence deliberately, reflectively, consistently, according to plan and method, while following the most selfish, unjust, even depraved maxims. Hence before *Kant* it never occurred to anyone to identify just, virtuous, and noble conduct with *rational* conduct: the two were perfectly well distinguished and kept separate. The one rests on the *manner of motivation*, the other on the *difference between fundamental maxims*. Only according to *Kant*, since virtue is supposed to spring from pure reason, are virtuous and rational one and the same—in defiance of the usage of all peoples, which is not accidental but the work of universal human knowledge and is therefore concordant. Rational and vicious can very well be combined; indeed, only through their combination do great, far-reaching crimes become possible. Likewise, irrational and noble can very well coexist: for example, when today I give a person in need what I myself will need tomorrow even more urgently than he does; when I let myself be carried away into giving a sufferer the sum my creditor is waiting for; and in very many other cases.\n\nBut, as I have said, this elevation of reason into the source of all virtue—resting on the assertion that, as *practical reason*, it oracularly issues unconditional imperatives purely a priori, and combined with the false explanation of *theoretical reason* advanced in the Critique of Pure Reason, that it is a faculty essentially directed toward the *unconditioned*, which takes shape in three alleged ideas (whose impossibility the understanding at the same time recognizes a priori)—led the babbling philosophers, with Jacobi at their head, through the example it offered for imitation in its faults, to their reason that immediately *apprehends* the \"*supersensible*,\" and to the absurd assertion that reason is a faculty essentially designed for things beyond all experience, hence for *metaphysics*, and immediately and intuitively knows the ultimate grounds of all things and all existence, the supersensible, the Absolute, the Deity, and so forth.—Had people been willing to use *their reason* instead of deifying it, such assertions should long ago have been met by the simple observation that if human beings, by virtue of a special organ for solving the riddle of the world, constituting *their reason*, carried within themselves an innate metaphysics needing only development, there would have to be as complete agreement among them about the objects of metaphysics as about the truths of arithmetic and geometry. It would then be quite impossible for a great number of fundamentally different religions and an even greater number of fundamentally different philosophical systems to exist on earth. Rather, anyone who differed from the rest in religious or philosophical views would at once have to be regarded as someone not quite right in the head.—The following simple observation should have been no less compelling. If we discovered a species of ape that intentionally made itself tools for fighting, building, or some other use, we would immediately grant it *reason*. Yet when we find savage peoples without any metaphysics or religion, as such peoples do exist, it does not occur to us to deny them *reason* on that account. Through his critique, *Kant* confined to its limits the *reason* that *proves* its alleged supersensible knowledge; but Jacobi's *reason* that immediately *apprehends* the supersensible he would truly have found beneath all criticism. Meanwhile, a *reason* of this kind, exempt from intermediate authority, is still being foisted on innocent young men at the universities.\n\nNote.\n\nIf we wish to get to the very bottom of the assumption of practical *reason*, we must trace its genealogy a little farther back. We then find that it descends from a doctrine that *Kant* himself thoroughly refuted, but which nevertheless secretly, indeed without his own awareness, underlies his assumption of practical reason with its imperatives and autonomy, as a reminiscence of an earlier way of thinking. This is rational psychology, according to which a human being is composed of two entirely heterogeneous substances, the material body and the immaterial soul. *Plato* was the first to establish this dogma formally and attempt to prove it as an objective truth. *Descartes*, however, brought it to the summit of perfection and pushed it to its extreme by giving it the most precise elaboration and scientific rigor. Yet this very development brought its falsity to light, which was successively demonstrated by *Spinoza*, *Locke*, and *Kant*. By *Spinoza*—whose philosophy consists chiefly in refuting his teacher's twofold dualism—when, in direct and explicit opposition to *Descartes's* two substances, he made this his principal proposition: thinking substance and extended substance are one and the same substance, comprehended now under one attribute, now under the other. By *Locke*, when he contested innate ideas, derived all knowledge from sensory knowledge, and taught that it was not impossible for matter to think. By *Kant*, through the critique of rational psychology as it stands in the first edition. On the other side, however, *Leibniz* and *Wolff* championed the bad cause: this earned Leibniz the undeserved honor of being compared to the great *Plato*, so utterly different from him. This is not the place to elaborate all this. Now, according to this rational psychology, the soul was originally and essentially a *knowing* being, and only as a consequence of this also a *willing* one. Depending on whether, in these fundamental activities, it acted purely on its own and unmixed with the body, or in conjunction with it, the soul had a higher and a lower faculty of cognition, and likewise a higher and lower faculty of will. In the higher faculty, the immaterial soul acted entirely on its own, without the body's cooperation: here it was pure intellect, dealing solely with representations belonging to it alone, hence not sensory at all but purely spiritual, and with acts of will of the same kind, all of which were supposed to contain nothing sensory, since that originated in the body.[9] Here it knew nothing but pure abstractions, universals, innate concepts, eternal truths, and the like. Accordingly, its *willing* too stood solely under the influence of such purely spiritual representations. By contrast, the *lower* faculty of cognition and will was the work of the soul acting in conjunction with the body and its organs and closely bound to them, but thereby impaired in its purely spiritual efficacy. This was supposed to include all *intuitively perceptual* cognition, which accordingly was supposed to be obscure and confused, while *abstract* cognition, consisting of abstracted concepts, was supposed to be distinct! The will determined by such sensorially conditioned cognition was the lower and generally bad one: for to it belonged *willing* guided by sensory stimulation, while the other was pure *willing*, guided by pure reason and belonging to the immaterial soul alone. The Cartesian *De la Forge* developed this doctrine most clearly in his Treatise on the Human Mind. There, c. 23, he says: It is only one and the same will that is called sensitive appetite when it is aroused by judgments formed as a consequence of the perceptions of the senses, and that is called rational appetite when the mind forms judgments concerning its own ideas, independently of the confused thoughts of the senses that are the causes of its inclinations.———What gave occasion for these two different propensities of the will to be taken for two different appetites is that very often one opposes the other, because the purpose the mind builds upon its own perceptions does not always agree with the thoughts suggested to the mind by the disposition of the body, through which it is often compelled to will one thing while its reason makes it desire another.—From the dimly conscious reminiscence of such views ultimately comes *Kant's* doctrine of the *autonomy* of the will, which, as the voice of pure practical reason, legislates for all rational beings as such and recognizes only *formal* determining grounds, in contrast to the *material* ones, which alone determine the lower faculty of desire, opposed by the higher.\n\nIncidentally, this whole view, first given a properly systematic presentation by *Descartes*, can already be found in Aristotle, who sets it out clearly enough in On the Soul, I, 1. Even *Plato* had already prepared the way for it and hinted at it in the Phaedo (S. 188 and 189, Bip.).—As a consequence of its Cartesian systematization and consolidation, however, a hundred years later we find it grown quite bold, pushed to its extreme, and thereby led toward disillusionment. Thus Muratori's On the Power of the Imagination, cap. 1–4 and 13, offers us a summary of the view then prevailing. Here imagination, whose function is the entire intuitive perception of the external world on the data of the senses, is a purely material, bodily, cerebral organ—the lower cognitive faculty—and the immaterial soul is left only thinking, reflecting, and deciding.—But this makes the matter distinctly questionable, and people must have felt it. For if matter is capable of the highly complicated apprehension of the world in intuitive perception, it is impossible to see why it should not also be capable of abstraction from that intuitive perception, and thereby of everything else. Clearly, abstraction is nothing more than dropping the determinations unnecessary to the purpose at hand, hence the individual and specific differences: for example, when I disregard what is peculiar to the sheep, the ox, the deer, the camel, and so on, and thus arrive at the concept of a ruminant. In this operation the representations lose their perceptual character, and precisely as merely abstract, nonperceptual representations—concepts—now need the word in order to be fixed and handled in consciousness.—For all this, however, we still see *Kant* under the lingering influence of that old doctrine when he establishes his practical reason with its imperatives.\n\n6. More correctly Huitzilopochtli, a Mexican deity.\n\n7. Hugo Grotius traces it back to Emperor Severus.\n\n8. Just as I thought! When they have nothing reasonable left to reply,  \nThey promptly shift it into your conscience.  \nSchiller.\n\n9. Pure intellection is intellection concerned with no bodily images. Cart., Medit., p. 188.\n\n### Section 7\n\nOn the Supreme Principle of Kantian Ethics.\n\nHaving examined the actual foundation of Kantian ethics in the preceding section, I now turn to the *supreme principle* of morality that rests on this foundation and is intimately connected, indeed fused, with it. We recall its wording: \"Act only on a maxim that you can at the same time will to hold as a universal law for all rational beings.\"—Let us overlook the curious procedure of telling someone who is, by assumption, seeking a law for his own conduct that he must first seek one for the conduct of every possible rational being; let us confine ourselves to the fact that this fundamental rule proposed by *Kant* is plainly not yet the moral principle itself, but only a heuristic rule for finding it—that is, an instruction on where to look for it. It is thus not yet ready money, but a sound bill of exchange. Who, then, is actually to redeem it? To speak the truth outright: a paymaster quite unexpected here—none other than *egoism*, as I shall immediately make clear.\n\nThe maxim itself, then, according to which I *can will* everyone to act, would alone be the true moral principle. My *ability to will* is the hinge on which the instruction turns. But what, precisely, *can I* will, and what can I not? Plainly, to determine what I *can will* in the sense intended, I again need a standard; only with this would I possess the key to an instruction delivered like a sealed order. Where, then, is this standard to be found?—Nowhere but in my *egoism*: the nearest, ever-ready, original, living norm of every act of will, which has at least the right of first occupancy over any moral principle.—For the instruction contained in Kant's supreme rule for discovering the actual moral principle rests on the tacit assumption that I *can will* only what leaves me best off. Now, in establishing a maxim to be followed universally, I must necessarily regard myself not merely as always the *active* party, but also as the potentially and sometimes *passive* one. From this standpoint, therefore, my *egoism* decides in favor of justice and human kindness—not because it wishes *to practice* them, but because it wishes *to receive* them, in the spirit of the miser who, after listening to a sermon on charity, exclaims:\n\n\"How thoroughly argued, how fine!—\n—I almost wish to beg.\"\n\n*Kant* himself cannot avoid supplying this indispensable key to the instruction that constitutes his supreme moral principle. Yet he does not do so at once, when setting it out, since that might cause offense, but at a respectable distance from it, deeper in the text. In this way it does not leap to the eye that, despite the sublime preparations a priori, egoism actually occupies the judgment seat and casts the deciding vote; and that, once it has decided from the standpoint of the potentially *passive* side, its decision is made binding on the *active* one. Thus on S. 19;—R., S. 24, we read: \"I *cannot will* a universal law of lying, because people would then no longer believe me, or would repay me *in kind*.\"—S. 55;—R., S. 49: \"The universality of a law permitting everyone to promise whatever occurs to him, with the intention of not keeping it, would make promising itself, and whatever purpose one might have in it, impossible, since *no one would believe* it.\"—On S. 56;—R., S. 50, concerning the maxim of unkindness, we read: \"A will that resolved on this would contradict itself, since *cases may arise* in which it needs the love and sympathy of others, and in which, through such a law of nature issuing from its own will, it would rob itself of all *hope of the assistance* it desires.\"—Likewise in the Critique of Practical Reason, Th. I, B. 1, Hauptst. 2, S. 123;—R., S. 192: \"If everyone viewed the distress of others with complete indifference, and you belonged to such an *order of things*, would you be in it with the consent of your will?\"—How rashly we enact an unjust law against ourselves! would be the answer. These passages sufficiently explain the sense in which *\"being able to will\"* is to be understood in *Kant's* moral principle. But the true character of that principle is expressed most clearly of all in the \"Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue,\" §. 30: \"For everyone wishes *to be helped*. But if he openly declared his maxim of being unwilling to help others, everyone would be entitled to refuse him assistance. Thus the self-interested maxim contradicts itself.\" *Be entitled*, it says, *be entitled*! Here, then, it is stated as plainly as can be that moral obligation rests entirely on an assumed *reciprocity*, and is therefore wholly egoistic, receiving its interpretation from egoism, which prudently agrees to a compromise on the *condition* of *reciprocity*. This would serve to establish the principle of political association, but not the moral principle. Thus, when the \"Groundwork,\" S. 81;—R., S. 67, says: \"The principle: Always act on a maxim whose universality as a law you can at the same time will—is the sole *condition* under which a will can never come into conflict with itself,\" the true interpretation of the word conflict is this: if a will had sanctioned the maxim of injustice and unkindness, it would later, should it become the *suffering party*, revoke that maxim and thereby *contradict* itself.\n\nThis explanation makes it perfectly clear that the Kantian fundamental rule is not, as he incessantly maintains, a *categorical* imperative, but in fact a *hypothetical* one. For it tacitly rests on the *condition* that the law I establish for my *acting*, by raising it to a *universal* law, also becomes a law for my *suffering*; and under this *condition*, as the potentially *passive* party, I certainly *cannot will* injustice and unkindness. But if I remove this *condition* and, perhaps in reliance on my superior powers of mind and body, regard myself, in choosing a universally valid maxim, as always the *active* party and never the *passive* one, then—assuming that morality has no foundation other than Kant's—I can very well will injustice and unkindness as a universal maxim, and accordingly order the world\n\nupon the simple plan,\nThat they should take, who have the power,\nAnd they should keep, who can.[10]\nWordsworth.\n\nThus, to the lack of a *real foundation* for Kant's supreme moral principle demonstrated in the preceding section, there is added, contrary to *Kant's* express assurance, its concealed *hypothetical* character. By virtue of this it is even based on mere *egoism*, the secret interpreter of the instruction it contains. Moreover, considered simply as a formula, it is only a paraphrase, a dressing-up, a veiled expression of the familiar rule: Do not do to another what you do not wish done to yourself—provided, that is, that by repeating it without the two negatives, we free it from the defect of containing duties of justice alone and not those of loving-kindness. For this is plainly the only maxim according to which I can will everyone to act—taking into account, of course, my possibly *passive* role, and thus my *egoism*. Yet this rule, Do not do to another what you do not wish, etc., is itself only a paraphrase, or, if one prefers, a premise, of the proposition I have put forward as the simplest and purest expression of the conduct unanimously demanded by all moral systems: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. This is and remains the true, pure content of all morality. But on what is it founded? What is it that gives this demand its force? That is the old, difficult problem confronting us again today. For on the other side *egoism* cries out in a loud voice: Help no one; rather, harm everyone if it happens to serve your interests. Indeed, malice supplies the variant: Rather, harm everyone as much as you can. To set against this *egoism*, and against malice as well, a champion who is their match and even their superior—that is the problem of all ethics. Here is Rhodes; jump here!—\n\nOn S. 57;—R., S. 60, *Kant* intends to give his proposed moral principle further confirmation by attempting to derive from it the long-recognized division of duties, truly grounded in the nature of morality, into duties of justice—also called perfect, indispensable, or strict duties—and duties of virtue—also called imperfect, wide, or meritorious duties, but best called duties of loving-kindness. Yet the attempt is so strained and so plainly unsuccessful that it bears strong witness against the supreme principle proposed. Duties of justice are supposed to rest on a maxim whose opposite, taken as a universal law of nature, *cannot even be conceived* without contradiction; duties of virtue, on a maxim whose opposite can indeed be *conceived* as a universal law of nature, but cannot possibly be *willed*.—Now I ask the reader to consider that the maxim of injustice, the rule of force in place of right—which, accordingly, is supposed to be impossible even *to conceive* as a law of nature—is precisely the law that actually and factually rules in nature, not merely in the animal world but in the human world as well. Civilized nations have sought to prevent its harmful consequences by establishing the state; but whenever this institution is abolished or evaded, wherever and however that happens, the law of nature immediately returns. Between nation and nation, however, it rules continually: as everyone knows, the jargon of justice customary among them is merely the official style of diplomacy; brute force decides. Genuine—that is, uncoerced—justice, by contrast, certainly does occur, but always only as an exception to that law of nature. Furthermore, in the examples preceding his division, *Kant* first illustrates duties of justice (S. 53;—R., S. 48) with the so-called duty to oneself not to end one's life voluntarily when its evils outweigh its pleasures. This maxim, then, is supposed to be impossible even *to conceive* as a universal law of nature. I say that, since the power of the state cannot intervene here, precisely this maxim manifests itself, unhindered, as an *actually existing law of nature*. For it is most certainly a general rule that a person actually resorts to suicide as soon as the innate, immensely powerful drive to preserve life is decisively overwhelmed by the magnitude of his suffering: daily experience shows this. But to suppose that any thought at all could restrain him after the fear of death—so powerful and so intimately bound up with the nature of every living thing—has proved powerless to do so; that there is, in other words, a thought still stronger than this fear, is a bold assumption. All the more so when we see that this thought is so difficult to discover that moralists still cannot identify it precisely. At any rate, arguments of the kind *Kant* advances against suicide on this occasion, S. 53;—R., S. 48, and also S. 67;—R., S. 57, have certainly never held back anyone weary of life for even a moment. Thus a law of nature that indisputably exists in fact and operates every day is declared impossible *even to conceive* without contradiction, for the sake of deriving the division of duties from Kant's moral principle!—I confess that it gives me some satisfaction, from this point, to look ahead to the foundation of morality I shall set out in the following part. From it the division into duties of justice and duties of loving-kindness—more properly, into justice and human kindness—emerges entirely without strain, through a principle of division arising from the nature of the matter and drawing a sharp boundary of its own accord. My foundation of morality can therefore actually show the confirmation that *Kant* here claims for his own without any grounds.\n\n10. \"By this simple plan,\nLet whoever has the power take,\nAnd whoever can, keep.\"\n\n### Section 8\n\nOn the *Derived* Forms of the Supreme Principle of Kantian Ethics.\n\nAs is well known, *Kant* also presented the supreme principle of his ethics in a second, entirely different expression, in which it is stated not merely indirectly, as in the first, through instructions on how to find it, but directly. He begins preparing the way for this on S. 63;—R., S. 55, through exceedingly strange, strained, indeed distorted definitions of the concepts of *end and means*, which can surely be defined far more simply and correctly as follows: an *end* is the direct motive of an act of will; a *means*, the indirect one—simplicity is the seal of truth. Yet through his curious definitions he creeps toward the proposition: \"The human being, and every rational being in general, exists as an *end in itself*.\"—But I must say outright that *\"existing as an end in itself\"* is an inconceivable notion, a contradiction in terms. To be an *end* means *to be willed*. Every *end* is such only in relation to a will whose *end* it is—that is, as just stated, whose direct motive. Only in this *relation* does the concept of an *end* have any sense; torn from it, it loses that sense. But this *relation*, essential to the concept, necessarily excludes anything \"in itself.\" An *\"end* in itself\" is exactly like a \"friend in himself\"—an enemy in himself, an uncle in himself, north or east in itself, above or below in itself, and so on. At bottom, however, the *\"end* in itself\" stands on the same footing as the \"absolute ought\": both secretly, even unconsciously, rest on the same thought as their condition—the theological one.—The *\"absolute value\"* supposedly belonging to such an alleged but inconceivable *end* in itself fares no better. For I must brand this, too, without mercy, a contradiction in terms. Every value is a comparative magnitude, and indeed necessarily stands in a double *relation*: first, it is *relative*, since it is for someone; second, it is *comparative*, since it exists in comparison with something else by which it is assessed. Removed from these two relations, the concept of value loses all sense and meaning. This is too clear to need further explanation.—Just as those two definitions offend logic, so the proposition (S. 65;—R., S. 56) that beings without reason—that is, animals—are *things*, and may therefore be treated merely as *means* that are not also *ends*, offends genuine morality. In keeping with this, the \"Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue,\" §. 16, expressly states: \"A human being can have no duty toward any being except a human being\"; and then, in §. 17: \"Cruel treatment of animals is contrary to a human being's duty *to himself*, because it deadens in him sympathy with their suffering, thereby weakening a natural disposition very serviceable to morality in his relations *with other human beings*.\"—Thus we are to have compassion for animals merely as *practice*; they are, so to speak, the medical training mannequin for *practicing* compassion toward human beings. Along with all non-Islamized—that is, non-Judaized—Asia, I find such propositions outrageous and abhorrent. Here again it becomes evident how entirely this philosophical morality, which, as shown above, is merely a disguised theological morality, actually depends on biblical morality. Because Christian morality takes no account of animals—a subject to which I shall return—they are immediately outlawed in philosophical morality as well: mere *\"things,\"* mere *means* to whatever ends one pleases, such as vivisection, hunts to exhaustion, bullfights, races, being whipped to death before an immovable cart loaded with stone, and the like.—Shame on such a morality of pariahs, Chandalas, and Mlecchas, which fails to recognize the eternal essence present in everything that has life, shining forth with unfathomable significance from every eye that sees the sunlight! Yet that morality knows and considers only its own precious species, whose defining characteristic, *reason*, is for it the condition under which a being can be an object of moral consideration.\n\nBy so rough a road, indeed by fair means and foul, *Kant* then arrives at the second expression of the fundamental principle of his ethics: \"Act so that you always use humanity, both in your own person and in the person of every other, at the same time as an end, never merely as a *means*.\" In an exceedingly artificial way, and by a long detour, this says: \"Consider not yourself alone, but others as well.\" This, in turn, is a paraphrase of the proposition: Do not do to another what you do not wish done to yourself. As already stated, this itself contains only the premises for the conclusion that is the ultimate true goal of all morality and all moralizing: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can—a proposition that, like everything beautiful, looks best naked.—Only, into this second moral formula of *Kant's*, the alleged duties to oneself have been dragged as well, deliberately and clumsily enough. I have already given my views on these.\n\nOne might also object to this formula that a criminal facing execution is treated, quite rightly and justifiably, solely as a *means* and not as an end: namely, as the indispensable *means* of preserving the law's power to deter by carrying it out, for in this deterrence its purpose consists.\n\nAlthough this second formula of *Kant's* neither contributes anything to the *foundation* of morality nor can count as the adequate and immediate expression of its precepts—the supreme principle—it has, on the other hand, the merit of containing a subtle psychological and moral insight. For it identifies *egoism* by a highly characteristic trait that well deserves fuller development here. This *egoism*, with which we all overflow, and which we invented *politeness* to conceal as our private shame, generally peeps out from all the veils thrown over it in this way: almost instinctively, we first look in everyone we encounter for a possible *means* to one of our ever-numerous ends. With each new acquaintance, our first thought is usually whether the man might prove useful to us in some way; if he cannot, then, once convinced of this, most people find him nothing in himself either. To look in every other person for a possible *means* to our ends, and thus for a tool, is almost inherent in the human gaze. But whether the tool may have to *suffer* more or less in being used is a thought that follows much later, and often not at all. That we assume this disposition in others is evident in many ways: for example, when we ask someone for information or advice, we lose all trust in his statements as soon as we discover that he might have some interest in the matter, however small or remote. For we immediately assume that he will make us the *means* to his ends, and will therefore give his advice in accordance not with his insight but with his intent, however great the former and however small the latter. For we know all too well that a cubic line of intent outweighs a cubic rod of insight. On the other hand, in such a case, when we ask, \"What should I do?\" the other person often thinks of nothing but what we would have to do to suit *his* ends. This, then, is what he will answer immediately and mechanically, without even thinking of *our* ends: his will directly dictates the answer before the question can so much as reach the tribunal of his actual judgment. Thus he seeks to guide us in accordance with *his* ends without even becoming aware of it, himself believing that he speaks from *insight*, while only his *intent* speaks through him. Indeed, he can go so far in this as actually to lie without noticing it himself. So overwhelming is the influence of the will compared with that of knowledge. Accordingly, as to whether someone speaks from *insight* or from *intent*, not even the testimony of his own consciousness is valid, but that of his interest generally is. To take another case: someone pursued by enemies, in mortal terror, who asks a peddler he encounters for a side road may find the man answering with the question, \"Could you use anything from my stock?\" This is not to say that things always happen so. On the contrary, many a person will indeed take a genuine and immediate interest in another's welfare and suffering, or, in *Kant's* language, regard him as an end and not as a means. But how near to or far from each individual lies the thought of regarding another person, for once, as an end instead of, as usual, a means—this is the measure of the great ethical differences among characters. And what ultimately determines this will be the true foundation of ethics, to which I shall turn only in the following part.\n\nIn his second formula, then, *Kant* has identified egoism and its opposite by a highly characteristic trait. I have been all the more glad to single out this bright point and bring it fully into the light through explanation because, otherwise, I can unfortunately accept very little of the foundation of his ethics.\n\nThe third and final form in which *Kant* presented his moral principle is the *autonomy* of the will: \"The will of every rational being legislates universally for all rational beings.\" This does, of course, follow from the first form. But from the present one it is now supposed to follow (according to S. 71;—R., S. 60) that the specific distinguishing mark of the categorical imperative is this: in willing from duty, the will *renounces all interest*. All earlier moral principles are said to have failed because \"they always based actions on an *interest*, whether as constraint or inducement, *whether this was one's own interest or another's*\" (S. 73;—R., S. 62)—another's as well: please note this. \"A universally legislating will, by contrast, prescribes actions from duty that are *based on no interest at all*.\" But now I ask you to consider what this actually means: in fact, nothing less than willing without a *motive*, and thus an effect without a cause. *Interest* and *motive* are interchangeable concepts: does not *interest* mean what concerns me, what matters to me? And is this not, in general, everything that stimulates and moves my will? What, then, is an *interest* but the action of a motive on the will? Wherever a *motive* moves the will, it has an *interest*; but where no *motive* moves it, it can surely no more act than a stone can move from its place without being pushed or pulled. I hardly need to demonstrate this to learned readers. But it follows that every action, since it must necessarily have a *motive*, also necessarily presupposes an *interest*. *Kant*, however, proposes a second, entirely new kind of action, performed without any *interest* at all—that is, without a *motive*. And these are supposed to be the actions of justice and human kindness! To refute this monstrous assumption, one need only reduce it to its actual meaning, which a play on the word *interest* had concealed.—Meanwhile *Kant* celebrates (S. 74 ff.;—R., S. 62) the triumph of his autonomy of the will by establishing a moral Utopia under the name of a *kingdom of ends*. It is populated entirely by *rational beings* in the abstract, who one and all continually will, without *willing anything* whatever—that is, without an *interest*. They will only this one thing: that everyone should always will according to a maxim—that is, autonomy. It is difficult not to write satire.\n\nBut his *autonomy* of the will leads *Kant* to something else, with more troublesome consequences than this little innocent kingdom of ends, which, being perfectly harmless, may be left undisturbed: namely, the concept of *human dignity*. This rests solely on a human being's *autonomy*, and consists in his having himself given the law he is to obey—so that his relation to it is like that of subjects under a constitution to their law.—As an embellishment of the Kantian moral system, this might well be allowed to stand. Yet once *Kant* had uttered the expression *\"human dignity,\"* it became the shibboleth of all helpless and thoughtless moralists. They concealed their lack of a real foundation for morality, or at least of one that said anything at all, behind that imposing expression *\"human dignity,\"* shrewdly counting on their readers' pleasure in seeing themselves clothed in such *dignity*, and thus being satisfied with it.[11] Let us nevertheless examine this concept a little more closely and test its reality.—*Kant* (S. 79;—R., S. 66) defines *dignity* as \"an unconditional, incomparable *value*.\" This is an explanation whose sublime sound is so imposing that scarcely anyone ventures to approach and examine it at close range. If he did, he would find that it, too, is merely a hollow hyperbole, with a contradiction in terms nesting within it like a gnawing worm. Every *value* is the assessment of one thing in comparison with another, and is thus a comparative concept, hence relative; this relativity constitutes the very essence of the concept of *value*. The Stoics already taught correctly (according to Diog. Laert., L. VII, c. 106): value is an appraiser's exchange valuation, as determined by someone experienced in such matters; it is like saying that wheat is exchanged for barley together with a mule (valuation is the recompense for something appraised, whatever an expert in such matters may determine; this is like saying that wheat is exchanged for barley with a mule added). An *incomparable, unconditional, absolute value*, such as dignity is supposed to be, is accordingly, like so much in philosophy, a task set in words for a thought that *cannot* be thought at all, any more than the highest number or the largest space.\n\n\"Yet just where concepts fail,\nA *word* arrives at the right time.\"\n\nSo here, too, \"human dignity\" had put a most welcome *word* into circulation, on which any moral system, spun out through every class of duties and every case of casuistry, now found a broad foundation from which it could comfortably continue preaching.\n\nAt the close of his exposition (S. 124;—R., S. 97), *Kant* says: \"But how *pure reason*, without other incentives taken from anywhere else, can be *practical* by itself; that is, how the mere principle of the *universal validity of all its maxims* as laws, without any object of the will in which one could take an interest in advance, can by itself supply an incentive and produce an interest that would be called purely moral—or, in other words, how *pure reason* can be *practical*—this is something all human reason is powerless to explain, and all effort and labor are lost.\"—Now one would think that if something whose existence is asserted *cannot* even be conceived as possible, its actuality must at least have been established as a fact. Yet the categorical imperative of practical reason is expressly *not* put forward as a fact of consciousness or otherwise grounded in experience. On the contrary, we are warned often enough that it is *not* to be sought by such an anthropological and empirical route—for example, S. VI of the preface;—R., S. 5, and S. 59, 60;—R., S. 52. Furthermore, we are repeatedly assured—for example, S. 48;—R., S. 44—\"that no example, and thus no empirical means, can establish whether there is any such imperative at all.\" And on S. 49;—R., S. 45, \"that the actuality of the categorical imperative is *not* given in experience.\"—Taking all this together, one really might begin to suspect that *Kant* is making fools of his readers. Although this might well be permissible and right when dealing with today's German philosophical public, in *Kant's* time that public had not yet distinguished itself as it has since; and, besides, ethics was precisely the subject least suited to a joke. We must therefore hold to the conviction that what can neither be conceived as *possible* nor demonstrated as *actual* has no warrant for its existence.—But even if we merely try to grasp it through imagination, picturing a person whose mind is possessed, as if by a demon, by an *absolute ought* speaking entirely in categorical imperatives and continually demanding to direct his actions against his inclinations and desires, we see in this no true image of human nature or of what takes place within us. Rather, we recognize an artificial substitute for theological morality, related to it as a wooden leg is to a living one.\n\nOur result, then, is that Kantian ethics, like all earlier ethics, lacks any secure foundation. As I showed by examining its *imperative form* at the very outset, it is at bottom merely a reversal of theological morality and a disguise of it in highly abstract formulas apparently discovered a priori. This disguise had to be all the more artful and unrecognizable because *Kant* was assuredly deceiving even himself, and *really* believed he could establish the concepts of the *command of duty* and of *law*—which plainly have meaning only in theological morality—independently of all theology and ground them in pure knowledge a priori. Against this I have sufficiently demonstrated that, in his hands, these concepts float freely in the air, lacking any real foundation. Under his own hands, indeed, the disguised *theological morality* unveils itself toward the end, in the doctrine of the *highest good*, in the postulates of *practical reason*, and finally in moral theology. Yet none of this disabused either him or the public about the true connection of the matter. On the contrary, both rejoiced to see all these articles of faith now grounded in ethics, if only ideally and for practical purposes. For in all innocence they took the consequence for the ground and the ground for the consequence, failing to see that all these alleged deductions from that ethics already underlay it as tacit and hidden, yet indispensable, presuppositions.\n\nIf, now, at the close of this searching examination, taxing even for the reader, I may be permitted a playful, indeed frivolous analogy to lighten the mood, I would compare Kant, in his self-mystification, to a man at a masked ball who spends the entire evening courting a masked beauty, imagining he is making a conquest, until at last she unmasks and reveals herself—as his wife.\n\n11. The first to make the concept of *\"human dignity\"* expressly and exclusively the cornerstone of ethics, and to develop his ethics accordingly, seems to have been G. W. Block, in his \"New Groundwork of Moral Philosophy,\" 1802.\n\n### Section 9\n\n*Kant's* doctrine of *conscience*.\n\nThe supposed practical reason, with its categorical imperative, is plainly most closely related to *conscience*, though it differs essentially from conscience, first, in this: the categorical imperative, as a command, necessarily speaks *before the deed*, whereas *conscience* properly speaks only afterward. *Before the deed* it can speak, at most, *indirectly*, through reflection, which holds before it the memory of earlier cases in which similar deeds afterward met with conscience's disapproval. Even the etymology of the word *\"Gewissen\" (conscience)* seems to me to rest on this, since only what has already happened is *\"gewiß\" (certain)*. For in every person, even the best, impure, base, malicious thoughts and wishes arise through some outward occasion, a passion aroused, or an inward ill humor. Yet he is not morally responsible for these, nor may they burden his *conscience*. They show only what *a human being in general* might be capable of doing, not what the person who thinks them could do. For in him other motives oppose them, though these do not enter consciousness at that very moment and together with them; thus they can never become deeds. They resemble, therefore, the outvoted minority of an assembly passing a resolution. Only through *deeds* does each person come to know himself empirically, as he does others, and only deeds burden the *conscience*. They alone are not problematic, as thoughts are, but, in contrast to them, *certain*: they stand unalterably, are not merely thought but *known*. It is the same with the Latin conscientia, \"conscience\": it is Horace's \"to know oneself guilty, to pale with guilt.\" So too with the Greek συνείδησις, \"conscience.\" It is a person's knowledge of what he has done. Second, *conscience* always draws its material from experience, which the supposed categorical imperative cannot do, since it is purely a priori.—Meanwhile, we may presume that *Kant's* doctrine of *conscience* will also cast light back upon that concept he newly introduced. His principal account of conscience appears in the \"Metaphysical First Principles of the Doctrine of Virtue,\" §. 13; in the criticism that now follows, I *assume that the reader has these few pages at hand*.\n\nThis Kantian account of conscience makes an extraordinarily imposing impression, before which people stood in reverent awe, all the less daring to raise an objection because they had to fear that a theoretical objection would be mistaken for a practical one, and that anyone who denied the correctness of Kant's account would be thought to have no conscience. That cannot disconcert me, since the question here is one of theory, not practice, and our aim is not to preach morality but rigorously to examine the ultimate grounds of ethics.\n\nTo begin with, *Kant* continually employs *Latin legal expressions*, which seem ill suited to rendering the most secret stirrings of the human heart. Yet he retains this language and this judicial presentation from beginning to end: they therefore seem essential and peculiar to the matter. Within the mind we are shown a complete court of law, with trial, judge, prosecutor, defense counsel, and verdict. If the inward process really took place as *Kant* describes it, we would have to wonder that anyone could still be, I will not say so *wicked*, but so *stupid* as to act against *conscience*. For such a supernatural institution of a wholly singular kind within our self-consciousness, such a masked Vehmic tribunal in the mysterious darkness of our interior, would have to fill everyone with horror and superstitious dread. This would surely deter him from snatching brief, fleeting advantages against the prohibition and under the threats of fearful supernatural powers announcing themselves so plainly and so close at hand.—In reality, by contrast, we find the power of conscience generally considered so weak that all peoples have taken care to reinforce it through positive religion, or even to replace it altogether in this way. Nor, if conscience were constituted in this manner, could the Royal Society ever have conceived the present prize question.\n\nOn closer examination of Kant's account, however, we find that its imposing effect is achieved chiefly by *Kant's* assigning to moral self-judgment, as something peculiar and essential to it, a form that is nothing of the kind. This form can merely be fitted to it, just as to any other rumination, wholly foreign to morality proper, upon what we have done and might have done differently. For not only will an obviously spurious, artificial conscience founded on mere superstition—for instance, when a Hindu reproaches himself for having occasioned the murder of a cow, or a Jew remembers having smoked a pipe in his house on the Sabbath—occasionally assume the same form of accusation, defense, and judgment; even a self-examination proceeding from no ethical standpoint whatever, indeed, one of an immoral rather than a moral kind, will often appear in this form. Suppose, for example, that, good-naturedly but thoughtlessly, I have stood surety for a friend, and now, in the evening, I realize what a grave responsibility I have assumed and how easily it may bring me the great loss foretold by the ancient voice of wisdom: \"Stand surety, and ruin is at hand!\" Then the prosecutor likewise appears within me, and opposite him the advocate, who tries to put a favorable face on my rash undertaking by pleading the pressure of circumstances and obligations, the harmlessness of the matter, even by praising my good nature. Finally the judge appears too, and implacably pronounces the verdict \"A stupid move!\" beneath which I collapse.\n\nAnd what holds for the judicial form *Kant* favors holds also for most of the rest of his description. For example, what he says at the very beginning of the paragraph about conscience, as something peculiar to it, applies equally to every scruple of an entirely different kind. It can be understood quite literally of a person living on investments who secretly knows that his expenses far exceed the interest, that he is drawing on his capital, and that it must gradually melt away: \"It follows him like his shadow when he thinks of escaping; he can indeed numb himself or lull himself to sleep through pleasures and distractions, but he cannot avoid coming to himself or awakening now and then, when he at once hears its terrible voice,\" and so on.—Having now described that judicial form as essential to the matter, and therefore retained it from beginning to end, Kant uses it for the following cunningly contrived sophism. He says: \"But to represent the person accused by his conscience as *one and the same person as the judge* is an absurd way of representing a court of law; for then the prosecutor would always lose.\" He elucidates this further in a very convoluted and obscure note. From this he concludes that, to avoid contradiction, we must think of the inward judge—in that courtroom drama of conscience—as distinct from ourselves, as *someone else*, and think of this other as a knower of hearts, all-knowing, binding everyone to duty, and, as the executive power, almighty. Thus, on an entirely smooth road, he now leads his reader from conscience to superstitious dread as its wholly necessary consequence, secretly trusting that the reader will follow him there all the more willingly because his earliest upbringing has made such concepts familiar, indeed second nature. Here, then, *Kant* has an easy game—one he should have scorned, taking care not merely to *preach* honesty here, but to *practice* it.—I flatly deny the proposition quoted above, on which all those conclusions rest; indeed, I declare it a subterfuge. It is not true that the prosecutor must always lose if the accused and the judge are one person—at least not in the inward court. Did the prosecutor lose in my example of standing surety?—Or, to avoid contradiction, did we have to introduce such a personification here too, necessarily imagining *someone else*, objectively, as the one whose verdict was that thunderous \"A stupid move!\"? Perhaps a Mercury in the flesh? Or a personification of the Metis (\"cunning\") recommended by Homer (Il., 23, 313 seq.), and thus take the road of superstitious dread here too, though of a pagan kind?\n\nThat *Kant*, in his account, takes care to disclaim any objective validity for his moral theology, already briefly indicated here in its essentials, and presents it only as a subjectively necessary form, does not absolve him of the arbitrariness with which he constructs it, even if only as subjectively necessary; for he does so by means of entirely groundless assumptions.\n\nThis much, then, is certain: the whole judicial and dramatic form in which *Kant* presents conscience, retaining it throughout and to the very end as one with the matter itself in order finally to draw conclusions from it, is wholly inessential to conscience and in no way peculiar to it. Rather, it is a much more general form, readily assumed by deliberation on any practical concern, and arising chiefly from the conflict of opposing motives that usually occurs in such cases, whose weight reflective reason successively examines. It makes no difference whether these motives are moral or egoistic, or whether the matter is a deliberation on what remains to be done or a rumination on what has already been accomplished. But strip *Kant's* account of this dramatic and judicial form, arbitrarily bestowed upon it, and the halo surrounding it disappears along with its imposing effect. All that remains is this: when reflecting on our actions, we are sometimes seized by a dissatisfaction with ourselves of a special kind. Its peculiarity is that it concerns not the outcome but the action itself, and does not rest, like every other dissatisfaction in which we regret the imprudence of our conduct, on *egoistic grounds*. For here we are dissatisfied precisely because we acted too egoistically, considered our own welfare too much and that of others too little, or even, without advantage to ourselves, made others' suffering an end for its own sake. That we can be dissatisfied with ourselves over this, and grieve over sufferings we have not *undergone* but *caused*, is the naked fact, and no one will deny it. Later we shall examine its connection with the only basis of ethics that stands the test. *Kant*, however, like a shrewd advocate, has sought, by embellishing and magnifying the original fact, to make as much of it as possible, so as to secure in advance a very broad basis for his morality and moral theology.\n\n### Section 10\n\n*Kant's* doctrine of the intelligible and empirical character.—Theory of freedom.\n\nHaving, in the service of truth, made attacks on Kantian ethics that do not, like earlier attacks, merely strike its surface but undermine its deepest foundation, I think justice requires that I not take leave of it without recalling *Kant's* greatest and most brilliant contribution to ethics. This consists in the doctrine of the coexistence of freedom and necessity, which he first sets out in the Critique of Pure Reason (S. 533–554 of the first and S. 561–582 of the fifth edition), but presents still more clearly in the Critique of Practical Reason (fourth edition, S. 169–179; R., S. 224–231).\n\nFirst *Hobbes*, then *Spinoza*, then *Hume*, also *Holbach* in Syst. d. la nat., and finally, most fully and thoroughly, *Priestley*, had so clearly proved and placed beyond doubt the complete and strict necessity of acts of will when motives arise that it must be counted among the fully demonstrated truths. Only ignorance and crudity, therefore, could continue to speak of freedom in individual human actions, of a free will of indifference. *Kant* too, in consequence of his predecessors' irrefutable arguments, accepted the complete necessity of acts of will as a settled matter, no longer open to doubt, as is proved by all the passages in which he speaks of freedom from the *theoretical* standpoint alone. Yet it remains true that our actions are accompanied by a consciousness of acting on our own authority and of originating them ourselves, through which we recognize them as our work, and each person feels, with unerring certainty, that he is the actual doer of his deeds and morally *responsible* for them. But since *responsibility* presupposes a possibility of having acted otherwise, and thus freedom in some form, the consciousness of *responsibility* also contains, indirectly, that of freedom. The key, at last discovered, to resolving this contradiction arising from the matter itself was Kant's profound distinction between appearance and thing in itself, the innermost core of his entire philosophy and its chief merit.\n\nThe individual, with its unalterable, inborn character, strictly determined in all its expressions by the law of causality—which here, being mediated by the intellect, is called motivation—is only the appearance. The thing in itself underlying this appearance, being outside space and time, is free of all succession and multiplicity of acts, one and unalterable. Its constitution in itself is the *intelligible character*, equally present in all the individual's deeds and impressed upon them all like a signet in a thousand seals. It determines the *empirical character* of this appearance, which manifests itself in time and in the succession of acts. Hence the appearance must display the constancy of a law of nature in all its expressions, called forth by motives; and all its acts therefore occur with strict necessity. In this way, that unalterability, that inflexible rigidity of every person's empirical character, which thoughtful minds had always perceived—while the rest supposed that a person's character could be transformed through rational representations and moral admonitions—was traced to a rational ground, and thus established for philosophy as well. Philosophy was thereby brought into accord with experience, so that it was no longer put to shame by popular wisdom, which had long expressed that truth in the Spanish proverb: \"What enters with the baby's cap leaves with the shroud\" (What comes in with the infant's cap goes out again with the burial cloth), or: \"What is suckled with the milk is poured out into the shroud\" (What is imbibed with the milk is poured out again into the burial cloth).\n\nI regard this doctrine of *Kant's* concerning the coexistence of freedom and necessity as the greatest of all achievements of profound human thought. It and the Transcendental Aesthetic are the two great diamonds in the crown of Kant's fame, which will never cease to resound.—As is well known, *Schelling*, in his treatise on freedom, gave a paraphrase of that doctrine of *Kant's* whose vivid coloring and concrete presentation make it more accessible to many. I would praise it if *Schelling* had had the honesty to say that he was presenting *Kant's* wisdom here, not his own, for which part of the philosophical public still takes it today.\n\nBut this Kantian doctrine, and the nature of freedom in general, can also be made more comprehensible by connecting them with a universal truth whose most concise expression I find in a proposition often stated by the Scholastics: operari sequitur esse—acting follows being. That is, everything in the world acts according to what it is, according to its constitution, in which all its expressions are therefore already contained potentially, though they emerge in actuality when external causes call them forth; and in this way that very constitution reveals itself. This is the *empirical character*, while its inward, ultimate ground, inaccessible to experience, is the *intelligible character*, that is, the essence in itself of the thing. In this respect the human being is no exception to the rest of nature: he too has his unalterable character, though it is wholly individual and different in each person. For our apprehension this character is precisely *empirical*, but for that very reason only appearance; what it may be in its essence in itself, however, is called the *intelligible character*. All his actions, determined in their outward constitution by motives, can never turn out otherwise than in accordance with this unalterable individual character: as a person is, so he must act. Thus, for a given individual in any given particular case, only one action is possible at all: acting follows being. Freedom belongs not to the empirical but solely to the intelligible character. A given person's operari, his acting, is necessarily determined from without by motives, from within by his character; hence everything he *does* occurs necessarily. But in his esse, his being, lies freedom. He could have been someone else; and in what he is lie guilt and merit. For everything he *does* follows from it of itself, as a mere corollary.—*Kant's* theory really turns us back from the fundamental error that placed necessity in being and freedom in acting, and leads us to recognize that the relation is exactly the reverse. Thus a person's moral responsibility concerns, at first and ostensibly, what he *does*, but at bottom what he *is*; for, given this, his conduct, when the motives arose, could never have turned out otherwise than it did. Yet however strict the necessity with which motives call forth deeds in a given character, it will never occur to anyone, not even to someone convinced of this necessity, to try to exculpate himself by it and shift the blame onto the motives. For he clearly recognizes that, as far as the matter and its occasions were concerned, thus objectively, a quite different, even an opposite action was perfectly possible, and indeed would have occurred if only *he had been someone else*. But that, as the action reveals, *he is such a person and not another*—this is what he feels responsible for. Here, in being, lies the spot struck by the sting of conscience. For conscience is nothing but an acquaintance with one's own self, arising from one's own manner of acting and growing ever more intimate. Thus, though acting occasions conscience's accusation, being is what it really accuses. Since we are conscious of *freedom* only through *responsibility*, freedom must lie where responsibility lies: in being. Acting falls to necessity. But we come to know ourselves, like others, only *empirically*, and have no knowledge of our character prior to experience. Rather, we begin by holding a very high opinion of it, since the maxim \"Everyone is presumed good until the contrary is proved\" holds even before the inward tribunal.\n\nNote.\n\nAnyone capable of recognizing the essential content of a thought beneath quite different forms of expression will see with me that this Kantian doctrine of intelligible and empirical character is an insight, raised to abstract clarity, that Plato already possessed. Yet because he had not recognized the ideality of time, he could present it only in a temporal form, thus only mythically and in connection with the transmigration of souls. Our recognition of the identity of the two doctrines is greatly clarified by the explanation and elaboration of the Platonic myth that Porphyry gave with such clarity and precision that its agreement with Kant's abstract doctrine emerges unmistakably in his account. Stobaeus has preserved this discussion in full from a work of Porphyry's no longer extant, in the second book of his Eclogues, Kap. 8, §§. 37–40. In it Porphyry comments closely and in detail on the myth in question here, given by Plato in the second half of the tenth book of the Republic; this passage is well worth reading. As a sample I quote its short §. 39, to encourage the interested reader to take up Stobaeus himself. He will then recognize that this Platonic myth can be regarded as an allegory of the great and profound insight that Kant set forth in its abstract purity as the doctrine of intelligible and empirical character; consequently, that Plato had already attained it in its essentials thousands of years ago, and indeed that it reaches back much further still, since Porphyry believes that Plato received it from the Egyptians. But it is already contained in Brahmanism's doctrine of the transmigration of souls, from which the wisdom of the Egyptian priests most probably descends.—The §. 39 in question reads:\n\n\"For Plato's entire intention seems to be this: before falling into bodies and differing lives, souls have the power of self-determination to choose this life or another, which they are to live out with a certain form of life and a body suited to that life (for it is in their power to choose the life of a lion or of a human being). Yet that power of self-determination is fettered as soon as they fall into one of these lives. For when they have descended into bodies and, from being unfettered souls, have become the souls of living creatures, they possess a power of self-determination suited to the creature's constitution: in some it is many-sided in thought and movement, as in the human being; in others, limited in movement and confined to a single course, as in almost all other living creatures. This power of self-determination depends upon the constitution: its movement comes from itself, but it is carried along according to the inclinations arising from that constitution.\" (For Plato's view as a whole seems to be this: before entering bodies and definite kinds of life, souls have the power to choose either this life or another, which they are to live in a body suited to that life [for they may choose the life of a lion as well as that of a human being]; but as soon as a particular life is attained, that freedom is taken away. Once they have descended into bodies and, from being free souls, have become the souls of animals, they acquire a freedom suited to the animal's organic constitution. In some creatures this freedom is highly intelligent and mobile, as in the human being; in others it is simple and little mobile, as in almost all other animals. This freedom depends upon the animal's organic constitution in such a way that, though it moves of itself, it is carried along in accordance with that constitution's appetites.)\n\n### Section 11\n\nFichte's Ethics as a Magnifying Mirror for the Errors of Kant's.\n\nJust as, in anatomy and zoology, certain things are less apparent to the student in preparations and natural specimens than in engravings that portray them with some exaggeration, so I can recommend Fichte's \"System of Ethics\" to anyone who, after the critique given in the preceding sections, has not yet fully grasped the worthlessness of Kant's foundation of ethics, as a means of making this insight clear.\n\nIn the old German puppet play, the emperor, or whatever other hero appeared, was always accompanied by the buffoon Hanswurst, who afterward repeated, in his own manner and with exaggeration, everything the hero had said or done; and so, behind the great *Kant*, stands the originator of the \"Wissenschaftslehre\"—the \"doctrine of knowledge,\" or, more properly, \"Wissenschaftsleere,\" the \"emptiness of knowledge.\" This man's plan—to attract attention by a philosophical mystification and thereby establish his own and his family's prosperity—was entirely suited to the German philosophical public and, in dealing with it, quite commendable. He carried it out chiefly by *outbidding* Kant in every respect, presenting himself as Kant's living superlative and, by enlarging the prominent features, producing a caricature of Kantian philosophy in the strictest sense; and he accomplished the same in ethics. In his \"System of Ethics\" we find the categorical imperative grown into a despotic imperative: the absolute ought, legislative reason, and the command of duty have developed into a *moral fate*, an unfathomable necessity that the human race act in strict accordance with certain maxims (S. 308–309). Judging by the moral preparations, a great deal must depend on this, although nowhere do we actually learn what. All we see is that, just as bees have an innate drive to build cells and a hive together, human beings supposedly have an innate drive to perform together a great, rigorously moral world comedy, in which we would be mere marionettes and nothing more; though with the significant difference that the beehive really does come into being, whereas, instead of the moral world comedy, a supremely immoral one is actually performed. Here, then, we see the imperative form of Kantian ethics, the moral law and absolute ought, carried further until it has become a system of *moral fatalism*, whose elaboration sometimes passes into comedy.[12]\n\nIf a certain moral pedantry can be detected in *Kant's* ethics, in *Fichte* the most ridiculous moral pedantry provides abundant material for satire. Read, for example, S. 407–409, the decision in the familiar casuistic example in which one of two human lives must be lost. Likewise, we find all *Kant's* errors raised to the superlative: for example, S. 199: \"To act according to the impulses of sympathy, compassion, and human kindness is absolutely not moral, but to that extent contrary to morality.\"!—S. 402: \"The incentive to helpfulness must never be an unreflecting good nature, but the clearly conceived purpose of furthering the causality of reason as much as possible.\"—Yet amid these pedantries, *Fichte*'s real philosophical crudity—as one would expect in a man whose teaching never left him time to learn—plainly shows through: he seriously asserts freedom of indifferent choice and supports it with the most commonplace arguments (S. 160, 173, 205, 208, 237, 259, 261).—Anyone not yet fully convinced that a motive, though acting through the medium of cognition, is a cause like any other, and consequently entails the same necessity of its effect as any other, so that all human actions occur with strict necessity, is still philosophically crude and unschooled in the elements of philosophical knowledge. Insight into the strict necessity of human actions is the dividing line separating philosophical minds from the rest; and on reaching it, *Fichte* clearly showed that he belonged to the rest. That he then, following *Kant's* lead (S. 303), again says things directly contradicting the passages above proves, like so many other contradictions in his writings, only that, as someone never serious about investigating truth, he had no settled fundamental conviction at all; nor was one in the least necessary for his purposes. Nothing is more ridiculous than the praise bestowed on this man for the strictest consistency: his pedantic tone, demonstrating trivialities at length, was duly mistaken for it.\n\nThe fullest development of *Fichte*'s system of *moral fatalism* is found in his last work, \"The Doctrine of Knowledge Presented in Its General Outline,\" Berlin 1810—which has the advantage of being only 46 S. 12° long while containing his entire philosophy in a nutshell. It is therefore recommended to all who consider their time too precious to squander on this man's larger productions, composed with Christian Wolff's prolixity and tediousness and really intended to deceive the reader, not to instruct him. In this little work, then, we read on S. 32: \"The intuition of a world of sense existed only so that, in this world, the I might become visible to itself as *absolutely subject to an ought*.\"—S. 33 even gives us \"the ought of the visibility of the ought,\" and S. 36 \"an ought to perceive that I ought.\"—This, then, is where, as an example imitable in its faults, the *imperative form* of *Kant's* ethics led immediately after *Kant*, with its unproven ought, which it had begged for as a most convenient place to stand.\n\nFor the rest, nothing said here overturns *Fichte*'s achievement: by windbag superlatives, by extravagances, and by the nonsense masquerading as profundity in his \"Foundation of the Entire Doctrine of Knowledge,\" he obscured, indeed displaced, *Kant's* philosophy, that late masterpiece of human depth of thought, among the nation in which it appeared. He thereby showed the world irrefutably just how competent the German philosophical public is, making it play the part of a child coaxed into giving up a precious jewel by the offer of a Nuremberg toy. The fame he thereby acquired lives on to this day, on credit, and to this day *Fichte* is always named alongside *Kant*, as another of the same kind (Heracles and an ape!—i. e. Hercules and an ape!), and indeed is often placed above him.[13] His example has therefore also called forth those successors in the art of philosophically mystifying the German public, animated by the same spirit and crowned with the same success, whom everyone knows and whom this is not the place to discuss at length; although their respective opinions are still expounded at length and seriously discussed by philosophy professors, as though we really were dealing with philosophers. It is thus to Fichte that we owe the existence of clear documentary evidence to be reviewed one day before the tribunal of posterity, that court of cassation for the judgments of contemporaries, which, in almost every age, has had to be for genuine merit what the Last Judgment is for the saints.\n\n12. To substantiate what I have said, I will make room here for just a few passages. S. 196: \"The moral drive is absolute; it demands unconditionally, without any end outside itself.\"—S. 232: \"Now, according to the moral law, the empirical being existing in time ought to become an exact impression of the original I.\"—S. 308: \"The whole human being is a vehicle of the moral law.\"—S. 342: \"I am only an instrument, a mere tool of the moral law, absolutely not an end.\"—S. 343: \"Everyone is an end as a means of realizing reason: this is the ultimate end of his existence; for this alone he is here, and if this were not to happen, he need not exist at all.\"—S. 347: \"I am a tool of the moral law in the world of sense!\"—S. 360: \"It is an ordinance of the moral law to nourish the body and promote its health: it goes without saying that this may be done in no sense and for no other purpose than to be an effective tool for furthering the end of reason.\"—(Vergl. S. 371) S. 376: \"Every human body is a tool for furthering the end of reason: hence the greatest possible fitness of every tool for this purpose must be an end for me; I must therefore care for everyone.\"—This is his derivation of human kindness!—S. 377: \"I can and may care for myself solely because, and insofar as, I am a tool of the moral law.\"—S. 388: \"To defend a persecuted person at the risk of one's own life is an absolute duty:—as soon as human life is in danger, you no longer have the right to think of the safety of your own.\"—S. 420: \"Within the domain of the moral law there is no view of my fellow human being at all except that he is a tool of reason.\"\n\n13. I substantiate this with a passage from the very latest philosophical literature. Mr. Feuerbach, a Hegelian (that says it all), expresses himself as follows in his book \"P. Bayle, A Contribution to the History of Philosophy,\" 1838, S. 80: \"Yet more sublime than *Kant's* are *Fichte*'s ideas, which he expressed in his ethics and here and there in his other writings. In sublimity, Christianity has nothing it could set beside *Fichte*'s ideas.\"\n\n### Section 12\n\nIII.\n\nThe Foundation of Ethics.\n\nRequirements.\n\nThus *Kant's* foundation of ethics, too, held for sixty years to be its firm bedrock, sinks before our eyes into the deep, perhaps unfillable abyss of philosophical errors, proving to be an inadmissible assumption and a mere disguise for theological morality.—As I have said, I may take it as known that earlier attempts to establish a foundation for ethics are still less satisfactory. For the most part, they consist of unproven assertions plucked out of thin air, and at the same time, like *Kant's* own foundation, artificial subtleties demanding the finest distinctions and resting on the most abstract concepts, difficult combinations, heuristic rules, propositions balancing on a needlepoint, and maxims on stilts, from whose height actual life and its bustle can no longer be seen. They are therefore indeed admirably suited to echoing through lecture halls and providing an exercise in acuteness: but such things cannot produce the summons to do right and do good that nonetheless really exists in every human being, nor can they counterbalance the powerful impulses toward injustice and harshness, nor yet underlie the reproaches of conscience; to try to trace these back to the violation of such hair-splitting maxims can serve only to make them ridiculous. Artificial combinations of concepts of that kind, then, if we take the matter seriously, can never contain the true *impulse* toward justice and human kindness. Rather, this must be something that requires little reflection and still less abstraction and combination, something that, independent of the cultivation of the understanding, speaks to everyone, even the most uncultivated person, rests solely on perceptual apprehension, and presses itself upon us directly from the reality of things. Until ethics can exhibit a foundation of this kind, it may dispute and parade in lecture halls: actual life will mock it. I must therefore offer moral philosophers the paradoxical advice to begin by taking a little look around at human life.\n\n### Section 13\n\nThe Skeptical View.\n\nOr might it perhaps follow, from a look back at the attempts made in vain for more than two thousand years to find a secure foundation for morality, that there is no natural morality at all, none independent of human ordinance, but that morality is through and through an artifact, a device invented for the better taming of the selfish and malicious human race, and that without the support of the positive religions it would therefore fall away, since it would have no inner warrant and no natural foundation? Justice and police cannot suffice everywhere: there are offenses whose detection is too difficult, and even some whose punishment is a delicate matter, so that here public protection leaves us. Moreover, civil law can compel at most justice, but not loving-kindness and beneficence, if only because in these everyone would wish to be the passive party and no one the active. This has given rise to the hypothesis that morality rests on religion alone, and that the purpose of the two is to be the complement to the necessary insufficiency of the state's institutions and legislation. A natural morality, that is, one founded merely on the nature of things or of human beings, could therefore not exist; which would explain why philosophers strive in vain to seek its foundation. This opinion is not without plausibility: the Pyrrhonists already put it forward: Nothing is good by nature, and nothing bad,\nbut these things are decided by human beings, through opinion,\naccording to Timon (nothing is good by nature, nor anything bad, \"but these things are decided by human discretion,\"—according to Timon). Sext. Emp. adv. Math., XI, 140, and in more recent times, too, distinguished thinkers have declared for it. It therefore deserves careful examination, even if it would be more comfortable to dispose of it with an inquisitorial sidelong glance at the conscience of those in whom such a thought could arise.\n\nOne would be caught in a great and very youthful error to believe that all just and lawful actions of human beings are of moral origin. Rather, between the justice that people practice and genuine *uprightness* of heart there is for the most part a relation analogous to that between the expressions of politeness and genuine love of one's neighbor, which, unlike politeness, overcomes egoism not in appearance but in fact. The rectitude of disposition displayed everywhere, which wants to stand above every doubt, together with the lofty indignation that the faintest hint of suspicion in this regard arouses, and that is ready to flare into the most fiery wrath—all this only the inexperienced and simple will at once take for hard coin and the effect of a delicate moral feeling or conscience. In truth, the rectitude that is general, practiced in human intercourse and asserted as a rock-solid maxim, rests chiefly on two external necessities: first, on legal order, by which public power protects everyone's rights; and second, on the recognized necessity of a good name, or civic honor, for getting on in the world, by which everyone's steps are kept under the supervision of public opinion—which, inexorably strict, never forgives even a single misstep in this matter, but holds it against the guilty as an indelible stain until death. In this it is truly wise: for it proceeds from the principle that acting follows being (operari sequitur esse), and hence from the conviction that character is unchangeable, and that what someone has done once, they will inevitably do again under entirely identical circumstances. These two guardians, then, are what keep watch over public rectitude, and without them we should, frankly speaking, be in a bad way, above all with regard to property, that chief point in human life around which its doings and dealings mainly turn. For the purely ethical motives for honesty, supposing they exist, can in most cases find their application to civil property only after a long detour. They can, that is, relate first and immediately only to *natural* right, and to *positive* right only indirectly, namely insofar as the former underlies it. But *natural* right attaches to no property other than what has been acquired by one's own effort, an attack on which also attacks the powers the owner expended on it, and so robs the owner of them.—The theory of prior occupation I reject unconditionally, but I cannot enter here into its refutation.[14]—Now, to be sure, every possession founded on positive right is supposed, however many intermediate links there may be, to rest in the end and at its first source on the natural right of property. But in most cases, how far our civil possessions lie from that primal source of the natural right of property! For the most part they have with it a connection very hard or quite impossible to demonstrate: our property is inherited, married into, won in the lottery, or, if not that, then acquired not by real labor in the sweat of one's brow but by clever thoughts and notions, for example in speculative trading, and sometimes even by stupid notions which, by way of chance, the god of Outcome (Deus Eventus) has crowned and glorified. In the fewest cases is it really the fruit of actual effort and work, and even then this is often only mental, like that of lawyers, physicians, officials, teachers, which in the eyes of the crude person seems to cost little exertion. It takes considerable education to recognize the ethical right in all such property and, accordingly, to respect it from a purely moral impulse.—Accordingly, many quietly regard the property of others as held by positive right alone. If they therefore find means to wrest it from them by exploiting, or even merely circumventing, the laws, they have no scruples: for it seems to them that the others would be losing it by the same road by which they had earlier gained it, and so they regard their own claims as just as well founded as those of the former owner. From their standpoint, in civil society the right of the shrewder has taken the place of the right of the stronger.—Meanwhile the rich are often truly of an inviolable rectitude, because they are devoted with all their hearts to a rule and uphold a maxim on whose observance their entire property, with the many advantages it gives them over others, rests; hence they profess the principle \"to each what is theirs\" in full earnest and do not depart from it. There really is such an *objective* attachment to good faith, with the resolve to hold it sacred, resting merely on this: that good faith is the foundation of all free intercourse among human beings, of good order and of secure property, so that it very often benefits ourselves and in this respect must be upheld even at some sacrifice, just as one, after all, puts some expense into a good field. Yet uprightness so grounded will, as a rule, be found only among people who are well off, or at least engaged in a profitable occupation, most of all among merchants, who have the plainest conviction that trade and traffic find their indispensable support in mutual trust and credit; which is why mercantile honor is quite a special kind.—The poor, by contrast, who have come off short in the business and, by virtue of the inequality of possessions, see themselves condemned to want and heavy labor while others, before their eyes, live in abundance and idleness, will hardly recognize that a corresponding inequality of merit and honest earnings underlies this inequality. But if they do not recognize this, where are they then to get the purely ethical impulse to honesty that keeps them from stretching out a hand toward another's abundance? Mostly it is legal order that holds them back. But when once the rare opportunity comes in which, safe from the operation of the law, they could by a single deed roll off themselves the crushing burden of want, which the sight of another's abundance makes still more palpable, and put themselves too in possession of the pleasures so often envied, what will hold their hand back then? Religious dogmas? Faith is seldom so firm. A purely moral motive for justice? Perhaps in isolated cases; but in the great majority it will be only the concern for their good name, their civic honor—a concern that matters greatly even to the lowly—the evident danger of being cast out forever, by such a deed, from the great Masonic lodge of honest people, who follow the law of rectitude and, in accordance with it, have divided property among themselves over the whole earth and administer it; the danger of being, as a result of a single dishonest act, a pariah of civil society for life, one whom no one trusts any longer, whose company everyone flees, and to whom all advancement is thereby cut off—that is, in a word, \"a fellow who has stolen,\"—and to whom the proverb applies: \"Whoever steals once is a thief for life.\"\n\nThese, then, are the guardians of public rectitude; and whoever has lived with open eyes will admit that by far the greater part of honesty in human intercourse is owed to them alone—indeed, that there is no lack of people who hope to slip even their vigilance, and who therefore regard justice and uprightness merely as a shop sign, as a flag under whose protection one carries out one's privateering with all the better success. We need not, then, flare up at once in holy zeal and fly into a rage if a moralist once raises the problem whether all uprightness and justice might not at bottom be merely conventional, and then, pursuing this principle further, strives to trace the whole remainder of morality back to remoter, indirect, but in the end still egoistic grounds, as Holbach, Helvetius, d'Alembert and others of their time have acutely attempted. Of the greater part of just actions this is in fact really true and correct, as I have shown above. That it is true also of a considerable part of the actions of loving-kindness admits of no doubt; for they often spring from ostentation, very often from belief in a future retribution, which would be paid out perhaps even in the square or, better still, the cube, and they admit still other egoistic grounds besides. But it is just as certain that there are actions of disinterested loving-kindness and wholly voluntary justice. Proofs of the latter—so that I appeal not to facts of consciousness but only to experience—are the isolated but undoubted cases in which not only the danger of legal prosecution but also that of discovery, and even of any suspicion, was wholly excluded, and yet even the poor gave the rich what was theirs: for example, where something lost and found, or something deposited by a third party who had since died, was brought to its owner; where a deposit made in secret by a fugitive from the country with a poor man was faithfully kept and returned. Cases of this kind exist, without doubt; but the surprise, the emotion, the esteem with which we receive them plainly attest that they belong among unexpected things, rare exceptions. There truly are genuinely honest people—just as there truly is four-leaf clover; but Hamlet speaks without hyperbole when he says: To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man pick’d out of ten thousand.[15]—Against the objection that the actions mentioned above ultimately rested on religious dogmas, and thus on regard for punishment and reward in another world, cases could also be adduced in which those who performed them clung to no religious belief whatever; which is far less rare than the public admission of the fact.\n\nAgainst the skeptical view, people appeal first of all to *conscience*. But doubts are raised against its natural origin as well. At the least, there is also a spurious conscience, which is often confused with it. The remorse and anguish that many feel over what they have done is often at bottom nothing other than fear of what may happen to them for it. The violation of external, arbitrary, and even absurd statutes torments many with inward reproaches, quite in the manner of conscience. Thus, for example, some bigoted Jews are genuinely weighed down in heart because, although the second Book of Moses, Kap. 35, 3, says: \"You shall kindle no fire on the Sabbath day in all your dwellings,\" they have nonetheless smoked a pipe at home on a Saturday. Many nobles and officers are gnawed by the secret self-reproach that, on some occasion, they have not duly complied with the laws of that fool's code which is called chivalrous honor; and this goes so far that some of this class, when placed in the impossibility of keeping their given word of honor, or merely of satisfying the said code in quarrels, will shoot themselves dead. (I have witnessed both.) The same man, on the other hand, will break his word every day with a light heart, provided only that the shibboleth \"honor\" was not attached to it.—In general, every inconsistency, every thoughtlessness, every act against our resolutions, principles, convictions, of whatever kind, indeed every indiscretion, every blunder, every gaffe, rankles in us afterward in silence and leaves a sting in the heart. Many would be astonished to see what their conscience, which strikes them as quite stately, is actually composed of: perhaps 1/5 fear of people, 1/5 superstitious dread, 1/5 prejudice, 1/5 vanity, and 1/5 habit; so that at bottom they are no better than that Englishman who said bluntly: I cannot afford to keep a conscience (to keep a conscience is too costly for me).—Religious people of every faith very often mean by *conscience* nothing other than the dogmas and precepts of their religion and the self-examination undertaken in relation to them; in this sense, after all, the expressions *coercion of conscience* and *freedom of conscience* are also taken. The theologians, scholastics, and casuists of the middle and later periods took it likewise: everything that a person knew of the statutes and precepts of the church, together with the resolve to believe and obey them, made up that person's conscience. Accordingly there was a doubting conscience, an opining conscience, an erring conscience, and the like, for whose correction one kept a counselor of conscience. How little the concept of conscience, like other concepts, is fixed by its object itself, how differently it has been grasped by different people, how wavering and uncertain it appears among the writers, can be seen briefly from Stäudlin's \"History of the Doctrine of Conscience.\" All this is not suited to vouch for the reality of the concept, and has therefore occasioned the question whether there is indeed a genuine, innate conscience at all. I have already been led, in §. 10, in the doctrine of freedom, to give my concept of conscience briefly, and I shall return to it further below.\n\nAll these skeptical misgivings are by no means enough to deny the existence of all genuine morality, but they are certainly enough to temper our expectations of the moral predisposition in human beings, and hence of the natural foundation of ethics; since so much that is ascribed to it demonstrably stems from other incentives, and contemplation of the moral corruption of the world proves sufficiently that the incentive to the good cannot be a very powerful one, especially because it often fails to act even where the motives opposing it are not strong; although in this the individual difference of characters retains its full validity. Meanwhile, knowledge of that moral corruption is made harder by the fact that its manifestations are checked and concealed by legal order, by the necessity of honor, and even by politeness besides. Finally there is this to add: in education one supposes that one promotes the morality of one's pupils by presenting rectitude and virtue to them as the maxims universally followed in the world; if experience later teaches them otherwise, and often to their great harm, then the discovery that their teachers in youth were the first to deceive them can work more harmfully on their own morality than if those teachers had themselves given them the first example of candor and uprightness and had said without disguise: \"The world lies in wickedness, people are not as they ought to be; but do not let it lead you astray, and be better yourself.\"—All this, as said, makes it harder for us to know the real immorality of the human race. The state, this masterpiece of the self-understanding, rational, summed-up egoism of all, has placed the protection of everyone's rights in the hands of a power which, infinitely superior to the might of any individual, compels each to respect the rights of all others. There the boundless egoism of nearly all, the malice of many, the cruelty of some cannot show itself: compulsion has tamed everyone. The illusion arising from this is so great that when, in isolated cases where state power cannot protect or is evaded, we see the insatiable avarice, the base greed for money, the deeply hidden falsity, the insidious malice of human beings come forth, we often recoil and raise a hue and cry, imagining that some monster never seen before has crossed our path; yet without the compulsion of the laws and the necessity of civic honor, such occurrences would be quite the order of the day. One must read criminal histories and descriptions of anarchic conditions to recognize what the human being, in moral respects, really is. These thousands who jostle one another there before our eyes in peaceful traffic are to be regarded as so many tigers and wolves whose bite is secured by a strong muzzle. Hence, when one imagines state power once abolished, that is, that muzzle thrown off, everyone of insight recoils from the spectacle to be expected; thereby revealing how little effect they at bottom credit to religion, to conscience, or to the natural foundation of morality, whatever it may be. But precisely then, confronted with those unleashed immoral powers, the true moral incentive in human beings would also show its efficacy uncovered, and consequently could be most easily recognized; whereby at the same time the incredibly great moral difference of characters would step forth unveiled and be found just as great as the intellectual difference of heads; which surely says a great deal.\n\nPerhaps it will be objected to me that ethics has nothing to do with how human beings actually act, but is the science that states how they *ought* to act. But this is precisely the principle I deny, having shown sufficiently in the critical part of this treatise that the concept of the ought, the *imperative form* of ethics, holds only in theological morality, and outside it loses all sense and meaning. I, on the contrary, set ethics the task of interpreting and explaining the conduct of human beings, so extremely various in moral respect, and of tracing it back to its ultimate ground. Hence for the discovery of the foundation of ethics no other path remains than the empirical one, namely to inquire whether there are any actions at all to which we must ascribe *genuine moral worth*—which will be the actions of voluntary justice, pure loving-kindness, and real magnanimity. These are then to be regarded as a given phenomenon, which we have to explain correctly, that is, to trace back to its true grounds, and thus to demonstrate the incentive—in any case a peculiar one—which moves human beings to actions of this kind, specifically different from every other. This incentive, together with receptivity to it, will be the ultimate ground of morality, and knowledge of it the foundation of morality. This is the modest path to which I direct ethics. Whoever finds it, being no construction a priori and containing no absolute legislation for all rational beings in the abstract, not lofty, professorial, and academic enough, may go back to the categorical imperatives, to the shibboleth of the \"dignity of man\"; to the hollow phrases, the chimeras and soap bubbles of the schools, to principles which experience mocks at every step and of which, outside the lecture halls, no one knows anything or has ever felt anything. The foundation of morality that results on my path, by contrast, has experience at its side, which bears its silent witness to it daily and hourly.\n\n14. See \"The World as Will and Representation,\" Bd. 1, §. 62, S. 396 ff., and Bd. 2, Kap. 47, S. 682.\n\n15. As this world goes, to be honest means to be one chosen out of ten thousand.\n\n### Section 14\n\nAntimoral[16] Incentives.\n\nThe chief and fundamental incentive in human beings, as in animals, is *egoism*, that is, the urge toward existence and well-being.—The German word *Selbstsucht* (self-sickness) carries with it a false side-notion of sickness. The word *Eigennutz* (self-interest), however, designates *egoism* insofar as it stands under the guidance of reason, which enables it, by means of reflection, to pursue its ends methodically; hence one may well call animals egoistic, but not self-interested. So for the more general concept I shall keep the word *egoism*.—This *egoism* is, in the animal as in the human being, most closely bound up with its innermost core and essence—indeed, properly speaking, identical with it. Hence all its actions, as a rule, spring from *egoism*, and it is from this that the explanation of any given action is always first to be attempted; just as the calculation of all the means by which one seeks to steer human beings toward some goal is likewise grounded throughout upon it. *Egoism* is by its nature boundless: human beings want unconditionally to preserve their existence, want it unconditionally free of pains, among which all want and privation are counted, want the greatest possible sum of well-being, and want every enjoyment of which they are capable, and even seek, where possible, to develop in themselves new capacities for enjoyment. Whatever opposes the striving of their *egoism* arouses their displeasure, anger, hatred: they will try to destroy it as their enemy. They want, if possible, to enjoy everything, to have everything; but since that is impossible, at least to rule everything: \"Everything for me, and nothing for the others\" is their motto. Egoism is colossal: it towers over the world. For if each individual were given the choice between their own destruction and that of the rest of the world, I need not say which way it would tip for the vast majority. Accordingly everyone makes themselves the center of the world, refers everything to themselves, and whatever takes place—the greatest changes in the fate of nations, for example—they will first relate to their own interest in it and, however small and indirect that interest may be, think of that above all. There is no greater contrast than that between the intense and exclusive interest each takes in their own self and the indifference with which, as a rule, all others regard that very self; as each, in turn, regards theirs. It even has its comic side to see the countless individuals, each of whom, at least in practical respects, takes only themselves to be *real* and regards the others, in a manner, as mere phantoms. This rests ultimately on the fact that each is given to themselves *immediately*, but the others only *mediately*, through the representation of them in their head; and immediacy asserts its right. For by reason of the subjectivity essential to every consciousness, everyone is the whole world to themselves: for everything objective exists only *mediately*, as mere representation of the subject; so that everything always hangs upon self-consciousness. The only world that anyone really knows and is aware of they carry within themselves, as their representation, and they are therefore its center. That is precisely why each is all in all to themselves: they find themselves the possessor of all reality, and nothing can matter more to them than they themselves. While in their subjective view the self presents itself in this colossal size, in the objective view it shrinks to almost nothing, namely to about 1/1000,000,000 of the humanity now living. And at the same time they know with perfect certainty that this very self, important above all else, this microcosm, of which the macrocosm appears as a mere modification or accident—their whole world, that is—must perish in death, which is therefore for them equivalent to the end of the world. These, then, are the elements out of which, on the basis of the will to life, egoism grows, which always lies like a wide ditch between one human being and another. If someone really does once leap across it to help another, it is like a miracle, which arouses astonishment and reaps applause. Above, in §. 8, in expounding the Kantian principle of morals, I had occasion to set out how egoism shows itself in everyday life, where, despite the politeness that is pinned before it as a fig leaf, it nonetheless always peeps out from some corner. Politeness, namely, is the conventional and systematic disavowal of egoism in the trifles of daily intercourse, and is, to be sure, acknowledged hypocrisy; yet it is demanded and praised, because what it hides, egoism, is so ugly that one does not want to see it, though one knows that it is there: just as one wants repulsive objects at least known to be covered by a curtain.—Since egoism, wherever it is not counteracted either by external force—to which every fear, whether of earthly or unearthly powers, is to be added—or by the genuine moral incentive, pursues its ends unconditionally, the war of all against all would, given the countless multitude of egoistic individuals, be the order of the day, to the ruin of all. Hence reflective reason very soon invents the institution of the state, which, springing from mutual fear of mutual violence, forestalls the harmful consequences of universal egoism as far as can be done by the *negative* way. Where, on the other hand, those two powers opposed to it do not come into effect, it will show itself at once in all its terrible magnitude, and the phenomenon will not be a pretty one. When, in order to express without prolixity the strength of this antimoral power, I was intent on marking the magnitude of egoism in a single stroke and therefore looked for some thoroughly emphatic hyperbole, I at last hit upon this one: many a person would be capable of beating another to death merely to grease their boots with that person's fat. Yet a scruple remained with me whether it really was a hyperbole.—*Egoism*, then, is the first and chief, though not the only, power that the *moral incentive* has to combat. One sees already here that this incentive, to take the field against such an adversary, must be something more real than a hairsplitting sophistry or an aprioristic soap bubble.—Meanwhile, the first thing in war is to reconnoiter the enemy. In the coming struggle egoism, as the main force on its side, will oppose itself above all to the virtue of *justice*, which, in my view, is the first and truly proper cardinal virtue.\n\nThe virtue of *loving-kindness*, by contrast, will more often be confronted by *ill will* or *malignity*. We shall therefore first consider the origin and gradations of these. Ill will in the lower degrees is very frequent, indeed almost commonplace, and it easily reaches the higher. Goethe is surely right in saying that in this world indifference and aversion are quite properly at home. (Elective Affinities, Th. 1, C. 3.) It is very fortunate for us that prudence and politeness cast their cloak over it and do not let us see how universal mutual ill will is, and how the war of all against all is carried on at least in thought. But occasionally it does come to light, for example in the so frequent and so merciless backbiting; quite visibly, though, in outbursts of anger, which mostly exceed their occasion many times over and could not turn out so violent had they not been compressed, like gunpowder in the barrel, as long-cherished hatred brooding within.—For the most part ill will arises from the unavoidable collisions of egoism that occur at every step. Then it is also aroused objectively, by the sight of the vices, faults, weaknesses, follies, defects, and imperfections of every kind which each person, more or less, at least occasionally, presents to others. It can go so far that to some, especially in moments of hypochondriac ill humor, the world, viewed from the aesthetic side, appears as a cabinet of caricatures, from the intellectual side as a madhouse, and from the moral side as a den of rogues. If such ill humor becomes permanent, misanthropy arises.—Finally, a chief source of ill will is envy; or rather, envy itself is already ill will, aroused by another's good fortune, possessions, or advantages. No one is wholly free of it, and Herodotus (III, 80) already said so: Envy grows in a human being from the very beginning (envy has been implanted in man from the origin). Its degrees, however, are very different. It is most implacable and most venomous when directed at personal qualities, because here no hope is left to the envious, and at the same time most base, because it hates what it ought to love and revere; but so it is:\n\nOf these, more than of others, envy seems to be felt,\nWho by themselves have risen into flight,\nIssuing forth from the common cage.[17]\n\nSo Petrarch already laments. More extensive reflections on envy are to be found in the second volume of the Parerga, §. 114.—In a certain respect the opposite of envy is *Schadenfreude*. Yet to feel envy is human; to relish Schadenfreude is diabolical. There is no more infallible sign of a thoroughly bad heart and profound moral worthlessness than a trait of pure, hearty Schadenfreude. One should avoid forever anyone in whom one has perceived it: This man is black-hearted; Roman, beware of him.—Envy and Schadenfreude are in themselves merely theoretical; practically they become malice and cruelty. Egoism can lead to crimes and misdeeds of every kind; but the harm and pain thereby caused to others are for it merely a means, not an end, and so occur only incidentally. For malice and cruelty, by contrast, the sufferings and pains of others are an end in themselves, and attaining it is enjoyment. On this account the latter constitute a higher power of moral badness. The maxim of extreme egoism is: Help no one; rather, if it should happen to pay (thus still conditional), harm everyone. The maxim of malice is: Harm everyone, as far as you can.—As Schadenfreude is only theoretical cruelty, so cruelty is only practical Schadenfreude, and Schadenfreude will appear as cruelty as soon as opportunity comes.\n\nTo demonstrate the special vices springing from the two fundamental powers named would be in place only in a fully worked-out ethics. Such an ethics would derive from *egoism*, say, greed, gluttony, lust, self-interest, stinginess, avarice, injustice, hardheartedness, pride, arrogance, and so forth—and from *malignity* it would derive grudging, envy, ill will, malice, Schadenfreude, prying curiosity, slander, insolence, petulance, hatred, anger, treachery, insidiousness, vindictiveness, cruelty, and so forth.—The first root is more bestial, the second more diabolical. The predominance of the one or the other, or else of the moral incentive, still to be demonstrated further on, gives the main line in the ethical classification of characters. No human being is wholly without something of all three.\n\nWith this, then, I have completed the review, admittedly a dreadful one, of the antimoral powers, which recalls that of the princes of darkness in Milton's Pandemonium. My plan, however, required that I first take into consideration this gloomy side of human nature, whereby my path certainly departs from that of all other moralists and becomes like Dante's, which leads first into hell.\n\nThe survey of the antimoral powers given here makes plain how hard the problem is: to find an incentive that could move human beings to a mode of action opposed to all those inclinations rooted deep in their nature, or, should such a mode of action perhaps be given in experience, to give a sufficient and unforced account of it. So hard is the problem that, for its solution for humanity at large, people everywhere have had to call in machinery from another world. People pointed to gods whose will and command the mode of action demanded here would be, and who lent force to this command by punishments and rewards, either in this world or in another, to which we would be transferred by death. Suppose that belief in a doctrine of this kind, as is indeed possible through very early imprinting, took root generally, and also—though this is much harder and has much less confirmation in experience—that it produced the intended effect; then legality of actions would indeed be brought about, even beyond the limit to which justice and police can reach; but everyone feels that this would by no means be what we properly mean by morality of disposition. For plainly all actions called forth by motives of such a kind would always be rooted only in sheer egoism. How, indeed, could there be any talk of disinterestedness where reward lures me, or threatened punishment deters me? A firmly believed reward in another world is to be regarded like a perfectly safe bill of exchange, but one drawn at very long sight. The promise, so common everywhere among satisfied beggars, that the giver will be repaid the gift a thousandfold in that other world may move many a miser to give lavish alms, which they gladly dispense as a sound investment, firmly convinced that they will now rise again in that world, too, at once as people of immense wealth.—For the great mass of the people it may perhaps have to be left at impulses of this kind; and accordingly the various religions, which are precisely the metaphysics of the people, hold them up before it. Here, however, it should be noted that we are sometimes just as much mistaken about the true motives of our own doing as about those of another's; hence surely many a person, though able to give an account of their noblest actions only through motives of the above kind, nonetheless acts from far nobler and purer incentives, though ones much harder to make clear, and truly does from immediate love of neighbor what they can explain only by their God's command. Philosophy, by contrast, here as everywhere seeks the true, ultimate disclosures about the problem at hand, grounded on the nature of the human being and independent of all mythical interpretations, religious dogmas, and transcendent hypostases, and demands to see them demonstrated in outer or inner experience. Our present task, however, is a philosophical one; we therefore have to disregard entirely all solutions of it conditioned by religions, which I have recalled here merely to bring the great difficulty of the problem to light.\n\n16. I allow myself the irregular formation of this word, since \"antiethical\" would not be descriptive here. The now fashionable \"sittlich and unsittlich,\" however, is a poor substitute for \"moral and immoral\": first, because \"moral\" is a scientific concept, to which as such a Greek or Latin designation is due, for reasons to be found in my principal work, Bd. 2, Kap. 12, S. 134 ff.; and second, because \"sittlich\" is a weak and tame expression, hard to tell from \"sittsam\" (demure), which the common speech calls \"zimperlich\" (prim). No concessions should be made to Teutomania.\n\n17. One seems, more than others, to envy those\nWho, lifted by the strength of their own wings,\nDepart from the common cage of all.\n\n### Section 15\n\nThe criterion of actions with moral worth.\n\nThe first task now would be to settle the empirical question: do acts of freely chosen justice and unselfish love of humanity—which may rise to nobility and magnanimity—occur in experience? Unfortunately, the question cannot be decided on purely empirical grounds. Experience always gives us only the deed; its impulses remain hidden. The possibility therefore always remains that an egoistic motive influenced a just or good action. I will not resort to the illegitimate device of appealing to the reader’s conscience here, in a theoretical inquiry. But I believe very few will doubt, or lack the conviction from their own experience, that people often act justly solely to keep another from suffering an injustice. Indeed, there are people in whom the principle of allowing others their due is, as it were, *inborn*: they deliberately wrong no one; they do not pursue their own advantage without qualification, but consider the rights of others as well; when obligations have been undertaken on both sides, they watch not only to see that the other person performs his part, but also that he receives his due, sincerely wishing that no one who deals with them should lose by it. These are the *truly honest people*, the few just people among the countless unjust. But such people do exist. Likewise, I think it will be granted that many a person helps and gives, works and forgoes, with no further intention in his heart than to help another whose need he sees. And that Arnold von Winkelried, when he cried, “Faithful, beloved confederates, remember my wife and child,” and then gathered into his arms as many enemy spears as he could hold, had some selfish purpose in mind—let anyone imagine it who can: I cannot. In §. 13 above I have already pointed to instances of freely chosen justice that cannot be denied without quibbling and obstinacy. But if someone should nevertheless insist on denying that any such actions occur, then, on his account, morality would be a science with no real object, like astrology and alchemy, and further debate over its foundation would be time lost. With him, then, I would be finished; I speak to those who acknowledge the reality of the matter.\n\nIt is therefore only actions of the kind described that are accorded *moral worth* in the proper sense. Their distinctive, characteristic feature is the exclusion of the kind of motive that otherwise calls forth all human actions: *self-interested* motives, in the broadest sense of the word. That is precisely why discovering a self-interested motive wholly destroys an action’s moral worth if it was the only motive, and diminishes that worth if it played a supporting part. The absence of all egoistic motivation is therefore the *criterion of an action with moral worth*. One might object that acts of pure malice and cruelty are not self-interested either. Yet it is obvious that these cannot be meant here, since they are the opposite of the actions under discussion. Anyone who insists on a rigorous definition may expressly exclude those actions by their essential feature: that they aim at another’s suffering. An additional mark of actions with moral worth, wholly inward and therefore less evident, is that they leave us with a certain satisfaction with ourselves, called the approval of conscience. Correspondingly, the opposite actions—acts of injustice and unkindness, and still more those of malice and cruelty—meet with the opposite inward judgment of ourselves. A further, secondary and incidental outward mark is that actions of the first kind win the approval and respect of uninvolved witnesses, while those of the second call forth the reverse.\n\nWe must now take actions with moral worth, defined in this way and acknowledged as facts, as the phenomenon before us that requires explanation. We must accordingly investigate what can move a human being to actions of this kind. If successful, this inquiry must necessarily bring the genuine moral incentive to light; and since all ethics must rest on that incentive, our problem would then be solved.\n\n### Section 16\n\nStatement and proof of the only genuine moral incentive.\n\nAfter these indispensable preparations, I come to demonstrating the true incentive underlying every action of genuine moral worth. We shall find it to be something that, in its seriousness and unquestionable reality, stands far apart from all the subtleties, overingenious reasonings, sophisms, groundless assertions, and a priori soap bubbles that earlier systems have sought to make the source of moral action and the foundation of ethics. I do not intend merely to *propose* this moral incentive for acceptance at will, but actually to *prove* that it is the only possible one. Since this proof requires many thoughts to be brought together, I will begin with several premises that state the assumptions of the argument. They may quite properly be regarded as axioms, except for the last two, which refer back to explanations already given.\n\n1) No action can occur without a sufficient motive, any more than a stone can move without a sufficient push or pull.\n\n2) Equally, an action for which a motive sufficient for the agent’s character is present cannot fail to occur unless a stronger countervailing motive makes its omission necessary.\n\n3) What moves the will is solely well-being and suffering, taken in general and in the broadest sense of the words; conversely, well-being and suffering mean “in accordance with, or contrary to, a will.” Every motive must therefore bear some relation to well-being and suffering.\n\n4) Consequently, every action has as its ultimate end a being capable of well-being and suffering.\n\n5) This being is either the agent himself or someone else, who then has a passive part in the action, since it is done to his harm or for his benefit and welfare.\n\n6) Every action whose ultimate end is the agent’s own well-being and suffering is *egoistic*.\n\n7) Everything said here about actions holds equally for the omission of actions for which both a motive and a countervailing motive are present.\n\n8) As explained in the preceding section, *egoism* and an action’s *moral worth* are absolutely incompatible. If an action has an egoistic end as its motive, it can have no moral worth; if an action is to have moral worth, no egoistic end, direct or indirect, near or distant, may be its motive.\n\n9) Since the supposed duties to ourselves were eliminated in §. 5, an action’s moral significance can lie only in its relation to others. Only with respect to them can it have moral worth or be morally reprehensible, and thus be an act of justice or love of humanity, or the opposite of either.\n\nThe following is evident from these premises. The well-being and suffering that, according to premise 3, must underlie every action or omission as its ultimate end belong either to the agent himself or to someone else passively involved in the action. In the first case, the action is necessarily egoistic, because a self-interested motive underlies it. This applies not only to actions openly undertaken for one’s own benefit and advantage, as the vast majority are. It applies just as much whenever one expects any distant result for oneself from an action, whether in this world or another; or has in view one’s honor, one’s reputation among others, someone’s esteem, the sympathy of onlookers, and the like. It applies no less when an action is intended to uphold a maxim from whose general observance one expects some possible advantage for oneself—for example, the maxim of justice, of mutual assistance for all, and so on. It applies equally if one thinks it advisable to obey some absolute command issued by a power that, though unknown, is evidently superior: for then nothing but fear of the harmful consequences of disobedience can move one to obey, even if those consequences are conceived only generally and vaguely. The same holds if, through an action or omission, one seeks to uphold one’s own high opinion of oneself, of one’s worth or dignity, whether clearly or dimly conceived—an opinion one would otherwise have to surrender, thereby wounding one’s pride. Finally, it also holds if one wishes in this way to work toward one’s own perfection, on *Wolffian* principles. In short, whatever one posits as the ultimate moving cause of an action, it will always turn out that, by some roundabout path, the *agent’s own well-being and suffering* are ultimately the real incentive; the action is therefore egoistic and consequently without moral worth. There is only one case in which this does not hold: when the ultimate moving cause of an action or omission lies directly and exclusively in the *well-being and suffering* of someone else passively involved. The active party, in acting or refraining, then has in view solely the well-being and suffering *of another*, and aims at absolutely nothing but that the other should remain unharmed, or indeed receive help, support, and relief. *This end alone* stamps an action or omission with *moral worth*. That worth therefore rests exclusively on the action’s being performed or omitted solely for another’s benefit and welfare. For as soon as this is not the case, the well-being and suffering that impel every action or restrain us from it can only be the agent’s own. But then the action or omission is invariably *egoistic*, and thus *without moral worth*.\n\nBut if my action is to be done solely *for the other person’s sake*, then *his well-being and suffering must be my immediate motive*, just as my own are in all other actions. This gives our problem a narrower formulation: how is it possible for another’s well-being and suffering to move my will immediately—that is, just as ordinarily only my own do—and thus become my direct motive, sometimes even to such a degree that I more or less subordinate my own well-being and suffering, ordinarily the sole source of my motives, to his? Plainly, only by that other person’s becoming the ultimate end of my will, just as ordinarily I myself am: in other words, by my directly willing his well-being and not willing his suffering, as directly as I ordinarily will only my own. But this necessarily presupposes that I directly share in his suffering as such, feel his suffering as I ordinarily feel only my own, and therefore directly will his well-being as I ordinarily will only my own. This, however, requires that I should in some way be *identified* with him—that the complete distinction between me and everyone else, on which my egoism rests, should be abolished at least to a certain degree. Yet since I do not inhabit the other person’s skin, it is only through the *knowledge* I have of him—that is, the representation of him in my head—that I can identify myself with him so far that my deed declares that distinction abolished. The process analyzed here is not dreamed up or plucked out of the air. It is entirely real, and by no means rare: it is the everyday phenomenon of *compassion*—the wholly immediate participation, independent of every other consideration, first in another’s suffering, and thereby in the prevention or removal of that suffering, in which all satisfaction, well-being, and happiness ultimately consist. This compassion alone is the real basis of all freely chosen justice and all genuine love of humanity. Only insofar as an action springs from it does that action have moral worth; any action arising from any other motives has none. As soon as this compassion awakens, the other person’s well-being and suffering lie immediately at my heart, in just the same way, though not always to the same degree, as ordinarily only my own do. Thus the distinction between him and me is no longer absolute.\n\nThis process is certainly astonishing—indeed, mysterious. In truth it is the great mystery of ethics, its primal phenomenon and the boundary beyond which only metaphysical speculation may venture a step. In this process we see the partition that, by the light of nature—as the old theologians call reason—completely separates one being from another fall away, and the not-I become, in a certain sense, the I. For now, however, we will leave the metaphysical interpretation of the phenomenon untouched and first see whether all actions of freely chosen justice and genuine love of humanity really flow from this process. Our problem will then be solved, since we shall have demonstrated the ultimate foundation of morality in human nature itself. This foundation cannot in turn be a problem for *ethics*, though it may well be one for *metaphysics*, as is everything that exists, considered simply as existing. But the metaphysical interpretation of the primal ethical phenomenon already goes beyond the Royal Society’s question, which concerns the foundation of ethics. At most it can be appended as a supplement that one is free to offer and free to accept. Before I proceed to derive the cardinal virtues from the fundamental incentive established here, I must add two essential remarks.\n\n1) To make the argument easier to grasp, I simplified the preceding derivation of compassion as the sole source of actions with moral worth by deliberately leaving aside the incentive of *malice*, which, like compassion, is unselfish, but makes another’s pain its ultimate end. By including it now, we can restate the proof more completely and rigorously as follows:\n\nThere are only *three fundamental incentives* of human action, and every possible motive works solely by arousing them. They are:\n\na) Egoism, which wills one’s own well-being (has no limits).\n\nb) Malice, which wills another’s suffering (extends to the utmost cruelty).\n\nc) Compassion, which wills another’s well-being (rises to nobility and magnanimity).\n\nEvery human action must be traceable to one of these incentives, though two of them may also work together. Since we have assumed that actions with moral worth are given as facts, they too must arise from one of these fundamental incentives. But according to premise 8, they cannot spring from the *first* incentive, still less from the *second*, since all actions arising from the second are morally reprehensible, while the first produces some that are morally indifferent. They must therefore proceed from the *third* incentive; and this will receive a posteriori confirmation in what follows.\n\n2) Immediate participation in another’s condition is confined to his *suffering*. It is not also aroused, at least not directly, by his *well-being*; rather, his well-being in itself leaves us indifferent. J. J. Rousseau says the same in Emile (liv. IV): “First maxim: It is not in the human heart to put ourselves in the place of people happier than we are, but only of those who are more to be pitied.” etc.\n\nThe reason is that pain, suffering—which includes every lack, deprivation, need, indeed every wish—is what is *positive*, what is immediately felt. By contrast, the nature of satisfaction, enjoyment, and happiness consists solely in a deprivation’s being removed, a pain’s being stilled. Their effect is therefore *negative*. This is precisely why need and desire are the condition of every enjoyment. Plato already recognized this, making exceptions only for pleasant scents and the joys of the mind. (De Rep., IX, p. 264 sq. Bip.) Voltaire too says: There are no true pleasures without true needs. Thus what is positive, what makes itself known through itself, is pain; satisfaction and pleasures are what is *negative*, the mere removal of the former. This is the immediate basis for the fact that only another’s suffering, lack, danger, and helplessness arouse our sympathy directly and as such. The happy, contented person as such leaves us indifferent, precisely because his condition is a negative one: the absence of pain, lack, and distress. We can certainly rejoice in the happiness, well-being, and enjoyment of others. But this is then secondary, mediated by the fact that their suffering and deprivation had previously saddened us. Or we take an interest in someone happy and enjoying himself, not *as such*, but insofar as he is our child, father, friend, relative, servant, subject, and so on. But it is not the happy person enjoying himself *purely as such* who arouses our immediate sympathy, as the suffering, deprived, unhappy person does *purely as such*. Even in our own case, it is really only our suffering—which includes every lack, need, wish, and even boredom—that spurs us to activity, while a state of contentment and happiness leaves us inactive, in languid repose. How could it be otherwise with regard to others, since our participation in their condition rests on identification with them? The sight of someone happy and enjoying himself, purely as such, may even very easily arouse our envy, a disposition present in every human being, which found its place above among the antimoral powers.\n\nIn consequence of the account given above of compassion as being moved immediately by another’s suffering, I must also criticize Cassina’s error, so often repeated since (Analytical Essay on Compassion, 1788; German translation by Pockels, 1790). He thinks compassion arises through a momentary deception of the imagination: we put ourselves in the sufferer’s place and then fancy that we are undergoing his pains in *our own* person. It is not so at all. Rather, at every moment it remains clear and present to us that he is the sufferer, not we; and it is directly in *his* person, not in *ours*, that we feel the suffering, to our sorrow. We suffer with him, and thus in him: we feel his pain as *his*, and do not imagine it to be our own. Indeed, the happier our own condition, and thus the more our awareness of it contrasts with the other person’s situation, the more receptive we are to compassion. But explaining how this supremely important phenomenon is possible is not so easy, nor can it be achieved by the merely psychological route Cassina attempted. The explanation can only be metaphysical; I shall try to give such an explanation in the final part.\n\nFor now, however, I turn to deriving actions of genuine moral worth from the source we have demonstrated. In the preceding part I already established, as the general maxim of such actions and therefore the highest principle of ethics, the rule: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. Since this maxim contains *two* propositions, the actions corresponding to it naturally fall into two classes.\n\n### Section 17\n\nThe Virtue of Justice.\n\nA closer look at the process of compassion established above as the primal ethical phenomenon reveals at once two clearly distinct degrees in which another person's suffering can become my immediate motive—that is, determine what I do or refrain from doing. In the first, it merely counteracts selfish or malicious motives and keeps me from causing another person suffering: from bringing about what does not yet exist, from becoming the cause of someone else's pain. In the second and higher degree, compassion works positively and moves me to active help. The distinction between so-called duties of right and duties of virtue—or, more accurately, between justice and loving-kindness—which emerged so awkwardly in *Kant*, arises here entirely of itself, and thereby attests the soundness of the principle. It is the natural, unmistakable, sharp boundary between the negative and the positive, between not harming and helping. The terminology used until now—duties of right and duties of virtue, the latter also called duties of love or imperfect duties—has, first, the defect of placing genus and species on the same level, since justice, too, is a virtue. It also rests on a far too extensive use of the concept of *duty*, which I will later restore to its true limits. In place of those two kinds of duty, I therefore put two virtues, justice and loving-kindness, which I call cardinal virtues because all the others proceed from them in practice and can be derived from them in theory. Both are rooted in natural compassion. But compassion itself is an undeniable fact of human consciousness and belongs essentially to it. It does not depend on assumptions, concepts, religions, dogmas, myths, upbringing, or education. It is original and immediate, inherent in human nature itself, and for that very reason holds good under every circumstance and appears in every country and age. Everywhere, then, people confidently appeal to it as something necessarily present in every human being; nowhere does it belong among the “foreign gods.” Someone who seems to lack it, by contrast, is called inhuman; and “humanity” is often used as a synonym for compassion.\n\nThe first degree in which this genuine and natural moral incentive operates is therefore merely *negative*. We are all originally inclined to injustice and violence, because our needs, desires, anger, and hatred enter consciousness immediately and thus have the right of first occupation. By contrast, the sufferings our injustice and violence cause others enter consciousness only by the secondary route of *representation*, and only through experience—that is, *indirectly*. Hence *Seneca* says: “A good disposition comes to no one before a bad one” (Ep. 50). The first degree of compassion's effect, then, is to check the suffering I would otherwise cause others through the antimoral powers dwelling within me. It calls “Stop!” and stands before the other person like a rampart, shielding him from the injury my selfishness or malice would otherwise drive me to inflict. From this first degree of compassion springs the maxim “Harm no one”: the principle of *justice*. Here alone, and nowhere else, does this virtue have its pure, wholly moral, unalloyed origin, since otherwise it would have to rest on selfishness. If my heart is receptive to compassion to this degree, it will hold me back whenever and wherever I might wish to use another's suffering as a means to my own ends, whether that suffering comes at once or later, directly or indirectly through intermediate links. I will therefore no more attack another's property than his person, no more cause him mental than bodily suffering. I will refrain not only from all physical injury, but equally from causing pain by mental means: through affronts, intimidation, vexation, or slander. The same compassion will keep me from seeking the satisfaction of my desires at the expense of women's happiness in life, from seducing another man's wife, or from corrupting young men morally and physically by enticing them into pederasty. Yet compassion by no means needs to be aroused in every individual case; often it would come too late. Rather, the knowledge gained once and for all of the suffering every unjust act necessarily brings upon others—suffering sharpened by the feeling of enduring wrong, of being overpowered by someone else—gives rise in noble hearts to the maxim “Harm no one.” Rational reflection raises it into a firm resolve, made once and for all: to respect everyone's rights, permit oneself no encroachment on them, remain free of the self-reproach of having caused another's suffering, and thus not shift onto others, by force or cunning, the burdens and sufferings of life that circumstances bring to each of us, but bear one's allotted share oneself, so as not to double someone else's. For although *principles*, and abstract knowledge in general, are by no means the primal source or first foundation of morality, they are indispensable to a moral life. They are the receptacle, the reservoir, in which the disposition flowing from the source of all morality—a source that does not flow at every moment—is stored, ready to be conducted through channels to wherever a case calls for its use. In morality, then, matters stand as they do in physiology, where, for example, the gallbladder is necessary as a reservoir for what the liver produces, and in many similar cases. Without firmly held *principles*, we would be helplessly abandoned to the antimoral incentives whenever external impressions inflamed them into passions. Holding to principles and following them despite the motives working against them is *self-control*. Here, too, lies the reason why women, who because of the weakness of their reason are far less capable than men of understanding general *principles*, holding to them, and taking them as a guide, generally fall short of men in the virtue of justice, and thus also in honesty and conscientiousness. Hence injustice and deceit are their most frequent vices, and lying is their true element. In the virtue of *loving-kindness*, on the other hand, they surpass men, since its occasion is usually *directly perceived* and thus speaks immediately to compassion, to which women are decidedly more receptive. But only what is directly perceived, present, and immediately real has true existence for them. What is distant, absent, past, or future, and can be known only through concepts, is not readily grasped by them. Here, then, there is compensation as well: justice is more the masculine virtue, loving-kindness more the feminine. The thought of seeing women serve as judges provokes laughter; but the Sisters of Mercy surpass even the Brothers of Mercy. The *animal*, in turn, lacking abstract or rational knowledge altogether, is incapable of any resolutions, much less principles, and therefore of any *self-control*: it is defenseless against impressions and passions. For this very reason it has no conscious *morality*, although species show great differences in the malice and goodness of their characters, and among the highest genera even individuals do so.—According to what has been said, compassion operates in the just person's individual actions only indirectly, through principles, and not so much actually as potentially. Something similar happens in statics: the greater *velocity* produced by the greater length of one arm of a balance, by which a smaller mass counterbalances a larger one, operates in a state of rest only potentially, yet quite as effectively as it would actually. But compassion always remains ready to emerge in actuality as well. Thus, when in particular cases the chosen maxim of justice begins to falter, no motive—selfish motives aside—is more effective in supporting it and reviving just resolutions than one drawn from the primal source itself, compassion. This holds not merely where the injury concerns someone's person, but where it concerns his property as well. If, for example, someone feels tempted to keep a valuable object he has found, nothing—excluding every consideration of prudence and religion—will bring him back to the path of justice so readily as imagining the loser's anxiety, heartache, and lamentation. A sense of this truth often leads people, in a public appeal for the return of lost money, to add the assurance that the loser is poor, a servant, or the like.\n\nThese reflections will, I hope, make it clear that, unlikely as it may seem at first glance, justice too, as a genuine, freely practiced virtue, does indeed originate in compassion. Anyone who still finds this soil too meager for that great and truly cardinal virtue to take root in it alone should recall from the foregoing how little genuine, voluntary, unselfish, undisguised justice is found among human beings; how it appears only as a surprising exception, and how, in quality and quantity alike, it stands to its counterfeit—the justice founded on mere prudence and loudly proclaimed everywhere—as gold to copper. I would call the latter “common justice” and the former “heavenly justice,” since it is she who, according to Hesiod, leaves the earth in the Iron Age to dwell among the heavenly gods. The root we have identified is strong enough for this rare plant, always an exotic on earth.\n\n*Injustice*, or *wrong*, therefore always consists in *injuring* another. The concept of *wrong* is consequently *positive* and precedes that of *right*, which is *negative* and merely designates the actions one can perform without injuring others—that is, without doing *wrong*. It is easy to see that these also include every action whose sole purpose is to ward off an attempted wrong. For no sympathy with another, no compassion for him, can require me to let him injure me—that is, to suffer wrong. That the concept of *right* is *negative*, in contrast to the *positive* concept of *wrong*, is also apparent in the first explanation given by the father of the philosophical theory of right, *Hugo Grotius*, at the beginning of his work: “Right here means nothing other than what is just, and that in a negative rather than an affirmative sense, so that right is what is not unjust” (On the Law of War and Peace, L. I, c. 1, §. 3). The negative character of justice is confirmed, appearances notwithstanding, even in the commonplace definition “To give everyone his own.” If it is his own, there is no need to give it to him; the meaning, then, is “To take from no one what is his own.”—Because the demand of justice is merely negative, it can be enforced: everyone can practice “Harm no one” at the same time. The institution that enforces it is the *state*, whose sole purpose is to protect individuals from one another, and the whole from external enemies. Some German philosophizers of this venal age would like to distort it into an institution for moral education and edification. In the background lurks the Jesuitical aim of abolishing the individual's personal freedom and development, making him a mere cog in a Chinese machine of state and religion. But that is the road that once led to inquisitions, autos-da-fé, and religious wars. Frederick the Great's words, “In my country everyone should be able to attend to his salvation in his own fashion,” declared that he would never take it. Yet even now we see the state everywhere—with North America more an apparent exception than a real one—undertaking to provide for its members' metaphysical need as well. Governments seem to have chosen as their principle the saying of Quintus Curtius: “Nothing rules the multitude more effectively than superstition. Otherwise unruly, savage, and fickle, once it is captivated by an empty religion it obeys its prophets more readily than its leaders.”\n\nThe concepts of *wrong* and *right*, as equivalents of injury and noninjury—the latter including the warding off of injury—are plainly independent of all positive legislation and precede it. There is therefore a purely ethical right, or natural law, and a pure theory of right, independent, that is, of all enacted law. Its principles do have an empirical origin insofar as they arise on the occasion of the concept of *injury*. In themselves, however, they rest on the pure understanding, which supplies a priori the principle “The cause of a cause is the cause of its effect.” Here this means that the other person, not I, is himself the cause of what I must do to ward off his injury to me; I can therefore resist every encroachment on his part without wronging him. It is, so to speak, a moral law of recoil. Thus the combination of the empirical concept of injury with the rule supplied by the pure understanding gives rise to the fundamental concepts of wrong and right, which everyone grasps a priori and immediately applies as experience provides occasion. An empiricist who denies this, since experience alone counts for him, need only be referred to the savages, all of whom distinguish wrong from right quite correctly, often with subtlety and precision. This is strikingly evident in their barter and other agreements with the crews of European ships, and in their visits aboard them. They are bold and confident when they are in the right, but anxious when right is not on their side. In disputes they accept a just settlement, whereas unjust treatment provokes them to war.—The *theory of right* is a part of morality that establishes which actions one may not perform unless one wishes to injure others—that is, to do wrong. Morality here has the *active* side in view. Legislation, however, takes this chapter of morality and uses it with regard to the *passive* side, thus in reverse, considering these same actions as things no one need suffer, since no one should have wrong done to him. Against these actions the state now erects the bulwark of laws, as positive law. Its purpose is that no one should *suffer* wrong; the purpose of the moral theory of right, by contrast, is that no one should *do* wrong.[18]\n\nIn every unjust action, the wrong is the same in *quality*: injury to another, whether in his person, freedom, property, or honor. But in *quantity* it can differ greatly. This difference in the *magnitude of wrong* seems not yet to have been adequately investigated by moralists; yet it is acknowledged everywhere in actual life, since the degree of blame expressed corresponds to it. The same holds for the *justice* of actions. To illustrate: someone who steals a loaf of bread when close to starvation does wrong; but how slight is his injustice beside that of a rich man who in some way deprives a poor man of his last possession. A rich man who pays his day laborer acts justly; but how slight is that justice beside that of a poor man who voluntarily returns to a rich man a purse of gold he has found. The measure of this highly significant difference in the *quantity* of justice and injustice—the quality always remaining the same—is not direct and absolute, like a ruler's, but indirect and relative, like that of sines and tangents. I propose the following formula: the magnitude of the injustice of my action equals the magnitude of the harm I thereby inflict on another, divided by the magnitude of the advantage I myself thereby gain; and the magnitude of the justice of my action equals the magnitude of the advantage injuring the other person would bring me, divided by the magnitude of the harm he would thereby suffer.—But beyond this there is also a *double injustice*, different in kind from every single injustice, however great. This is shown by the fact that the indignation of an uninvolved witness, which is always proportional to the magnitude of the injustice, reaches its highest degree only in the case of double injustice. He abhors it as something outrageous and crying out to heaven: an atrocity, a sacrilege, at which the gods themselves seem to veil their faces. This *double injustice* occurs where someone has expressly undertaken an obligation to protect another in a particular respect, so that merely failing to fulfill that obligation would already injure the other person and thus be wrong; but then, beyond this, he himself attacks and injures that person in the very matter in which he should have protected him. This happens, for example, when an appointed watchman or escort becomes a murderer, an entrusted custodian becomes a thief, a guardian deprives his wards of their property, an advocate betrays his client's cause, a judge takes a bribe, or someone asked for advice deliberately gives the questioner ruinous counsel. All these are comprehended in the concept of *betrayal*, which the world abhors. Accordingly, *Dante* places traitors at the very bottom of hell, where Satan himself resides (Inf., XI, 61–66).\n\nNow that the concept of *obligation* has come up, this is the place to define the concept of *duty*, so frequently used in ethics and in life, yet given too broad an extension. We have found that wrong always consists in injuring another, whether in his person, freedom, property, or honor. This seems to imply that every wrong must be a positive attack, a deed. But there are actions whose mere *omission* is a wrong: such actions are called *duties*. This is the true philosophical definition of the concept of *duty*. It loses all its distinctiveness and is thereby lost altogether when, as in previous moral theories, one chooses to call every praiseworthy way of acting a *duty*, forgetting that what is a *duty* must also be *owed*. *Duty—what is required, what one owes, duty—is therefore an action by whose mere omission one injures another, that is, does wrong.* Clearly, this can be the case only because the person omitting it has pledged himself to such an action—that is, has *undertaken an obligation*. All duties, then, rest on an obligation that has been undertaken. As a rule, this is an express, reciprocal agreement, as, for example, between prince and people, government and official, master and servant, advocate and client, physician and patient; in general, between anyone who has undertaken a service of any kind and the person commissioning it, in the broadest sense of the word. Every duty therefore confers a right, since no one can bind himself without a motive—which here means without some advantage to himself. I know of only *one* obligation undertaken *not* through an agreement but directly through a mere action, because the person toward whom one has it did not yet exist when one undertook it: the obligation of parents toward their children. Whoever brings a child into the world has the *duty* to support it until it can support itself. And should that time *never* come, as with someone blind, crippled, afflicted with cretinism, or the like, the duty never ends either. For merely withholding help—an omission—would injure his child, indeed bring it to destruction. Children's moral duty toward their parents is not so immediate and definite. It rests on the fact that, since every duty confers a right, parents too must have a right against their children. This establishes the children's duty of obedience, which, however, later ends along with the right from which it arose. Gratitude will then take its place for whatever the parents have done beyond their strict duty. Yet however ugly and often even outrageous a vice ingratitude may be, gratitude cannot be called a duty, because its absence is no injury to another and hence no *wrong*. Otherwise the benefactor would have to have supposed that he was tacitly striking a bargain.—At most, compensation for damage done might be put forward as an obligation arising directly from an action. Yet this, as the undoing of the consequences of an unjust action, is merely an effort to efface it: something purely negative, resting on the fact that the action itself should not have occurred.—Let it also be noted here that equity is the enemy of justice and often does it grave injury; one should therefore not concede too much to it. The German is a friend of equity; the Englishman sides with justice.\n\nThe law of motivation is just as strict as that of physical causality and therefore carries an equally irresistible compulsion. Accordingly, there are two ways of doing wrong: *force* and *cunning*. Just as I can kill or rob another, or compel him to obey me, by force, I can accomplish all this by cunning as well, by placing false motives before his intellect, in consequence of which he must do what he would otherwise not do. This happens through the *lie*. Its wrongfulness rests on this alone and thus attaches to it only insofar as it is an instrument of cunning—that is, of coercion through motivation. As a rule, however, it is precisely this. For, first, my lying itself cannot happen without a motive; and, with the rarest exceptions, that motive will be an unjust one: the intention of directing others, over whom I have no power, according to my will—that is, coercing them through motivation. This intention underlies even a mere braggart's lie, since whoever uses it seeks to gain greater standing with others than he deserves.—The binding force of a *promise* or *contract* rests on the fact that, if unfulfilled, they are the most solemn lies. Their intention to exert moral coercion over others is all the more evident here because the motive for the lie—the performance demanded of the other party—is expressly stated. Fraud is contemptible because it disarms its victim with a show of sincerity before attacking him. *Betrayal* is its summit, and is deeply abhorred because it belongs to the category of *double injustice*. But just as I can repel force by force without wrong, and thus rightfully, so I can also do so by cunning, where I lack force or find cunning more convenient. In cases where I have a right to force, then, I also have a right *to lie*: against robbers, for example, and every kind of unjust aggressor, whom I may accordingly lure into a trap by cunning. For this reason, a promise extorted by force is not binding.—But *the right to lie* in fact goes further. It arises with every wholly unauthorized question concerning my personal or business affairs, and is therefore impertinent, where not only answering it but even merely rejecting it with “I won't say” would arouse suspicion and place me in danger. Here lying is self-defense against unauthorized curiosity, whose motive is usually not benevolent. For I have the right to oppose the presumed ill will of others, and the physical force consequently to be expected from them, with physical resistance in advance, at the intruder's own risk: as a preventive measure I may top my garden wall with sharp spikes, let vicious dogs loose in my courtyard at night, and, according to circumstances, even set caltrops and spring guns, whose harmful consequences the intruder has himself to blame for. In the same way, I have the right to keep secret, by every means, anything whose disclosure would expose me to attack by others. I have reason to do so as well, because here too I must regard others' ill will as quite possible and take precautions against it beforehand. Hence Ariosto says:\n\nAlthough dissembling is most often\nCondemned, and signals an ill-intentioned mind,\nStill, in many matters, many times,\nIt has plainly brought about much good,\nAnd warded off harm, disgrace, and death:\nFor we do not always speak with friends\nIn this mortal life, far more dark than bright,\nSo full of envy.[19]\n\n(Orl. fur., IV, 1.)\n\nThus, without doing wrong, I may forestall even a merely presumed injury by cunning with cunning of my own. I therefore need neither answer someone who peers without warrant into my private affairs nor, by replying “I want to keep that secret,” indicate the place where a secret lies that would endanger me, perhaps benefit him, and in any case give him power over me:\n\n“They want to know the household's secrets, and through them to be feared.”\n\nInstead, I am then entitled to put him off with a lie, at his own risk should it lead him into a harmful error. For here a lie is the only means of meeting this prying and suspicious curiosity: I am therefore acting in self-defense. “Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies”[20] is the right maxim here. Among the English, who regard the accusation of lying as the gravest insult and for that very reason really do lie less than other nations, all unauthorized questions about another person's affairs are accordingly regarded as an impertinence, designated by the expression “to ask questions.”—Every sensible person acts on the principle stated above, even if he is of the strictest integrity. If, for example, he is returning from a distant place where he has collected money, and an unknown traveler joins him, asking, as people commonly do, first *where he is going*, then *where he has come from*, and gradually what might have taken him there, he will answer with a lie to forestall the danger of robbery. A man found in the house where the father of the daughter he is courting lives, and asked the reason for his unexpected presence, will, unless he is a fool, give a false one without hesitation. And so there are very many cases in which every reasonable person lies without the least scruple of conscience. This view alone removes the glaring contradiction between the morality that is taught and the morality practiced daily, even by the most honest and the best. Yet the stated restriction to cases of self-defense must be strictly maintained; otherwise this doctrine would stand open to appalling abuse, for a lie is in itself a very dangerous instrument. But just as, despite the public peace, the law permits everyone to carry and use weapons, namely in self-defense, so morality permits the use of a lie in the same case, and likewise *only* in that case. Apart from this case of self-defense against force or cunning, every lie is a wrong; justice therefore demands truthfulness toward everyone. But against the wholly unconditional, exceptionless condemnation of lying as something inherently reprehensible stands the fact that there are cases where lying is even a *duty*, notably for physicians; that there are *generous* lies, such as the Marquis of Posa's in Don Carlos, the one in Jerusalem Delivered, II, 22, and, in general, all those cases where someone wishes to take another's guilt upon himself; and finally, that even Jesus Christ once deliberately spoke an untruth (Joh. 7, 8). Accordingly, *Campanella*, in his Philosophical Poems, madr. 9, says outright: “Lying is beautiful when it brings about great good.”[21] By contrast, the current doctrine of the lie of necessity is a wretched patch on the garment of a miserable morality.—The attempts, prompted by *Kant* and offered in various compendiums, to derive the wrongfulness of lying from the human *capacity for speech* are so shallow, childish, and absurd that, merely to mock them, one might be tempted to throw oneself into the devil's arms and say with *Talleyrand*: “Man was given speech so that he could conceal his thoughts.”—*Kant's* unconditional, boundless abhorrence of lying, paraded on every occasion, rests either on affectation or on prejudice. In the chapter on lying in his “Doctrine of Virtue,” he heaps every dishonorable epithet upon it, yet supplies no real reason for its reprehensibility, though a reason would have been more effective. Declaiming is easier than proving, and moralizing easier than being sincere. *Kant* would have done better to unleash that particular zeal against *delight in others' suffering*: this, not lying, is the truly diabolical vice. For it is the direct opposite of compassion, and nothing other than impotent cruelty: unable itself to bring about the sufferings it so delights to see in others, it thanks chance for doing so in its stead.—That, under the principle of chivalric honor, the accusation of lying is taken so gravely and held to require washing away with the accuser's blood does not arise from the fact that lying is *wrong*. If it did, an accusation of wrong committed by force would have to wound just as deeply, which, as everyone knows, it does not. Rather, it arises because, under the principle of chivalric honor, force is what actually establishes right. Anyone who resorts to a lie to commit a wrong thereby proves that he lacks either force or the courage needed to use it. Every lie bears witness to fear: that condemns him.\n\n18. The full theory of right can be found in “The World as Will and Representation,” Bd. 1, §. 62.\n\n19. However often dissembling is condemned and shows bad intentions, it has plainly done good in very many matters by averting harm, disgrace, and death: for we do not always speak with friends in this mortal life, far more dark than bright, which teems with envy.\n\n20. Do not question me, and I will not lie to you.\n\n21. Lying is beautiful when it brings about much good.\n\n### Section 18\n\nThe Virtue of Loving-Kindness.\n\nJustice, then, is the first and fundamentally essential cardinal virtue. The philosophers of antiquity recognized it as such, though they placed beside it three others ill-chosen for that rank. Loving-kindness—charity, love—they had not yet established as a virtue. Even *Plato*, who reaches the greatest moral heights, goes no further than voluntary, unselfish justice. In practice and in fact, loving-kindness has certainly existed at every time. But it was Christianity that first brought it into theoretical discussion and formally established it as a virtue, indeed the greatest of all, extending it even to enemies. Here lies Christianity's very greatest merit, though only with respect to Europe: in Asia, a thousand years earlier, boundless love of one's neighbor had already been as much a subject of teaching and precept as of practice. The Vedas and the Dharma-Shastra, the Itihasas and the Puranas, as well as the teaching of the Buddha Shakyamuni, never tire of preaching it.—And if we wish to be exact, traces of the recommendation of loving-kindness can also be found among the ancients, for example in *Cicero*, De finib., V, 23, and even as early as Pythagoras, according to Iamblichus, On the Life of Pythagoras, c. 33. My task now is to derive this virtue philosophically from my principle.\n\nThe second degree in which another's suffering, in itself and as such, becomes my immediate motive through the process of *compassion* established above as a fact, though mysterious in its origin, is clearly distinguished from the first by the *positive character* of the actions that arise from it. Compassion then not only keeps me from injuring another but even impels me to help him. According both to the vividness and depth of this immediate sympathy and to the magnitude and urgency of the other's distress, this purely moral motive will move me to make a greater or lesser sacrifice to his need or hardship. It may consist in exerting my bodily or mental powers on his behalf, or in sacrificing my property, health, freedom, even my life. Here, then, in this immediate sympathy, supported by no argument and requiring none, lies the sole pure origin of loving-kindness—charity, love: the virtue whose maxim is “Help everyone as much as you can,” and from which flows everything ethics prescribes under the names duties of virtue, duties of love, and imperfect duties. This wholly immediate, indeed instinctive sympathy with another's suffering—compassion, then—is the sole source of such actions if they are to *have moral worth*: that is, to be free of every selfish motive and, for that very reason, awaken in us the inner satisfaction called a good, satisfied, approving conscience. It is likewise the sole source if these actions are to evoke in the spectator that distinctive assent, esteem, admiration, and even humbling reflection on himself that is an undeniable fact. If, on the other hand, a beneficent action has any other motive, it can only be selfish, unless it is actually malicious. For, corresponding to the primal incentives of all actions established above—selfishness, malice, compassion—the *motives* capable of moving human beings at all can be brought under three wholly general and highest classes: 1) one's own well-being, 2) another's suffering, 3) another's well-being. If the motive of a beneficent action is *not from the third class*, it must necessarily belong to the *first* or the *second*. The *latter* does sometimes occur: for example, when I benefit one person in order to wound another, whom I do not benefit, or make his suffering more keenly felt; or to shame a third person who did not help the person I am helping; or, finally, to humiliate the very person I benefit. The *former* case, however, is far more frequent. It occurs whenever, in doing a good deed, I have *my own well-being* in view, however remotely and by however circuitous a route: when I am moved by the prospect of a reward in this world or another, by the esteem I may gain and the reputation of having a noble heart, or by the thought that the person I help today may one day help me in return, or otherwise be useful and render me service. It also occurs when I am moved by the thought that the maxim of generosity or beneficence must be upheld because it may someday benefit me too. In short, it occurs whenever my purpose is anything other than the purely *objective* one alone: that I want to know the other person has been helped, rescued from his need and hardship, freed from his suffering—and nothing beyond this, and nothing beside it! Only then, and then alone, have I truly shown that loving-kindness—charity, love—whose preaching is Christianity's great and distinguishing merit. Yet the very precepts the Gospel adds to its commandment of love, such as “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing” (“Let your left hand not know what the right does”), and others like it, rest on a sense of what I have derived here: that another's need alone, and no other consideration, must be my motive if my action is to have moral worth. The same passage quite rightly says (Matth. 6, 2) that those who give ostentatiously have already received their reward. But here too the Vedas confer, as it were, a higher consecration upon us, repeatedly declaring that whoever desires any reward for his works is still on the path of darkness and is not ripe for deliverance.—If someone giving alms were to ask me what he gets out of it, my conscientious answer would be: “This: that the poor man's lot is lightened by that much; beyond this, absolutely nothing. If that does not serve your purpose, and you really care nothing about it, then you did not really want to give alms, but to make a purchase: in that case, you have been cheated of your money. But if you care that this man, oppressed by want, should suffer less, then you have achieved your very purpose. What you get out of it is that he suffers less, and you see exactly how far your gift has rewarded you.”\n\nBut how is it possible that a suffering which is not *mine*, which does not befall *me*, should nevertheless become my motive just as immediately as otherwise only my own does, and move me to act? As I have said, only because, though it is given to me merely as something external, solely through outward perception or report, I nevertheless *share the feeling* of it, *feel it as mine*, and yet not *in myself* but *in someone else*. Thus what *Calderón* already expressed comes to pass:\n\nthat between seeing\nSomeone suffer and suffering\nThere was no distance.\n\n“The Worst Is Not Always Certain,” Jorn. II, p. 229.\n\n(that there is no difference between seeing suffering and suffering.)\n\nBut this presupposes that I have to some degree identified myself with the other person, and that consequently the barrier between I and not-I has been suspended for the moment. Only then do the other's concerns, his need, his distress, his suffering become immediately my own. I no longer see him as empirical perception presents him: as something alien to me, indifferent to me, utterly different from me. Instead, I share his suffering *in him*, even though his skin does not enclose my nerves. Only in this way can *his* pain, *his* distress, become a motive for *me*; otherwise only my own can do so. This *process*, I repeat, is *mysterious*: it is something of which reason can give no immediate account, and whose grounds cannot be discovered by way of experience. And yet it is an everyday occurrence. Everyone has often experienced it in himself; even the hardest-hearted and most selfish have not remained strangers to it. It happens daily before our eyes, in individual cases, in small things, wherever one person, on an immediate impulse and without much reflection, helps and comes to the aid of another—indeed, sometimes puts his own life in the most obvious danger for someone he sees for the first time, with no further thought than that he sees the other's great distress and peril. It happens on a grand scale when, after long deliberation and strenuous debate, the noble-hearted British nation gives 20 million pounds sterling to purchase freedom for the Black slaves in its colonies, to the cheers of a whole world. Anyone who would deny compassion as the incentive of this beautiful action on the grand scale, in order to ascribe it to Christianity, should consider that not a word against slavery is said in the entire New Testament, however widespread it was at that time; and that, on the contrary, even in 1860, in North America, someone debating slavery appealed to the fact that Abraham and Jacob had also kept slaves.\n\nWhat the practical results of this mysterious inner process will be in each particular case, ethics may set out in chapters and sections on duties of virtue, duties of love, imperfect duties, or whatever else it calls them. The root, the foundation of it all, is the one set forth here, from which springs the principle “Help everyone as much as you can.” Everything else is very easily derived from this, just as all duties of justice are derived from the first half of my principle, “Harm no one.” Ethics is in truth the easiest of all sciences, as indeed one would expect, since everyone has the responsibility to construct it himself: to derive for himself, from the highest principle rooted in his heart, the rule for every case that arises. For few have the leisure and patience to learn an ethics already constructed. All virtues flow from justice and loving-kindness; these, then, are the cardinal virtues, and their derivation lays the foundation stone of ethics.—Justice is the whole ethical content of the Old Testament, and loving-kindness that of the New. This is the “new commandment” (Joh. 13, 34), in which, according to Paul (Röm. 13, 8–10), all Christian virtues are contained.\n\n### Section 19\n\nConfirmations of the Foundation of Morality Set Out Above.\n\nThe truth just stated—that compassion, as the only incentive free of egoism, is also the only genuinely moral one—is, strangely, indeed almost incomprehensibly, paradoxical. I will therefore try to make it less alien to the reader’s convictions by showing that it is confirmed by experience and by the testimony of universal human feeling.\n\n1) To this end, I will first take an invented case as an example, one that may serve as a decisive experiment in this inquiry. But to avoid making things easy for myself, I will choose not an act of loving-kindness but a violation of rights, and the gravest one at that.—Imagine two young men, Caius and Titus, both passionately in love, though each with a different girl; each has a rival who, favored by outward circumstances, stands squarely in his way. Both resolve to rid the world of their respective rivals, and both are entirely safe from discovery, even from suspicion. Yet when each comes to make the actual preparations for murder, both, after a struggle with themselves, abandon it. They must give us an honest and clear account of their reasons for relinquishing their resolve.—Now the account Caius gives may be left entirely to the reader’s choice. Perhaps religious reasons held him back: the will of God, retribution in the world to come, the Last Judgment, and the like. Or he may say: “I considered that the maxim of my conduct in this case would not have been fit to serve as a universally valid rule for all possible rational beings, since I would have treated my rival merely as a means, and not at the same time as an end.”—Or he may say with Fichte: “Every human life is a means to the realization of the moral law; therefore, unless I am indifferent to the realization of the moral law, I cannot destroy someone destined to contribute to it.” (System of Ethics, S. 373.)—(He might, incidentally, meet this scruple by hoping that, once he possesses his beloved, he will soon produce a new instrument of the moral law.)—Or he may say, following *Wollaston*: “I reflected that such an action would express a false proposition.”—Or, following *Hutcheson*: “The moral sense, whose sensations, like those of any other sense, admit of no further explanation, determined me to leave it undone.”—Or, following *Adam Smith*: “I foresaw that my action would awaken no sympathy with me in those who witnessed it.”—Or, following *Christian Wolff*: “I recognized that I would thereby work against my own perfection and do nothing to advance anyone else’s.”—Or, following *Spinoza*: “Nothing is more useful to a human being than another human being; therefore I did not wish to kill one.”—In short, let him say whatever you please.—But *Titus*, whose account I reserve for myself, is to say: “When it came to making the preparations, and I therefore had to concern myself for the moment not with my passion but with my rival, I first saw clearly what was really about to happen to him. But now compassion and pity seized me; my heart ached for him; I could not bring myself to do it; I was not able to do it.”—Now I ask every honest and impartial reader: Which of the two is the better man?—To which would he rather entrust his own fate?—Which was held back by the purer motive?—Where, then, does the foundation of morality lie?\n\n2) Nothing outrages our moral feeling to its very depths as cruelty does. We can forgive any other crime, but not cruelty. The reason is that cruelty is compassion’s direct opposite. When we hear of some act of extreme cruelty—for example, the one the newspapers are reporting just now, of a mother who murdered her five-year-old boy by pouring boiling oil down his throat, and her younger child by burying it alive; or the one just reported from Algiers, where, after a chance quarrel and fight between a Spaniard and an Algerian, the latter, being the stronger, tore the other’s entire lower jaw clean out and carried it off as a trophy, leaving him alive—we are seized with horror and cry: “How is it possible to do such a thing?”—What does this question mean? Does it perhaps mean: How is it possible to have so little fear of punishment in the life to come?—Hardly.—Or: How is it possible to act on a maxim so utterly unfit to become a universal law for all rational beings?—Certainly not.—Or: How is it possible to neglect one’s own perfection and that of others so grievously?—No more than the others.—The question quite certainly means only this: How is it possible to be so utterly without compassion?—Thus it is the greatest lack of compassion that stamps an act with the deepest moral depravity and abhorrence. Consequently, compassion is the true moral incentive.\n\n3) In general, the foundation of morality and incentive to moral conduct that I have proposed is the only one that can claim a real, indeed an extensive, influence. Surely no one would wish to claim as much for the philosophers’ other moral principles. These consist of abstract and sometimes positively hairsplitting propositions, founded on nothing but an artificial combination of concepts, so that applying them to actual conduct would often even have a ridiculous side. A good deed done solely out of regard for Kant’s moral principle would, at bottom, be the work of philosophical pedantry; or else it would amount to self-deception, with the agent’s reason interpreting a deed prompted by other, perhaps nobler incentives as the product of the categorical imperative and of the wholly unsupported concept of duty. But not only the *philosophical* moral principles, designed for mere theory, but even the *religious* ones, framed entirely for practical purposes, can seldom be shown to have a decisive influence. We see this first in the fact that, despite the great diversity of religions on earth, the degree of morality—or rather immorality—shows no corresponding diversity whatever, but is essentially much the same everywhere. We must simply take care not to confuse coarseness and refinement with morality and immorality. Greek religion had an exceedingly slight moral tendency, almost confined to the oath; no dogma was taught, and no morality publicly preached. Yet we do not find that the Greeks were, on the whole, morally worse than the people of the Christian centuries. Christianity’s morality is of a far higher order than that of the other religions that have ever appeared in Europe. But anyone who inferred that European moral conduct had improved in the same proportion, and now at least excelled that of its contemporaries, could soon be shown not only that Muslims, Zoroastrians, Hindus, and Buddhists display at least as much honesty, fidelity, tolerance, gentleness, charity, nobility of spirit, and self-denial as Christian peoples; indeed, the long catalogue of inhuman cruelties accompanying Christianity would rather make us fear that the scale tips against it: the countless religious wars; the indefensible Crusades; the extermination of a great part of America’s Indigenous inhabitants and the peopling of that continent with Black slaves dragged over from Africa, torn without right or any semblance of right from their families, their country, their continent, and condemned to endless penal labor[22]; the tireless persecutions of heretics and the Inquisition’s tribunals, crying out to heaven; the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre; Alba’s execution of 18000 Netherlanders; and so on, and so on.—In general, if we compare the excellent morality preached by Christianity, and more or less by every religion, with the practice of its adherents, and imagine what would become of that practice if the secular arm did not prevent crimes—indeed, what we would have to fear if all laws were suspended for even a single day—we must confess that the influence of all religions on moral conduct is really very slight. Weakness of faith is, of course, to blame. In theory, and as long as the matter rests in pious contemplation, everyone thinks his faith firm. But action is the hard touchstone of all our convictions. When the moment for it arrives, and faith must now prove itself through great renunciations and heavy sacrifices, its weakness becomes apparent. Once a person seriously contemplates a crime, he has already crossed the barrier of genuine, pure morality. After that, however, the first thing that holds him back is always the thought of the courts and the police. If he dismisses this in the hope of escaping them, the second barrier confronting him is concern for his honor. But if he passes this defense as well, the odds are heavily against any religious dogma still having enough power over him, after he has overcome those two mighty obstacles, to hold him back from the deed. For someone not deterred by dangers that are near and certain will hardly be restrained by dangers that are remote and rest on faith alone. Moreover, against every good action arising solely from religious convictions, one may still object that it was not disinterested but done with a view to reward and punishment, and therefore has no purely moral worth. We find this insight forcefully expressed in a letter from the celebrated Grand Duke Karl August of Weimar: “Baron *Weyhers* himself thought that a man must be a wretched fellow if religion made him good and he was not naturally inclined to be so. In wine there is truth.” (Letters to J. H. Merck, Br. 229.)—Now consider, by contrast, the moral incentive I have proposed. Who would dare deny for a moment that at all times, among all peoples, in every circumstance of life, even in a lawless state, even amid the horrors of revolutions and wars, in great matters and small, every day and every hour, it exerts a decisive and truly marvelous influence; that it daily prevents much wrongdoing and calls many a good deed into being, without any hope of reward and often quite unexpectedly; and that wherever it, and it alone, has been at work, we all, moved and full of respect, unreservedly acknowledge the deed’s genuine moral worth?\n\n4) For boundless compassion for all living beings is the firmest and surest guarantee of moral conduct, and needs no casuistry. Someone filled with it will assuredly injure no one, wrong no one, cause no one pain, but will instead show forbearance to everyone, forgive everyone, help everyone as much as he can; and all his actions will bear the stamp of justice and loving-kindness. Try saying, by contrast: “This person is virtuous, but he knows no compassion.” Or: “He is an unjust and malicious person, yet he is very compassionate.” The contradiction will make itself felt.—Tastes differ; but I know no lovelier prayer than the one that closes the ancient Indian plays, as a prayer for the king once closed the English ones. It says: “May all living beings remain free from pain.”\n\n5) Particular features, too, reveal compassion as the true basic moral incentive. For example, it is just as wrong to use risk-free legal tricks to cheat a rich person out of a hundred thalers as a poor one. Yet the reproaches of conscience and the censure of uninvolved witnesses will be far louder and fiercer in the second case. Hence Aristotle already says: “It is more terrible to wrong an unfortunate person than a fortunate one” (“It is more unjust to inflict an injury on an unfortunate person than a fortunate one”), Probl., XXIX, 2. On the other hand, the reproaches will be quieter still than in the first case if it is a public treasury one has defrauded, since this cannot be an object of compassion. We see that it is not directly the violation of a right, but first of all the suffering this brings upon another, that furnishes the substance of our own and others’ censure. Conscience and other people will indeed disapprove even of a mere violation of rights as such—for example, the one against a public treasury mentioned above—but only insofar as it breaches the maxim of respecting *every* right, the maxim that makes a person truly honest; hence indirectly and to a lesser degree. If, however, it was a treasury *entrusted* to one’s care, the case is quite different: the concept of *double injustice* established above, with its distinctive properties, now applies. What has been explained here is the reason that the gravest reproach everywhere leveled against greedy extortioners and legal scoundrels is that they have seized the property of widows and orphans: precisely because these, being utterly helpless, should have aroused compassion even more than others. It is, then, the complete absence of compassion that proves a person’s wickedness.\n\n6) Compassion underlies loving-kindness even more plainly than it does justice. No one will receive evidence of genuine loving-kindness from others as long as everything is going well for him in every respect. A fortunate person may indeed experience the goodwill of his family and friends in many ways; but expressions of that pure, disinterested, objective concern for another’s condition and fate which spring from loving-kindness are reserved for those suffering in some respect. For we take no sympathetic interest in the fortunate person *as such*; rather, *as such*, he remains a stranger to our hearts: let him keep what is his. Indeed, if he enjoys great advantages over others, he will readily arouse envy, which threatens to turn into malicious joy should he one day fall from the heights of good fortune. Yet this threat generally goes unfulfilled, and Sophocles’ “the enemies laugh” (“the enemies laugh”) does not come to pass. For as soon as the fortunate person falls, a great transformation takes place in the hearts of the others, one instructive for our inquiry. First of all, the nature of the interest his fair-weather friends took in him now becomes clear: “Friends scatter when the casks are drained, dregs and all.” But on the other hand, what he feared more than misfortune itself, and could not bear to imagine—the exultation of those who envied his good fortune, the mocking laughter of malicious joy—generally fails to appear. Envy is appeased; it has vanished along with its cause, and the compassion now taking its place gives birth to loving-kindness. Often, when a fortunate person has fallen, those who envied and hated him have become considerate, comforting, helpful friends. Who has not experienced something of the kind himself, at least in a milder degree, and, when struck by some misfortune, seen with surprise how people who until then had shown the greatest coldness, even ill will toward him, now approached him with unfeigned sympathy? For misfortune is the condition of compassion, and compassion the source of loving-kindness.—Related to this reflection is the observation that nothing so quickly soothes our anger, even when it is justified, as hearing these words about its object: “He is an unfortunate man.” For compassion is to anger what rain is to fire. I therefore advise anyone who would rather have nothing to regret that, when ablaze with anger against another and intending to inflict great suffering on him, he should vividly imagine that he has already done so, that he now sees the other struggling with mental or bodily pain, or with want and misery, and must say to himself: “This is my work.” If anything can subdue his anger, this can. For compassion is the true antidote to anger, and by this stratagem against ourselves we anticipate, while there is still time,\n\ncompassion, whose voice,\nOnce we have our revenge, makes its laws heard.\n*Volt.*, “Semiramis”, A. 5, Sc. 6.\n\nIn general, nothing so readily dispels our hostile feelings toward others as finding a point of view from which they can lay claim to our compassion.—Even the fact that parents generally love a sickly child most rests on its continually awakening compassion.\n\n7) The moral incentive I have proposed further proves itself genuine by extending its protection to *animals*, for which the other European moral systems make such inexcusably poor provision. The supposed absence of rights in animals, the delusion that our conduct toward them has no moral significance—or, in the language of that morality, that we have no duties toward animals—is nothing less than an outrageous coarseness and barbarity of the West, whose source lies in Judaism. In philosophy it rests on the complete difference between human beings and animals assumed in defiance of all evidence, a difference that, as is well known, *Descartes* proclaimed most emphatically and starkly, as a necessary consequence of his errors. For when the Cartesian-Leibnizian-Wolffian philosophy built rational psychology out of abstract concepts and constructed an immortal rational soul, the natural claims of the animal world plainly stood against this exclusive privilege, this patent of immortality granted to the human species; and nature, as on all such occasions, silently entered its protest. The philosophers, troubled by their intellectual consciences, now had to seek support for rational psychology in empirical psychology, and therefore strive to open a monstrous gulf, an immeasurable distance, between human beings and animals, in order to represent them, despite all evidence, as fundamentally different. *Boileau* already mocks such efforts:\n\nDo animals have universities?\nDo we see the four faculties flourishing among them?\n\nIn the end, animals were even supposed to be unable to distinguish themselves from the external world, to have no consciousness of themselves, no I! Against such absurd assertions, one need only point to the boundless egoism inherent in every animal, even the smallest and lowliest, which sufficiently attests how conscious animals are of their I in contrast to the world, or not-I. If one of these Cartesians found himself in a tiger’s claws, he would become most distinctly aware of the sharp distinction the tiger draws between its I and not-I. Corresponding to these sophistries of the philosophers, we find on the popular level a peculiarity of certain languages, especially German: they have entirely separate words for animals’ eating, drinking, pregnancy, giving birth, dying, and dead bodies, so as not to have to use the words denoting these acts in human beings, and thus to conceal under a diversity of words the complete identity of the thing itself. Since the ancient languages know no such duplication of expressions, but freely name the same thing with the same word, this wretched artifice is undoubtedly the work of the European priesthood, which in its profanity believes it can never go far enough in denying and reviling the eternal essence that lives in all animals. It has thereby laid the foundation for the harshness and cruelty toward animals customary in Europe, which an inhabitant of High Asia can view only with justified abhorrence. We do not encounter this despicable artifice in English, undoubtedly because the Saxons were not yet Christians when they conquered England. We do, however, find an equivalent in the peculiarity that in English all animals are of the neuter gender and are therefore represented by the pronoun “it,” just like lifeless things. This is especially outrageous in the case of primates, such as dogs, apes, and so on, and is unmistakably a priestly trick to reduce animals to things. The ancient Egyptians, whose entire life was consecrated to religious purposes, interred the mummies of human beings and those of ibises, crocodiles, and so on in the same tombs. But in Europe it is an abomination and a crime to bury a faithful dog beside its master’s resting place, where it has sometimes awaited its own death with a fidelity and devotion not found in the human race.—Nothing leads more decisively to the recognition that the essential being is identical in the appearance of animal and human than the study of zoology and anatomy. What, then, are we to say when, in our own day (1839), a sanctimonious animal anatomist presumes to insist on an absolute and radical difference between human beings and animals, going so far as to attack and malign honest zoologists who, far from all priestcraft, servility, and Tartuffian hypocrisy, follow their path under the guidance of nature and truth?\n\nOne must truly be blind in every sense, or wholly chloroformed by the Jewish stench, not to recognize that what is essential and fundamental in animals and in human beings is the same, and that what distinguishes them lies not in what is primary, in the principle, the life force, the inner essence, the core of the two appearances—which in both is the individual’s *will*—but solely in what is secondary: the intellect, the degree of cognitive power. In human beings this is incomparably higher through the added capacity for *abstract* knowledge, called *reason*, yet demonstrably only by virtue of a greater development of the brain, and thus a bodily difference in a single part, the brain, chiefly in its size. By contrast, what animal and human being have in common, both mentally and bodily, is incomparably greater. A Judaized Western despiser of animals and idolater of reason of this kind needs to be reminded that, just as he was suckled by *his* mother, so was the dog by *its own*. I have already censured even *Kant* for falling into this error of his contemporaries and countrymen. That Christian morality takes no account of animals is a defect better acknowledged than perpetuated. It is all the more astonishing because in other respects this morality shows the closest agreement with that of Brahmanism and Buddhism, only less forcefully expressed and not carried to its extremes. We can therefore scarcely doubt that it, like the idea of a God become human—an avatar—originated in India and may have reached Judea through Egypt; Christianity would thus be a reflection of India’s primal light from the ruins of Egypt, which unfortunately fell on Jewish soil. A neat *symbol* of the defect just censured in Christian morality, despite its otherwise close agreement with Indian morality, could be found in the circumstance that John the Baptist appears entirely in the manner of an Indian sannyasi, yet—clothed in animal skins! As everyone knows, this would be an abomination to any Hindu: even the Royal Society in Calcutta received its copy of the Vedas only on promising not to have it bound in leather in the European fashion. It is therefore found in its library bound in silk. A similarly characteristic contrast is offered by the Gospel account of Peter’s catch of fish, which the Savior blesses by a miracle so abundantly that the boats are filled with fish almost to the point of sinking (Luk. 5), when set against the story of Pythagoras, initiated into Egyptian wisdom, who buys the fishermen’s catch while the net is still underwater, so that he can then set all the captured fish free (Apul. On Magic, p. 36. Bip.).—Compassion for animals is so closely bound up with goodness of character that we may confidently assert that anyone cruel to animals cannot be a good person. This compassion also shows itself to spring from the same source as the virtue to be practiced toward human beings. Sensitive people, for example, recalling that in a bad mood, in anger, or heated by wine they mistreated their dog, their horse, or their monkey undeservedly, needlessly, or beyond all measure, will feel the same remorse, the same dissatisfaction with themselves, as at the recollection of an injustice committed against a human being, where it is called the voice of an accusing conscience. I remember reading that an Englishman who had shot a monkey while hunting in India could not forget the look it gave him as it died, and never shot at monkeys again. The same was true of William Harris, a veritable Nimrod, who traveled deep into the African interior in 1836 and 1837 simply for the pleasure of the hunt. In his account of the journey, published in Bombay in 1838, he relates that after killing his first elephant, a female, he went to find the fallen animal the following morning. All the other elephants had fled the area; only the dead elephant’s calf had spent the night beside its mother. Now, forgetting all fear, it came toward the hunters with the most vivid and unmistakable signs of inconsolable grief and wound its little trunk around them to appeal for help. Then, Harris says, he was seized by genuine remorse for his deed and felt as though he had committed murder. We see this sensitive English nation distinguished above all others by a striking compassion for animals, which makes itself known at every opportunity. It has had the power, despite the “cold superstition” that otherwise degrades the nation, to move it to fill through legislation the gap religion left in morality. For this very gap is the reason that Europe and America need societies for the protection of animals, which themselves can act only with the help of the courts and police. In Asia the religions give animals sufficient protection, so no one there thinks of such societies. Meanwhile, a sense of animals’ rights is awakening more and more in Europe too, as the strange notions of an animal world brought into existence solely for human use and amusement, in consequence of which animals are treated entirely as things, gradually fade and disappear. For these notions are the source of the brutal and utterly inconsiderate treatment of animals in Europe; I have demonstrated their Old Testament origin in the second volume of Parerga, §. 177. Let it be said, then, to the English people’s credit that among them the law first took animals under its protection in earnest against cruel treatment, and that a villain really must pay for wronging animals, even when they belong to him. Indeed, not content with this, a voluntary association for the protection of animals exists in London, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which privately and at considerable expense does a great deal to combat cruelty to animals. Its agents keep watch in secret, so that afterward they can come forward to denounce the tormentors of speechless, feeling beings; their presence must be feared everywhere.[23] At steep bridges in London the society keeps a team of horses, which is harnessed free of charge in front of any heavily laden wagon. Is this not beautiful? Does it not command our approval just as a kindness to human beings does? The Philantropic Society in London, for its part, also offered a prize of 30 pounds in 1837 for the best presentation of moral reasons against cruelty to animals, though these were to be drawn chiefly from Christianity, which certainly made the task harder: the prize was awarded to Mr. Macnamara in 1839. In Philadelphia there is an Animals friends Society with similar aims. T. Forster, an Englishman, dedicated his book Philozoia, Moral Reflections on the Actual Condition of Animals and the Means of Improving the Same (Brussels 1839) to its president. The book is original and well written. As an Englishman, the author naturally also seeks to ground his appeals for humane treatment of animals in the Bible, but slips\n\noff at every turn, until he finally resorts to the argument that Jesus Christ was, after all, born in a stable beside the little ox and the little donkey, symbolically indicating that we should regard animals as our brothers and treat them accordingly.—Everything cited here attests that the moral concern under discussion is at last beginning to find an answering note in the Western world as well. That compassion for animals need not go so far as to require us, like the Brahmans, to abstain from animal food rests on the fact that in nature the capacity for suffering keeps pace with intelligence. Human beings would therefore suffer more by going without animal food, especially in the North, than an animal suffers through a swift and always unforeseen death, which should nevertheless be made easier still by means of chloroform. Without animal food, moreover, the human race could not even survive in the North. By the same standard, human beings also have animals work for them; only an excessive burden of exertion becomes cruelty.\n\n8) Let us set aside any perhaps possible metaphysical inquiry into the ultimate ground of that compassion from which alone nonegoistic actions can arise, and consider it from the empirical standpoint, simply as an arrangement of nature. Everyone will then see that, to alleviate as far as possible the countless and manifold sufferings to which our life is exposed and which no one wholly escapes, and at the same time to counterbalance the burning egoism that fills all beings and often passes into malice, nature could have done nothing more effective than plant in the human heart that wondrous disposition by which one person shares the suffering of another. From it comes the voice that, as the occasion demands, calls strongly and unmistakably to one person, “Spare!” and to another, “Help!” Surely the mutual assistance arising from this offered more hope for everyone’s welfare than a general and abstract, stern command of duty resulting from certain rational considerations and combinations of concepts. All the less could success be expected from such a command because general propositions and abstract truths are wholly unintelligible to the uncultivated person, for whom only the concrete is anything—and all humanity, with the exception of an extremely small part, has always been uncultivated and must remain so, because the great amount of bodily labor indispensable to the whole does not permit the cultivation of the mind. To awaken compassion, by contrast, which has been demonstrated to be the *sole source of unselfish actions and therefore the true basis of morality*, requires no abstract knowledge, but only intuitive knowledge, the mere apprehension of the concrete case, to which it responds at once without any further mediation of thought.\n\n9) We will find the following circumstance in complete agreement with this last reflection. The foundation I have given ethics does, to be sure, leave me without a predecessor among the academic philosophers; indeed, in relation to their doctrines it is paradoxical, since some of them—for example, the Stoics (Sen., De clem., II, 5), Spinoza (Eth., IV, prop. 50), and Kant (Critique of Practical Reason, S. 213;—R., S. 257)—outright reject and censure compassion. Yet my foundation has on its side the authority of the greatest moralist of the entire modern age: undoubtedly J. J. Rousseau, the profound knower of the human heart, who drew his wisdom not from books but from life, and intended his teaching not for the lecture hall but for humanity. An enemy of prejudice, a pupil of nature, he alone was granted by her the gift of moralizing without being dull, because he struck the truth and moved the heart. I will therefore allow myself to add a few passages from him to confirm my view, having until now been as sparing as possible with quotations.\n\nIn the Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, S. 91 (edit. Bip.), he says: “There is another principle that Hobbes did not perceive, which, having been given to man to soften in certain circumstances the ferocity of his self-love, tempers his ardor for his own well-being with an *innate aversion to seeing his fellow creature suffer*. I do not believe I need fear any contradiction in granting man *the sole natural virtue* that even the most extreme detractor of human virtues has been forced to acknowledge. I am speaking *of compassion*, etc.”—S. 92: “Mandeville clearly saw that, for all their morality, human beings would never have been anything but monsters had nature not given them *compassion* to support reason. But he did not see that *from this one quality flow all the social virtues* he wishes to deny them. For what are generosity, clemency, humanity, if not *compassion* applied to the weak, the guilty, or the human race in general? Benevolence and even friendship, rightly understood, are the products of a constant compassion fixed on a particular object; for to wish that someone should not suffer—what else is that but to wish him happy?——Commiseration will be all the more energetic as *the observing animal identifies itself* more intimately *with the suffering animal*.”—S. 94: “It is therefore quite certain that compassion is a natural feeling which, by moderating each individual’s self-love, contributes to the mutual preservation of the whole species. In the state of nature it takes the place of laws, morals, and virtues, with this advantage: no one will be tempted to disobey its gentle voice. It is compassion that will keep any strong savage from taking from a weak child or an infirm old man the sustenance they have acquired with difficulty, if he himself hopes to find his own elsewhere. It is compassion that, instead of that sublime maxim of reasoned justice, ‘Do to others as you would have them do to you,’ inspires all people with this other maxim of natural goodness, far less perfect but perhaps more useful than the first: ‘Pursue your own good with as little harm to others as possible.’ In a word, *it is in this natural feeling, rather than in subtle arguments, that we must seek the cause of the aversion everyone would feel to doing wrong*, even independently of the maxims of education.”—Compare with this what he says in Emile, L. IV, p. 115–120 (ed. Bip.), where among other things we read: “Indeed, how do we let ourselves be moved to compassion, except by transporting ourselves outside ourselves and *identifying with the suffering animal; by leaving our own being, so to speak, to take on its own*? We suffer only insofar as we judge that it suffers: *it is not in ourselves, but in it, that we suffer*.———Offer the young man objects on which the expansive force of his heart can act, which enlarge it, extend it to other beings, and make him everywhere *find himself again outside himself*; carefully remove those that constrict it, draw it inward, and tighten the spring *of the human ego*, etc.”—\n\nLacking, as I have said, authorities from the schools, I will add that the *Chinese* recognize five cardinal virtues (Tschang), among which compassion (Sin) stands first. The other four are justice, courtesy, wisdom, and sincerity.[24] Correspondingly, among the Hindus too, on the memorial tablets erected in remembrance of deceased princes, we see compassion for human beings and animals take first place among the virtues praised in them. In Athens compassion had an altar in the forum: “The Athenians have in their marketplace an altar to Compassion, to whom, as the divinity most helpful to human life and the changes of fortune, they alone among the Greeks pay honor.” Paus., I, 17. (“The Athenians have an altar to Compassion in the forum, for to her, who among all the gods most assists human life and its changing circumstances, the Athenians alone among the Greeks pay honor.”) Lucian also mentions this altar in Timon, §. 99.—A saying of Phocion, preserved for us by Stobaeus, presents compassion as the holiest thing in a human being: “Neither an altar from a sanctuary nor compassion from human nature should be removed” (“Neither an altar from a temple nor compassion from human life should be taken away”). In the Wisdom of the Indians, which is the Greek translation of the Panchatantra, we read (Sect. 3, p. 220): “For compassion is said to be the first of the virtues” (“Compassion is reckoned the foremost virtue”). We see that all ages and all countries have known the source of morality very well; only Europe has not. For this the Jewish stench alone is to blame, pervading everything here, everything: there must absolutely be a command of duty, a moral law, an imperative—in short, an order and a command to be obeyed. They will not budge from this, and refuse to see that anything of the kind always rests on egoism alone. In individuals, admittedly, and superior ones, the felt truth has made itself known: in Rousseau, as quoted above; and Lessing too, in a letter of 1756, says: “The most compassionate person is the best person, the most disposed to all social virtues, to every kind of generosity.”\n\n22. Even now, according to Buxton, The African Slave Trade, 1839, their number is increased each year by approximately 150000 newly captured Africans, while more than 200000 others perish miserably during their capture and the voyage.\n\n23. How seriously the matter is taken is shown by the following very recent example, which I translate from the Birmingham Journal of December 1839: “Arrest of a Party of 84 Dogfighters.—On learning that a dogfight was to take place yesterday on the ground in Fox Street, Birmingham, the Society of Friends of Animals took precautions to secure the assistance of the police. A strong detachment marched to the fighting ground and, as soon as it had been admitted, arrested the entire company present. These participants were then tied together in pairs with hand restraints, and the whole group joined by a long rope running through the middle. In this way they were led to the police office, where the mayor and magistrates were sitting. The two ringleaders were each sentenced to a fine of 1 pound sterling, together with 8½ shillings in costs, and, in default of payment, to 14 days’ hard labor in prison. The others were released.”—The dandies, who never fail to attend such noble pleasures, must have looked very embarrassed in the procession.—But we find an even sterner example from more recent times in the Times of April 6, 1855, S. 6, and in fact it was the newspaper itself that made the example. It reports a case brought before the courts involving the daughter of a very wealthy Scottish baronet, who had tormented her horse most cruelly with a cudgel and a knife, for which she had been fined 5 pounds sterling. But such a girl thinks nothing of that, and so would really have skipped away unpunished had the Times not followed it with the proper and telling chastisement. Printing the girl’s first and last names twice in large letters, it continues: “We cannot help saying that a couple of months in prison, together with a few floggings, administered in private but by the strongest-armed woman in Hampshire, would have been a much more fitting punishment for Miss N. N. A wretch of this sort has forfeited all the considerations and privileges due to her sex: we can no longer regard her as a woman.”—I commend these newspaper reports particularly to the societies against cruelty to animals now established in Germany, so that they may see how the matter must be tackled if anything is to come of it; though I give my full recognition to the praiseworthy zeal of Court Councilor Perner in Munich, who has devoted himself entirely to this branch of charity and is spreading the impetus for it throughout Germany.\n\n24. Journ. Asiatique, Vol. 9, p. 62, to be compared with Mencius, ed. Stan. Julien, 1824, L. I, §. 45; also with Mencius in the Sacred Books of the Orient by Pauthier, p. 281.\n\n### Section 20\n\nOn the Ethical Difference between Characters.\n\nThe last question that must be answered to complete the foundation of ethics set out here is this: What accounts for the vast difference in people’s moral conduct? If compassion is the fundamental incentive of all genuine—that is, unselfish—justice and love of humanity, why does it move one person but not another?—Can ethics, perhaps, not only uncover the moral incentive but also set it to work? Can it turn a hard-hearted person into a compassionate one, and so into someone just and benevolent?—Certainly not: differences of character are innate and ineradicable. A malicious person’s malice is as inborn as a snake’s fangs and venom sac; and he can change it no more than the snake can. “Willing cannot be learned,” said Nero’s tutor. In the Meno, *Plato* examines at length whether virtue can be taught. He quotes a passage from Theognis:\n\nBut by teaching\nYou will never make a bad man good.\n\n(But by teaching you will never make a good man out of a bad one.)\n\nAnd he reaches this conclusion: “Virtue, then, would come neither by nature nor through teaching, but by divine allotment, without understanding, to those who receive it” (“Virtue will come to us neither by instruction nor by nature; rather, by divine allotment, without the mind’s participation, it will flow into whoever has been granted it”); here the difference between φύσει, “by nature,” and θείᾳ μοίρᾳ, “by divine allotment,” seems to me roughly to mark the difference between the physical and the metaphysical. According to *Aristotle*, even the father of ethics, *Socrates*, maintained: “It is not in our power to become good or bad” (“It is not within our power to be good or bad”). (Eth. magna, I, 9.) Aristotle himself speaks in the same sense: “For everyone seems to possess each trait of character in some way by nature: from birth we are just, temperate, and so on” (“For individual traits seem in some way to belong by nature to all people: as soon as we are born, we are fitted and disposed for justice, temperance, courage, and the other virtues”). (Eth. Nicom., VI, 13.) We find the same conviction very firmly expressed in the fragments of the Pythagorean Archytas, which are certainly very old, even if they may not be authentic, and which Stobaeus preserved for us in his Anthology, Tit. I, §. 77. They are also printed in the Short Greek Works of Maxims and Morals, edited by Orelli, Vol. 2, p. 240. There, in the Doric dialect, we read: “Those virtues that employ reasoning and demonstration should be called branches of knowledge; but virtue is the moral and best disposition of the irrational part of the soul, by which we are said to be people of a certain character—for example, generous, just, and temperate.” (“Those virtues that employ reason and demonstration may properly be called branches of knowledge; but by the name of virtue we shall understand the moral and best *disposition of the part of the soul that lacks reason*, according to which we are said to have a certain moral quality, and are called, for example, generous, just, and temperate.”) If we survey all the virtues and vices that *Aristotle* brought together in a brief overview in his book On Virtues and Vices, we will find that they can all be conceived only as innate qualities, and indeed can be genuine only as such. If, on the other hand, they had been deliberately adopted through rational reflection, they would really amount to pretense and would be counterfeit; we could then place no reliance whatever on their lasting or proving themselves under the pressure of circumstances. The same holds for the virtue of love of humanity, which is absent from Aristotle, as from all the ancients. In the same spirit, though retaining his skeptical tone, *Montaigne* therefore asks: “Could it be true that to be altogether good we must be so through some hidden, natural, and universal quality, without law, without reason, without example?” (L. II, c. 11.) *Lichtenberg* says outright: “All virtue that comes from deliberate resolve is worth little. Feeling or habit is what matters.” (Miscellaneous Writings, “Moral Observations.”) Even the original teaching of Christianity agrees with this view, for in the Sermon on the Mount itself, in Luke, Kap. 6, V. 45, we read: “The good person brings forth good from the good treasure of his heart, and the evil person brings forth evil from the evil treasure of his heart” (“The good person brings forth good from the good treasure of his soul, and the evil person brings forth evil from the evil treasure of his soul”); the two preceding verses have already offered an illustration in the fruit, which always accords with the tree.\n\nBut it was *Kant* who first brought complete clarity to this important point, through his great doctrine that the *empirical character*, which as an appearance unfolds in time and in a multiplicity of actions, rests on the *intelligible character*: the constitution of the thing in itself underlying that appearance, and therefore independent of space and time, multiplicity and change. This alone explains the astonishing, rigid unchangeability of character, familiar to everyone with experience of life. Reality and experience have always triumphantly set it against the promises of an ethics that proposes to improve people morally and speaks of advances in virtue, thereby proving that virtue is inborn, not preached into us. If character, as something original, were not unchangeable and therefore inaccessible to any improvement through the correction of knowledge; if, instead, as that shallow ethics maintains, an improvement of character through morality, and thus “a steady progress toward the good,” were possible—then, unless all the many religious institutions and moralizing efforts had failed in their purpose, at least on average the older half of humanity would have to be considerably better than the younger. Yet there is so little sign of this that, on the contrary, we are more inclined to hope for something good from the young than from the old, who have been made worse by experience. It may indeed happen that one person seems somewhat better in old age, another worse, than in youth. But this is only because, as knowledge matures and is corrected in many ways, character emerges more purely and distinctly in old age; whereas in youth ignorance, errors, and fantasies sometimes put forward false motives and sometimes concealed real ones—as follows from what was said under 3 in the preceding essay, S. 50 ff.—The fact that there are far more young than old among convicted criminals arises because, wherever a disposition to such deeds lies in the character, it soon finds an occasion to emerge in action and reaches its destination, the galley or the gallows. Conversely, someone whom the occasions of a long life have been unable to move to crime will not easily meet with motives for it later. The true reason for the respect paid to age thus seems to me to be that an old person has passed the test of a long life and kept an unblemished name: for that is the condition of this respect.—In keeping with this view, people in actual life have never let those promises of the moralists mislead them. They have never again trusted someone who once proved himself bad, and, whatever else may have changed, have always looked with confidence to the noble-mindedness of someone who once gave proof of it. “Action follows being” is a fruitful proposition of Scholasticism: everything in the world acts according to its unchangeable constitution, which makes up its being, its essence; so does the human being. As a person is, so he will, so he must act; and free choice indifferent between alternatives is a long-exploded invention from philosophy’s childhood, with which a few old women in doctoral caps may still go lumbering along.\n\nThe three fundamental ethical incentives in human beings—egoism, malice, compassion—are present in everyone in a different and astonishingly varied proportion. According to that proportion, motives will work on a person and actions will turn out. Only egoistic motives will have power over an egoistic character; those that appeal to compassion, like those that appeal to malice, will not prevail against them. He will no more sacrifice his own interest to take revenge on an enemy than to help a friend. Another person, strongly receptive to malicious motives, will often shrink from no great loss of his own in order to harm others. For there are characters who find in causing another’s suffering a pleasure that outweighs equally great suffering of their own: “Heedless of himself, so long as he harms another” (Sen., On Anger, I, 1). They enter battle with passionate delight, expecting to receive injuries as great as those they inflict. Indeed, they will deliberately murder someone who has done them harm and immediately afterward kill themselves to escape punishment, as experience has very often shown. By contrast, *goodness of heart* consists in a deeply felt, universal compassion for everything that lives, but above all for human beings; for susceptibility to suffering keeps pace with the growth of intelligence. Hence the countless mental and bodily sufferings of human beings make a much stronger claim on compassion than an animal’s pain, which is bodily alone and, even as such, less keenly felt. Goodness of character will therefore first restrain us from injuring another in any way, and then urge us to help wherever another’s suffering presents itself. It can go just as far in this direction as malice can in the opposite: characters of rare goodness take another’s suffering more to heart than their own, and therefore make sacrifices for others that cause them more suffering than the person they helped had endured before. Where several, or even many, can be helped at once, they will, if necessary, sacrifice themselves entirely: so Arnold von Winkelried. Of *Paulinus*, Bishop of Nola in the 5th century, during the Vandals’ invasion of Italy from Africa, Joh. v. Müller relates (World History, Book 10, Kap. 10): “After giving all the church’s treasures, his own wealth, and that of his friends to ransom prisoners, he saw the grief of a widow whose only son was being carried away, and offered himself into servitude in the son’s place. For whoever was of serviceable age and did not fall by the sword was taken captive to Carthage.”\n\nIn keeping with this astonishingly great, innate, and original diversity, each person will be stirred chiefly by the motives to which he is predominantly receptive, just as *one* substance reacts only to acids, another only to alkalis; and neither can be changed. Benevolent motives, such powerful incentives to a good character, have as such no power over someone receptive only to egoistic motives. If we nevertheless wish to bring him to benevolent actions, this can happen only by holding out the prospect that relieving another’s suffering will somehow, indirectly, serve *his own advantage*—as most systems of morals are, in fact, various attempts of this kind. But this merely misleads his will; it does not improve it. Real improvement would require transforming the whole nature of his receptivity to motives: making one person no longer indifferent to another’s suffering as such; another no longer find pleasure in causing it; or a third no longer let every increase in his own well-being, however slight, far outweigh and render powerless all motives of any other kind. But this is far more certainly impossible than turning lead into gold. For it would require, as it were, turning a person’s heart around within his body, remaking his deepest inner being. All we can do, by contrast, is enlighten the *head*, correct the *understanding*, and bring a person to a truer grasp of what is objectively there, of the real circumstances of life. Yet this achieves nothing beyond making the constitution of his will reveal itself more consistently, distinctly, and decisively, express itself without falsification. For just as many good actions rest at bottom on false motives, on well-meant promises of personal advantage to be gained through them in this world or the next, so many misdeeds rest only on a false understanding of the circumstances of human life. This is the basis of the American penitentiary system: it aims not to improve the criminal’s *heart*, but merely to set his *head* straight, so that he comes to see that work and honesty are a surer, indeed an easier, road to his own welfare than roguery.\n\nMotives can compel *lawfulness*, not *morality*: we can reshape *action*, but not *willing* itself, to which alone moral worth belongs. We cannot change the goal toward which the will strives, only the road it takes to reach it. Instruction can change the choice of means, but not of ultimate, general ends: each will sets these for itself according to its original nature. We can show the egoist that by giving up small advantages he will gain greater ones; the malicious person, that causing others to suffer will bring greater suffering on himself. But we will talk no one out of egoism itself or malice itself, any more than we will talk a cat out of its taste for catching mice. Even goodness of character can be brought to express its nature more consistently and fully through greater understanding, through instruction in the circumstances of life—in short, by enlightening the head. We can, for example, point out the more remote consequences our actions have for others: the sufferings that indirectly, and only over time, arise for them from some action we did not consider so bad. We can likewise explain the harmful consequences of many a kind-hearted action—for example, sparing a criminal—and especially the precedence that “Harm no one” everywhere takes over “Help everyone,” and so on. In this respect there certainly is moral education and an ethics that brings improvement: but it goes no further, and its boundary is easy to see. The head is enlightened; the heart remains unimproved. In moral matters, as in intellectual and physical ones, what is fundamental and decisive is *what is inborn*: art can only lend assistance everywhere. Each person is what he is, as it were, “by the grace of God,” by divine right, by divine allotment.\n\n“In the end, you are—*what you are*.\nPut on a wig with millions of curls,\nRaise your foot on ell-high socks:\n*You still remain forever what you are*.”\n\nBut I have long heard the reader asking: What becomes of guilt and merit?—For the answer I refer to §. 10. What would otherwise have had to be presented here has already found its place there, because it is closely connected with *Kant’s* doctrine of the coexistence of freedom and necessity. I therefore ask that what was said there be read once more. In accordance with it, action, once motives appear, is necessary throughout; hence *freedom*, which announces itself only through *responsibility*, can lie only in being. The reproaches of conscience do indeed concern, immediately and ostensibly, *what we have done*, but truly and fundamentally they concern what we *are*. Our deeds alone bear fully valid witness to this, standing to our character as symptoms do to a disease. In this being, then, in what we *are*, guilt and merit must also lie. What we either esteem and love in others, or despise and hate, is not something mutable and changeable, but something enduring, established once and for all: what they *are*. And if we happen to revise our opinion of them, we do not say they have changed, but that we were mistaken about them. Likewise, the object of our satisfaction or dissatisfaction with ourselves is *what we are*, what we irrevocably are and remain; this extends even to intellectual, indeed to physiognomic, qualities. How, then, could guilt and merit fail to lie in *what we are*?—Our ever fuller acquaintance with ourselves, the *record of deeds* that fills up more and more, is *conscience*. Its immediate subject is our actions: specifically, those in which we either refused to heed compassion, which urged us at least not to injure others, and even to give them help and support, because egoism or outright malice guided us; or, renouncing both, followed that call. Both cases show the magnitude of the *difference* we make *between ourselves and others*. On *this difference*, ultimately, rest the degrees of morality or immorality—that is, of justice and love of humanity, as well as their opposites. The ever richer recollection of actions significant in this respect completes more and more the picture of our character, our true acquaintance with ourselves. From this arises satisfaction or dissatisfaction with ourselves, with *what we are*, according to whether egoism, malice, or compassion has predominated—that is, whether the difference we made between our own person and everyone else was greater or smaller. By the same measure we judge others, whose characters we come to know empirically, like our own, though less perfectly. Here what revealed itself in self-judgment as satisfaction or dissatisfaction—which can reach the anguish of conscience—appears as praise, approval, esteem, or blame, indignation, and contempt. Many very common expressions bear witness that even our reproaches against others concern their deeds only *immediately*, but *actually* concern their unchangeable character, and that virtue and vice are regarded as inherent, enduring qualities. For example: “Now I see what you are like!”—“I was mistaken about you.”—“Now I see what you are!”—“So that is what you are like!”—“I’m not like that!”—“I’m not the sort of man who would be capable of deceiving you,” and the like; also, “well-born souls”; in Spanish too, bien nacido, “well born”; εὐγενής, “noble,” and εὐγένεια, “nobility,” used to mean virtuous and virtue; “a friend of nobler spirit,” and so on.\n\nConscience depends on reason only because reason alone makes a clear and connected recollection possible. It lies in the nature of the matter that conscience speaks only *afterward*, which is why it is also called the *judging* conscience. It can speak *beforehand* only in an improper sense, namely indirectly, when reflection infers from the recollection of similar cases the future disapproval of a deed still only contemplated.—This is as far as the ethical fact of consciousness extends. It itself remains a metaphysical problem, not directly part of our task, though it will be touched on in the final part.—It accords perfectly with the insight that conscience is simply the acquaintance we gain, through our deeds, with our own unchangeable character that people’s vastly differing *receptivity* to the motives of self-interest, malice, and compassion—on which their whole moral worth rests—is not something explicable through something else, or obtainable through instruction, and thus arising and changing in time, indeed dependent on chance; rather, it is innate, unchangeable, and admits of no further explanation. Accordingly, the course of life itself, with all its varied activity, is nothing more than the outer dial of that inner, original mechanism, or the mirror in which alone each person’s intellect can discover the constitution of his own will, which is his core.\n\nAnyone who takes the trouble to think through carefully what has been said here and in the §. 10 already mentioned will discover in my foundation of ethics a consistency and rounded completeness lacking in all others, and, on the other hand, an agreement with the facts of experience that those others possess still less. For truth alone can agree throughout with itself and with nature; all false fundamental views, by contrast, are inwardly at odds with themselves and outwardly at odds with experience, which lodges its silent protest at every step.\n\nI am very well aware, though without remorse or regret, that the truths set out here at the end, in particular, directly offend many deeply rooted prejudices and errors, especially a certain current nursery morality. For, first, I am speaking here neither to children nor to the people, but to an enlightened academy whose purely theoretical question concerns the ultimate fundamental truths of ethics, and which expects a serious answer to a most serious question. And second, I hold that there can be no privileged errors, no useful errors, not even harmless errors, but that every error does infinitely more harm than good.—If, on the other hand, existing prejudices are to be made the measure of truth, or the boundary stone beyond which its exposition may not pass, it would be more honest to abolish philosophical faculties and academies altogether: for what does not exist should not pretend to exist.\n\n### Section 21\n\nIV.\n\nToward a Metaphysical Interpretation of the Primal Phenomenon of Ethics.\n\nAn Understanding About This Supplement.\n\nSo far I have established the moral incentive as a fact and shown that from it alone can arise disinterested justice and genuine human kindness, the two cardinal virtues on which all the others rest. This is sufficient to ground ethics, since ethics must necessarily rest on something that actually and demonstrably exists, whether given in the external world or in consciousness—unless, like some of my predecessors, we choose merely to assume an abstract proposition at will and derive ethical precepts from it, or, like *Kant*, to do the same with a mere concept, that of *law*. It seems to me that this answers the question posed by the Royal Society, since it asks for the foundation of ethics and does not also demand a metaphysics to ground that foundation in turn. Yet I see very well that the human mind has not found its final satisfaction and repose here. As at the end of every investigation and every empirical science, here too it confronts a primal phenomenon that explains everything falling under it and following from it, but itself remains unexplained, a riddle before us. Here too, then, the demand arises for a *metaphysics*: that is, an ultimate explanation of primal phenomena as such and, taken together, of the world. Here too this demand raises the question of why what exists and has been understood should be as it is and not otherwise, and how the character of appearance we have set out arises from the essence of things in themselves. Indeed, in ethics the need for a metaphysical foundation is all the more urgent because philosophical and religious systems agree that the ethical significance of actions must also be metaphysical: it must reach beyond the mere appearance of things, and therefore beyond all possibility of experience, and so stand in the closest relation to the entire existence of the world and the destiny of humanity; for the final point toward which the meaning of existence as a whole converges must surely be the ethical. This last claim is also confirmed by the undeniable fact that, as death approaches, the course of every person's thoughts, whether or not that person has adhered to religious dogmas, takes a *moral* direction, and each strives to settle the account of a completed life entirely in *moral* terms. The testimony of the ancients carries particular weight here, since it is free of Christian influence. I therefore point out that we already find this fact expressed in a passage attributed to the most ancient lawgiver Zaleucus, though according to Bentley and Heyne it comes from a Pythagorean, and preserved for us by Stobaeus (Floril., Tit. 44, §. 20): “We must set before our eyes that moment when each of us reaches the end and must depart from life. For all who are about to die are seized with remorse as they remember the wrongs they have done, and with the desire that everything they had done should have been just.” (We must set before our eyes that point in time when each of us must leave life: for all the dying are seized with repentance as they remember what they have done unjustly, and they long earnestly to have acted justly in everything.) Likewise, to recall a historical example, we see Pericles on his deathbed refusing to hear of all his great deeds, and wishing to hear only that he had never brought mourning upon a citizen (Plut. in Pericl.). To set a very different case beside this, I remember from a report of testimony before an English jury that an uncouth fifteen-year-old Black boy aboard a ship, about to die of an injury he had just received in a fight, hurriedly had all his shipmates called to him, to ask whether he had ever hurt or insulted any of them, and found great reassurance when they said no. Experience consistently teaches that the dying wish to be reconciled with everyone before they depart. Another kind of evidence for our proposition comes from the familiar experience that, while the author of intellectual achievements, even the world's greatest masterpieces, very gladly accepts a reward if only one is available, almost anyone who has done something morally outstanding refuses all reward for it. This is especially true of great moral deeds: when, for example, someone has risked his own life to save another's, or even the lives of many, he generally refuses absolutely to accept a reward, even if he is poor, because he feels that it would diminish the metaphysical worth of his action. *Bürger* gives us a poetic portrayal of this at the end of his Song of the Brave Man. But it usually happens this way in real life too, and I have encountered it several times in English newspapers.—These facts are universal and occur without distinction of religion. Because life has this undeniable ethical and metaphysical tendency, no religion could gain a foothold in the world without interpreting life in these terms: for every religion finds its hold on human hearts through its ethical side. Every religion lays its dogma beneath the moral incentive that everyone feels, though without yet understanding it, and binds the two so closely together that they seem inseparable; indeed, priests strive to pass off unbelief and immorality as one and the same. This is why, for the believer, the unbeliever is identical with the morally bad person, as we can already see in the use of such expressions as godless, atheistic, unchristian, heretic, and the like as synonyms for morally bad. Religions have an easy task here, since they begin with *faith* and may demand it unconditionally for their dogma, even under threat. Philosophical systems, however, have no such easy game to play: thus an examination of all systems will show that their grounding of ethics, and likewise the point at which they connect it to their given metaphysics, are everywhere in an exceedingly sorry state. And yet the demand that ethics rest on metaphysics cannot be dismissed, as I have already affirmed in the introduction on the authority of *Wolff* and *Kant*.\n\nBut the problem of metaphysics is so far the hardest of all the problems that occupy the human mind that many thinkers regard it as utterly insoluble. In the present case I face the further, quite particular disadvantage imposed by the form of a detached monograph: I cannot begin from some definite metaphysical system to which I might subscribe, since I would either have to set it out, which would take far too long, or assume it as given and certain, which would be highly questionable. It follows in turn that here, no less than before, I may use only the analytic method, not the synthetic: I must proceed not from the ground to its consequences, but from the consequences to their ground. This harsh necessity of proceeding without presuppositions and starting from no standpoint other than the one common to everyone has already made the exposition of the foundation of ethics so difficult for me that I now look back on it as a difficult feat successfully accomplished, much as when someone has done freehand what is otherwise done only on a firm support. Now, however, with the question of a metaphysical interpretation of the ethical foundation before us, the difficulty of proceeding without presuppositions becomes so overwhelming that I see only one way out: to be content with very general outlines; to offer suggestions rather than a full exposition; to show the path that leads to the goal without following it to the end; and, in general, to say only a very small part of what I would have to present here under other circumstances. In taking this course I appeal not only to the reasons just given, but also to the fact that the actual question has been answered in the preceding sections. Whatever I offer beyond it here is therefore a work beyond what is required, a *supplement* freely given and freely accepted.\n\n### Section 22\n\nMetaphysical Foundation.\n\nWe must now leave the firm ground of experience that has supported every step we have taken so far, to seek our final theoretical satisfaction where no experience can ever possibly reach, fortunate if we receive even a hint, a fleeting glimpse, with which we can find some measure of peace. What must not leave us, however, is the honesty of our procedure up to this point. We will not, in the manner of so-called post-Kantian philosophy, indulge in fantasies, serve up fairy tales, seek to overawe the reader with words and throw dust in his eyes. Our promise is a little, honestly offered.\n\nWhat has served until now as our ground of explanation itself becomes our problem: that natural compassion, innate in every human being and impossible to eradicate, which has proved to be the sole source of *nonegoistic actions*; and these alone possess moral worth. Many modern philosophers treat the concepts of *good* and *evil* as *simple* concepts, that is, as neither requiring nor admitting of explanation, and then generally speak with great mystery and reverence of an “*idea of the good*,” which they make the support of their ethics, or at least a cloak for its poverty.[25] Their practice obliges me to interpose the explanation that these concepts are anything but simple, let alone given a priori: they express a relation and are drawn from the most everyday experience. Everything that accords with the strivings of any individual will is called *good* in relation to that will—good food, good roads, a good omen; the opposite is called *bad*, or, in living beings, *evil*. A person whose character makes him reluctant to hinder the strivings of others, and instead, so far as he reasonably can, favorable and helpful to them—who therefore does not harm others, but offers them help and support wherever he can—is called by them, in precisely the same respect, a *good person*. Thus the concept of good is applied to him from the same relative, empirical standpoint, situated in the subject who receives the action. But if we examine such a person's character not merely in relation to others, but in itself, we know from what has gone before that the virtues of justice and human kindness arise in him from an entirely immediate concern for the well-being and suffering of others, whose source we have recognized as compassion. If we return to what is essential in such a character, we undeniably find it in this: *he makes less of a distinction between himself and others than other people do*. In the eyes of a malicious character this distinction is so great that another's suffering is an immediate pleasure, which he therefore seeks without any further advantage to himself, indeed even against his own advantage. In the egoist's eyes the same *distinction* is still great enough for him to use great harm to others as a means of obtaining a small advantage for himself. For both, then, there is a wide gulf, a mighty *distinction*, between the I, which is confined to their own person, and the not-I, which embraces the rest of the world. “Let the world perish, so long as I am safe” is their maxim. For the good person, by contrast, this *distinction* is by no means so great; indeed, in acts of nobility it appears to be abolished, since another's welfare is advanced at the expense of one's own, and so the other's I is placed on an equal footing with one's own. And where *many* others are to be saved, one's own I is wholly sacrificed to them, as the individual gives his life for the many.\n\nThe question now is whether this latter conception of the relation between one's own I and another's, which underlies the actions of a good character, is mistaken and rests on an illusion; or whether this is rather true of the opposite conception, on which egoism and malice rest.—\n\nThe conception underlying egoism is strictly justified *empirically*. In experience the *distinction* between one's own person and another's appears absolute. The difference of place that separates me from the other also separates me from his well-being and suffering.—Against this, however, we should first observe that our knowledge of our own self is by no means exhaustive or clear to its deepest ground. Through the intuition that the brain carries out on the data of the senses, and thus indirectly, we know our own body as an object in space; through inner sense we know the continuous sequence of our strivings and acts of will that arise on the occasion of external motives; and finally we know the manifold movements, weaker or stronger, of our own will, to which all inward feelings can be traced. That is all: for knowing is not itself known in turn. The actual substrate of this whole appearance, however, our inner *essence in itself*, that which itself wills and knows, is inaccessible to us. We look only outward; within, it is dark. Thus our knowledge of ourselves is by no means complete and exhaustive, but very superficial; for the greater, indeed the principal, part, we are unknown to ourselves and a riddle. Or, as *Kant* says: the I knows itself only as appearance, not according to what it may be in itself. In that other part, which falls within our knowledge, each person is indeed completely different from every other; but it does not yet follow that the same holds for the great and essential part that remains hidden and unknown to each. For this part, then, at least the possibility remains that it is one and identical in all.\n\nOn what do all plurality and numerical difference among beings rest?—On space and time: through these alone are they possible, since the many can be thought and represented only as either side by side or one after another. Now, because the many of the same kind are *individuals*, I call space and time, insofar as they make *plurality* possible, the principle of individuation, without troubling over whether this is precisely the sense in which the Scholastics used the expression.\n\nIf *anything* in the revelations that *Kant's* marvelous depth of thought has given the world is indubitably true, it is the *transcendental aesthetic*: the doctrine, that is, of the ideality of space and time. Its foundation is so clear that no objection with even an appearance of validity has been brought against it. It is *Kant's* triumph and belongs to the very few metaphysical doctrines that can be regarded as genuinely proved, as actual conquests in the field of metaphysics. According to it, then, space and time are the forms of our own faculty of intuition. They belong to that faculty, not to the things known through it, and therefore can never be determinations of things in themselves. They belong only to their *appearance*, as alone this is possible in our consciousness of the external world, a consciousness bound to physiological conditions. But if *time and space* are foreign to the thing in itself, that is, to the world's true essence, *plurality* must necessarily be foreign to it as well. Consequently, in the countless appearances of this world of the senses it can still be only one, and only that one, identical essence can manifest itself in them all. Conversely, what presents itself as a *many*, and thus in time and space, cannot be the thing in itself, but only *appearance*. As such, however, appearance exists only for our consciousness, which is restricted by many kinds of conditions and indeed rests on an organic function; it does not exist outside that consciousness.\n\nThis doctrine—that all plurality is only apparent; that in all the individuals of this world, however infinitely numerous they appear, one after another and side by side, there manifests itself only one and the same truly existing essence, present and identical in them all—this doctrine was certainly here long before *Kant*, indeed, one might say, has always been here. To begin with, it is the chief and fundamental doctrine of the oldest book in the world, the sacred *Vedas*, whose dogmatic part, or rather esoteric teaching, lies before us in the *Upanishads*.[26] There we find this great doctrine on almost every page, tirelessly repeated in countless turns of phrase and illustrated by manifold images and similes. That it also lay at the foundation of the wisdom of *Pythagoras* cannot be doubted, even from the meager accounts of his philosophy that have reached us. That it alone contained almost the whole philosophy of the *Eleatic* school is universally known. Later the *Neoplatonists* were imbued with it, teaching that “because of the unity of all things, all souls are one” (on account of the unity of all, all souls are one). In the 9th century we see it appear unexpectedly in Europe through *Scotus Eriugena*, who, inspired by it, strives to clothe it in the forms and expressions of the Christian religion. Among the Mohammedans we find it again as the impassioned mysticism of the *Sufis*. But in the West *Giordano Bruno* had to pay with a shameful and agonizing death for his inability to resist the urge to proclaim this truth. Nevertheless, we also see Christian mystics become entangled in it, against their will and intention, whenever and wherever they appear. *Spinoza's* name is identified with it. Finally, in our own day, after *Kant* had destroyed the old dogmatism and the world stood aghast before its smoking ruins, this insight was revived by the eclectic philosophy of *Schelling*. Amalgamating the teachings of Plotinus, Spinoza, Kant, and Jakob Böhme with the results of modern natural science, he hastily put together a whole to meet, for the time being, his contemporaries' urgent need, and then played it out in variations. As a result, this insight has won general acceptance among Germany's scholars and has become almost universally familiar even among the merely educated.[27] The only exceptions are today's university philosophers, who have the difficult task of working against so-called *pantheism*. Plunged thereby into great distress and embarrassment, in their anguish they reach now for the most pitiful sophisms, now for the most bombastic phrases, to patch together some respectable masquerade costume in which to clothe a favored and imposed distaff philosophy. In short, “the one and all” has in every age been the fools' mockery and the wise person's endless meditation. Yet a strict proof of it can be given only from *Kant's* doctrine, as above—although *Kant* did not himself give it, but, in the manner of skillful speakers, offered only the premises and left his listeners the pleasure of the conclusion.\n\nIf, then, plurality and separateness belong only to mere *appearance*, and it is one and the same essence that presents itself in everything alive, the conception that abolishes the distinction between I and not-I is not the mistaken one: rather, its opposite must be. We also find the Hindus giving this latter conception the name Maya, that is, appearance, illusion, phantasm. It is the former view that we have found underlying the phenomenon of compassion, and compassion itself to be its real expression. It would therefore be the metaphysical basis of ethics, consisting in *one* individual's immediately recognizing in the *other* his own self, his own true essence. Practical wisdom, then—acting justly and doing good—would coincide exactly in its result with the deepest teaching of theoretical wisdom at its furthest reach; and the practical philosopher, that is, the just, the benevolent, the noble person, would merely express in action the same insight that results from the theoretical philosopher's greatest profundity and most laborious inquiry. Yet moral excellence stands higher than all theoretical wisdom, which is always only fragmentary and reaches by the slow path of inference the goal that moral excellence attains at a stroke. The morally noble person, however lacking in intellectual excellence, reveals through his actions the deepest insight, the highest wisdom, and puts the most brilliant and learned person to shame if the latter's conduct betrays that this great truth has remained foreign to his heart.\n\n“Individuation is real; the principle of individuation, and the difference among individuals that rests on it, is the order of things in themselves. Every individual is a being fundamentally different from all others. In my own self alone do I have my true being; everything else, by contrast, is not-I and foreign to me.”—This is the knowledge to whose truth flesh and bone bear witness, which underlies all egoism, and whose real expression is every unloving, unjust, or malicious act.—\n\n“Individuation is mere appearance, arising through space and time, which are nothing more than the forms of all the objects of my cerebral faculty of cognition, conditioned by that faculty; hence the plurality and difference of individuals are also mere appearance, that is, present only in my *representation*. My true, inner essence exists in every living being as immediately as it reveals itself to me alone in my self-consciousness.”—This knowledge, whose established expression in Sanskrit is the formula tat-twam asi, that is, “this is you,” is what breaks forth as *compassion*; on it therefore rests all genuine, that is, disinterested virtue, and its real expression is every good deed. It is this knowledge, at the deepest level, to which every appeal to gentleness, to human kindness, to mercy in place of justice is directed; for such an appeal is a reminder of the respect in which we are all one and the same being. Egoism, envy, hatred, persecution, harshness, revenge, pleasure in another's suffering, and cruelty, by contrast, appeal to that first knowledge and find reassurance in it. The emotion and delight we feel on hearing of a noble action, still more on seeing it, and most of all on performing it ourselves, rest at the deepest level on the certainty it gives us that beyond all the plurality and difference of individuals presented to us by the principle of individuation lies a unity that truly exists and is indeed accessible to us, since it has just emerged as a fact.\n\nDepending on which of these two ways of knowing is held to, there appears between one being and another either the love or the strife of Empedocles. But someone animated by strife who advanced in hostility upon his most hated adversary and penetrated to that adversary's deepest interior would, to his surprise, discover himself there. For just as in a dream we ourselves are within every person who appears to us, so it is when we are awake—though not so easy to see. But tat-twam asi.\n\nThe predominance of one or the other of these two ways of knowing is revealed not only in individual actions, but in the entire character of consciousness and mood, which is therefore so essentially different in the *good* character from that in the *bad*. The latter feels a strong dividing wall everywhere between himself and everything outside him. The world is for him an *absolute not-I*, and his relation to it is hostile from the outset: thus the fundamental note of his mood becomes spite, suspicion, envy, and pleasure in others' suffering.—The good character, by contrast, lives in an external world of the same nature as his own essence. Others are not for him not-I, but “I once more.” His original relation to everyone is therefore friendly: he feels inwardly akin to all beings, shares immediately in their well-being and suffering, and confidently assumes the same concern in them. From this arise the deep peace within him and that confident, tranquil, contented mood through which everyone feels at ease in his presence.—The evil character does not trust in others' help when he is in need. If he calls for it, he does so without confidence; if he obtains it, he receives it without true gratitude, because he can scarcely understand it except as the effect of others' foolishness. For even after his own essence has made itself known from within another's by unmistakable signs, he remains incapable of recognizing it there. This is the real source of what is outrageous in all ingratitude. The moral isolation in which he essentially and inescapably finds himself also makes him prone to despair.—The good character will ask others for help with as much confidence as he is conscious of his own readiness to help them. For, as I have said, to the one the human world is not-I, to the other “I once more.”—The magnanimous person who forgives his enemy and returns good for evil is sublime and receives the highest praise because he still recognized his very own essence where it decisively denied itself.\n\nEvery wholly pure act of beneficence, every completely and truly disinterested act of help, which as such has the other's distress alone as its motive, is, when we inquire to its deepest ground, actually a mysterious action, a practical mysticism: for ultimately it springs from the same knowledge that constitutes the essence of all genuine mysticism, and it cannot truthfully be explained in any other way. For someone to give even alms without having, in the remotest way, any other aim than to lessen the want oppressing the other is possible only insofar as he recognizes that what now appears before him in that sorrowful form is he himself—that is, insofar as he recognizes his own essence in itself in the other's appearance. That is why, in the preceding part, I called compassion the great mystery of ethics.\n\nSomeone who goes to his death for his country has freed himself from the illusion that confines existence to his own person. He extends his own essence to his countrymen, in whom he lives on, indeed to their coming generations, for whom he acts; and in doing so regards death as a blink of the eyes, which does not interrupt sight.\n\nSomeone for whom all others have always been not-I—indeed, who at bottom considered only his own person truly real, and regarded others merely as phantoms to which he granted only a relative existence, insofar as they could serve as means to his ends or stand in their way, so that an immeasurable difference, a deep gulf, remained between his person and all that not-I—someone, then, who existed exclusively in this person of his own, sees in death all reality and the whole world perish with his self. By contrast, someone who saw in all others, indeed in everything that has life, his own essence, his own self, whose existence therefore flowed together with the existence of everything alive, loses through death only a small part of his existence. He continues in all the others, in whom he has always recognized and loved his essence and his self, and the illusion vanishes that separated his consciousness from that of the rest. On this may rest, not entirely but to a great extent, the difference between the ways in which especially good and predominantly evil people meet the hour of death.—\n\nIn every century poor truth has had to blush because it was paradoxical, though it is not her fault. She cannot take on the shape of the universal error enthroned above her. Sighing, she looks up to her protecting god, time, who beckons her toward victory and glory, but whose wingbeats are so vast and slow that the individual dies before they are done. Thus I too am well aware of the paradoxical character this metaphysical interpretation of the primal phenomenon of ethics must have for educated Western readers, accustomed as they are to quite different foundations of ethics; yet I cannot do violence to the truth. All I can bring myself to do on this account is to show by a quotation that this metaphysics of ethics was already the fundamental view of Indian wisdom thousands of years ago. I point back to it as Copernicus pointed back to the Pythagoreans' system of the world, displaced by Aristotle and Ptolemy. In the Bhagavad Gita, Lectio 13; 27, 28, according to A. W. von Schlegel's translation, we read: “He who sees the same supreme lord abiding in all living beings, not perishing when they perish, truly sees.—And seeing the same lord everywhere present, he does not harm himself through his own fault: from there he proceeds to the highest path.”\n\nI must leave these suggestions toward a metaphysics of ethics here, although one significant step in it still remains to be taken. But that presupposes that we had also gone a step further in ethics itself, which I was not permitted to do, since in Europe the highest goal set for ethics is the doctrine of right and virtue, and anything beyond this is unknown or at least unacknowledged. It is to this necessary omission, then, that we must attribute the fact that the outlines of a metaphysics of ethics presented here do not yet reveal, even from afar, the keystone of the whole edifice of metaphysics, or the true connection of the Divine Comedy. But that lay neither in the question nor in my plan. For one cannot say everything in a single day, and should not answer more than one has been asked.\n\nWhen we seek to advance human knowledge and insight, we will always feel the resistance of the age, like that of a load we had to pull, pressing heavily on the ground and defying every effort. Then we must console ourselves with the certainty that, though we have prejudices against us, we have truth on our side. Once her ally, time, has joined her, she is perfectly certain of victory—if not today, then tomorrow.\n\n25. The concept of the *good*, in its purity, is a *primal concept*, “an *absolute idea* whose content loses itself in infinity.”\n\n*Bouterweck*, Practical Aphorisms, p. 54.\n\nWe see that he would like nothing better than to make the simple, indeed trivial, concept of *good* into something fallen from heaven, so he could set it up as an idol in the temple.\n\n26. The authenticity of the *Oupnekhat* had been challenged on the strength of a few marginal glosses added by Mohammedan copyists and incorporated into the text. But it is fully vindicated by the Sanskrit scholar *F. H. H. Windischmann* (the son) in his Shankara, or On the Theological Doctrines of the Vedantists, 1833, p. XIX, and likewise by *Bochinger*, On the Contemplative Life Among the Hindus, 1831, p. 12.—Even a reader without Sanskrit can clearly satisfy himself, by comparing the more recent translations of individual Upanishads by *Rammohun Roy*, *Poley*, and even *Colebrooke*, as well as the latest by *Röer*, that the Persian translation by Sultan *Dara Shikoh*, the martyr to this doctrine, which *Anquetil* translated into Latin with strict literalness, rested on an exact and complete understanding of the words; whereas those others largely made do with groping and guesswork, and are therefore certainly much less accurate.—Further details can be found in the second volume of Parerga, ch. 16, §. 184.\n\n27. Among our kind, for quite a time,\nWe can shut the door on reason.\nBut once she deftly makes her entrance,\nShe stays within the house,\nAnd soon becomes its mistress.\n\n*Volt.*\n\n### Judgment\n\nJudgment\n\nof the Royal Danish Society of Sciences.\n\nOnly one author attempted to resolve the question proposed in 1837: “Whether the source and foundation of moral philosophy are to be sought in an exposition of the idea of morality immediately contained in the conscience, and of the other fundamental concepts that arise from it, or in some other principle of knowledge.” We could not judge his essay, written in German and bearing the motto “Preaching morality is easy; grounding morality is[28] hard,” worthy of the prize. For, passing over what was chiefly required, he supposed the demand was to establish some principle of ethics, and therefore treated as an appendix the part of his essay in which he sets out the connection between the principle of ethics he has proposed and his metaphysics, as though there he were providing more than had been required; yet the question itself called for a discussion in which the connection between metaphysics and ethics would receive particular, indeed foremost, consideration. As for the author's attempt to place the foundation of ethics in sympathy, neither did the form of his argument satisfy us, nor did he in fact prove that this foundation suffices; indeed, he was himself compelled to admit the contrary. Nor, it seems, should we leave unmentioned that several of the greatest philosophers of recent times are spoken of with such indecency as to give just and grave offense.\n\n28. The Academy added this second “is” from its own resources, to furnish an illustration of Longinus's teaching (de sublim., c. 39) that by adding or removing *one* syllable we can destroy the entire force of a maxim.","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/schopenhauer-basis-of-morality/translations/trn_schopenhauer_basis_of_morality_mouseia.txt"},{"id":"trn_schopenhauer_basis_of_morality_plain","translator":"Mouseia","kind":"plain","note":"Independent, machine-assisted Plain English translation made directly from the complete 1860 German edition and its embedded passages. Source-language reviewed.","text":"### Prize Question\n\nPrize Essay on the Basis of Morality,\n\nnot awarded a prize by the Royal Danish Society of Sciences in Copenhagen on January 30, 1840.\n\nMotto:\n\nPreaching morality is easy; giving it a foundation, hard.\n(Schopenhauer, On the Will in Nature, S. 128.)\n\nThe question set by the Royal Society, with its introduction, reads:\n\nThe original idea of morality, or the basic concept of the highest moral law, appears with a necessity of its own that is not at all logical. It appears both in the discipline whose purpose is to explain our knowledge of what is moral and in life: partly in conscience's judgment of our own actions, partly in our moral judgment of other people's actions. Several basic moral concepts, such as duty and accountability, are inseparable from that idea and look to it as their source. They too assert their force with the same necessity and over the same range. Yet, given the courses and paths taken by philosophical thought in our time, it seems very important to reopen this subject for discussion. The Society therefore wishes the following question to be carefully considered and examined:\n\nAre *the source and foundation of moral philosophy* to be sought in explaining the idea of morality immediately present in consciousness and the other basic concepts that arise from it, or in some other principle of knowledge?\n\nIn German:\n\nThe original idea of morality, or the basic concept of the highest moral law, appears with a necessity of its own that is not at all logical. It appears both in the science whose purpose is to set out our knowledge of what is moral and in real life, where it shows itself partly in conscience's judgment of our own actions and partly in our moral judgment of other people's actions. Several basic moral concepts, such as the concept of duty and that of accountability, are inseparable from that idea and arise from it. They too assert themselves with the same necessity and over the same range. Yet, given the paths taken by philosophical inquiry in our time, it seems very important to reopen this subject for investigation. The Society therefore wishes the following question to be carefully considered and discussed:\n\n*Are the source and foundation of morality* to be sought in an idea of morality immediately present in consciousness (or conscience), and in the analysis of the other basic moral concepts that arise from it, or in some other ground of knowledge?\n\n### Section 1\n\nI. Introduction.\n\nAbout the Problem.\n\nA prize question set by the Royal *Dutch* Society in Haarlem in 1810 and answered by J. C. F. Meister asked: “Why do philosophers differ so much about the first principles of morality, yet agree about the conclusions and duties they derive from those principles?” That was a very easy task compared with this one. For:\n\n1) The Royal Society's present question asks for nothing less than the objectively true foundation of moral philosophy and therefore of morality itself. An academy is asking the question. As an academy, it does not want a practical appeal to honesty and virtue, backed by reasons whose plausibility is emphasized and whose weakness is hidden, as happens in talks for the public. Its aims as an academy are theoretical, not practical. It therefore wants a purely philosophical account of the ultimate basis of all morally good conduct: an objective, uncovered, naked account, independent of all established decrees, all unproved assumptions, and thus all metaphysical or mythical entities assumed to exist. But this problem is extraordinarily difficult. The evidence is not just that philosophers of every time and country have blunted their teeth on it. Even all the gods of East and West owe their existence to it. So if it is solved on this occasion, the Royal Society will certainly have spent its gold well.\n\n2) A theoretical investigation of morality's foundation also faces a peculiar disadvantage. It can easily be mistaken for an attempt to undermine that foundation, which might bring down the building itself. Practical concerns lie so close to theoretical ones here that their well-meaning zeal is hard to keep from interfering at the wrong time. Not everyone can clearly distinguish a purely theoretical search for objective truth, detached from every interest, even a moral and practical one, from a wicked attack on deeply held, sacred convictions. So anyone who sets to work here must always keep something in mind for encouragement. Nothing is further from people's activities and dealings, or from the bustle and noise of the marketplace, than the academy's sanctuary, withdrawn into deep silence. No sound from outside may enter it, and no gods have statues there except exalted, naked truth alone.\n\nThe conclusion from these two premises is that I must be allowed complete freedom to speak openly, along with the right to doubt everything. And if, even with that freedom, I accomplish anything real in this matter, it will be a great deal.\n\nBut other difficulties stand in my way. The Royal Society also asks for the foundation of ethics to be presented on its own, separately, in a short monograph. That means taking it out of its connection with a whole philosophical system, that is, with metaphysics proper. This must not only make the task harder but necessarily make the result incomplete. Christian Wolf already says: “The darkness in practical philosophy is not dispelled unless the light of metaphysics shines on it” (Phil. pract., P. II. §. 28). And Kant says: “Metaphysics must come first, and without it there can be no moral philosophy at all.” (Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Preface.) Every religion on earth, when it prescribes morality, does not leave it to stand on its own. It supports it with a body of doctrine whose main purpose is precisely that. In the same way, whatever foundation ethics has in philosophy must itself find support and a point of attachment in some metaphysics: in the explanation given of the world and existence in general. The final, true account of the inner nature of all things must necessarily be closely connected with the account of the ethical meaning of human action. In any case, what is proposed as morality's foundation cannot be a mere abstract proposition floating freely in the air, with no support in the real world. It must be some fact found either in the objective world or in human consciousness. As such, it can itself only be a phenomenon. Like all phenomena in the world, it therefore needs a further explanation, which must then be sought from metaphysics. Philosophy as a whole is so interconnected that it is impossible to give an exhaustive account of any part without including all the rest. So Plato is quite right to say: “Do you think it is possible to understand the nature of the soul adequately without understanding the nature of the whole?” (“Do you really think the nature of the soul can be known sufficiently without the nature of the whole?”—Phaedr., p. 371, Bip.) The metaphysics of nature, the metaphysics of morals, and the metaphysics of beauty presuppose one another. Only together do they complete the explanation of the nature of things and of existence in general. So anyone who had followed one of these three down to its ultimate basis would necessarily have drawn the others into the explanation too. Similarly, anyone with an exhaustive understanding of any *one* thing in the world, clear down to its ultimate basis, would also have understood the whole remaining world completely.\n\nStarting from a given metaphysics accepted as true, we could reach the foundation of ethics by a synthetic method. We would then have built that foundation from the bottom up, and ethics would stand firmly supported. But this task requires us to separate ethics from all metaphysics. That leaves only the *analytic* method, which starts from facts of either external experience or consciousness. It can indeed trace these latter facts back to their ultimate root in the human mind. But that root must then remain as a basic fact, a primary phenomenon, without being traced back to anything further. The whole explanation thus remains merely *psychological*. At most, we can add an indication of its connection with some general, basic metaphysical view. By contrast, that basic fact, that primary ethical phenomenon, could itself be given a foundation if we were allowed to discuss metaphysics first and then derive ethics from it by a synthetic method. But that would mean setting out a complete system of philosophy, going far beyond the bounds of the question. So I am forced to answer the question within the limits it has set for itself by isolating its subject.\n\nFinally, the foundation on which I intend to place ethics will turn out to be very narrow. Of the many human actions that conform to the law and deserve approval and praise, only a smaller part will prove to come from purely moral motives. The greater part will be assigned to motives of other kinds. This is less satisfying and less impressive than, say, a categorical imperative, always ready to take orders so it can itself give orders about what to do and what to avoid—not to mention other foundations of morality based on its content. Here I can only recall the saying of Ecclesiastes (4, 6): “One handful with peace is better than both fists full with toil and emptiness.” In all knowledge there is always little that is genuine, stands the test, and cannot be destroyed, just as a lump of ore hides a few ounces of gold in a hundredweight of stone. Will people actually join me in preferring a *secure possession* to a *large one*, the little gold left in the crucible to the great mass dragged in? Or will they instead accuse me of taking away morality's foundation rather than giving it one? For I show that people's lawful and praiseworthy actions often have no purely moral content at all and usually have only a *small* share of it. For the rest, they rest on motives whose effectiveness can ultimately be traced back to the agent's egoism. I must leave all this open, not without anxiety, indeed with resignation. I have long agreed with *the knight von Zimmermann* when he says: “Keep this thought in your heart until death: nothing in the world is as rare as a good judge.” (On Solitude, Th. I, Cap. 3, S. 93.) In fact, I can already picture my account, with only so narrow a basis to offer for all genuine, voluntary right action, all love of humanity, and all noble-mindedness, wherever they may be found. Beside it stand my competitors' accounts. They confidently set up broad foundations for morality, able to bear any load, and able to be pressed on any doubter's conscience with a threatening sideways glance at his own morality. Beside them my account looks as poor and subdued as Cordelia before King Lear, with her few words assuring him of her dutiful feelings, beside the extravagant declarations of her more eloquent sisters. That certainly calls for a scholarly hunter's motto to strengthen the heart, such as: “Great is the power of truth, and it will prevail.” Yet that no longer gives much encouragement to someone who has lived and accomplished things. Still, I will venture out with the truth for once. For whatever happens to me will have happened to it too.\n\n### Section 2\n\nGeneral Review.\n\nFor the public, theology provides morality's foundation by presenting it as God's declared will. Philosophers, by contrast, with few exceptions, carefully try to exclude this kind of foundation altogether. Rather than use it, they even prefer to resort to deceptive arguments. Why this opposition? Certainly no more effective foundation for morality can be imagined than a theological one. Who would be so reckless as to resist the will of the almighty and all-knowing? Certainly no one—if only that will had been announced in a completely authentic way that left no room for doubt, an official way, so to speak. But that condition cannot be met. Instead, people try to prove that a law proclaimed as God's will really is his will by showing that it agrees with our moral insights gained elsewhere, and therefore naturally. So they appeal to those insights as something more immediate and more certain. There is also the recognition that moral action brought about merely by threatened punishment and promised reward would be moral more in appearance than in reality. At bottom it would rest on egoism. The deciding factor would ultimately be how much more or less readily one person than another believed on insufficient grounds. Then *Kant* destroyed the foundations of *speculative theology*, which until then had been considered secure. After that, he wanted to reverse the relationship and support theology, formerly the support of ethics, on ethics instead, giving it an existence even if only in thought. Since then, there is less reason than ever to consider founding ethics on theology. We no longer know which is to be the load and which the support, and would end up in a vicious circle.\n\nThrough the influence of *Kant's philosophy*, through the simultaneous effect of unprecedented advances in all the natural sciences—advances that make every earlier age look like childhood beside ours—and finally through acquaintance with Sanskrit literature, Brahmanism, and Buddhism, the basic philosophical convictions of European scholars have changed over the last fifty years. Brahmanism and Buddhism are humanity's oldest and most widespread religions, and therefore its foremost in time and space. They are also the original native religions of our own people, who, as we know, came from Asia and now, in their foreign homeland, receive belated news of them again. All this, I say, has brought about a change that some may hesitate to admit to themselves but that cannot be denied. As a result, the old supports of ethics have also become rotten. Yet the confidence remains that ethics itself can never fall. This gives rise to the conviction that it must have supports other than the old ones, suited to our age's more advanced understanding. No doubt the Royal Society's recognition of this increasingly felt need led it to pose the important prize question before us.\n\nMuch good morality has been preached in every age, but its foundation has always been in bad shape. In general, attempts to provide it show an effort to find some objective truth from which ethical rules could be logically derived. People have looked for that truth in the nature of things or in human nature, but in vain. It always turned out that the human will aims only at its own well-being, the totality of which we call *happiness*. This pursuit leads it down a very different path from the one morality would like to lay out for it. People then tried to present *happiness* sometimes as *identical* with virtue and sometimes as its *consequence* and *effect*. Both attempts have always failed, despite no shortage of deceptive reasoning. Next they tried purely objective, abstract propositions, found sometimes through experience and sometimes independently of it, from which morally good conduct might possibly be deduced. But these propositions lacked a point of attachment in human nature that could give them the power to direct people's efforts against their egoistic inclination. I think it unnecessary to substantiate all this here by listing and criticizing every foundation of morality proposed so far. This is not just because I share Augustine's view that “what people have thought should not count for much; what matters is the truth of the matter.” It would also mean “bringing owls to Athens.” The Royal Society knows the earlier attempts to found ethics well enough. By its prize question itself, it shows that it too is convinced of their inadequacy. The less learned reader will find an account of previous attempts that, though incomplete, covers the essentials adequately in *Garve's* “Survey of the Chief Principles of Ethics,” in *Stäudlin's* “History of Moral Philosophy,” and in similar books.\n\nIt is certainly discouraging to consider that ethics, a science directly concerned with life, has fared no better than abstruse metaphysics. Although continuously pursued since Socrates founded it, ethics is still looking for its first principle. On the other hand, far more of what is essential is contained in the first principles of ethics than in those of any other science. The deductions here are so easy that they make themselves. Everyone can *draw conclusions*; few can *judge*. That is precisely why long textbooks and lectures on morality are as unnecessary as they are boring. Meanwhile, it is a relief that I may assume all the earlier foundations of ethics are known. Consider how the philosophers of antiquity and modern times—the Middle Ages were satisfied with church doctrine—have reached for the most varied, sometimes strangest arguments to provide a demonstrable foundation for morality's universally accepted demands, yet with obviously poor results. Anyone who surveys this will appreciate the difficulty of the problem and judge my achievement accordingly. Anyone who has seen that all the paths taken so far have failed to reach the goal will be more willing to join me on a very different one. Until now, people either failed to see it or passed it by with contempt, perhaps because it was the most natural one.[1] In fact, my solution to the problem will remind some people of Columbus's egg.\n\nI will devote a critical examination only to the *most recent* attempt to found ethics, *Kant's*, and it will be all the more detailed. One reason is that *Kant's* great reform of morality gave this science a foundation with real advantages over earlier ones. Another is that it remains the last significant development in ethics. That is why *Kant's* foundation is still generally accepted and taught everywhere today, even when dressed up differently through some changes in presentation and wording. It is the ethics of the last sixty years, and it must be cleared away before we take another path. Examining it will also give me a chance to investigate and discuss most of the basic ethical concepts, so I can later take the results for granted. Above all, since opposites clarify one another, criticizing Kant's foundation of morality will be the best preparation and guide, indeed the direct path, to my own. Mine is directly opposed to Kant's on the most essential points. So it would be completely misguided to skip the criticism that follows and go straight to the positive part of my account. It would then be only half understandable.\n\nIn general, it really is time to subject ethics to serious questioning. For more than half a century it has rested on the comfortable cushion *Kant* laid beneath it: practical reason's categorical imperative. These days, however, this is usually introduced under the less grand but smoother and more familiar title of “the *moral law*.” Under that name, after a slight bow to reason and experience, it slips through without inspection. Once inside the house, however, it never stops issuing orders and commands, without ever answering any further questions. It was right and necessary for *Kant*, who invented it and used it to displace cruder errors, to be satisfied with it. But it is hard to have to watch even the donkeys now rolling on the cushion he laid down, which has been trodden ever wider since. I mean the everyday writers of handbooks. With the calm confidence of people who do not understand, they imagine they have founded ethics if they merely appeal to that “*moral law*” supposedly living in our reason. They then confidently pile onto it the long-winded, confused web of phrases with which they manage to make the clearest and simplest relationships in life incomprehensible. Yet in doing this, they have never seriously asked themselves whether such a “*moral law*,” as a convenient bait for morality, is really written in our heads, chests, or hearts. So I admit the particular pleasure with which I now set about pulling this broad cushion out from under morality. I openly state my intention to show that practical reason and *Kant's* categorical imperative are completely unjustified, groundless, invented assumptions; to demonstrate that *Kant's* ethics too lacks a solid foundation; and thus to return morality to its old condition of complete helplessness. It must stand in that condition before I begin to set out human nature's true moral principle, which is rooted in our being and unquestionably effective. For this principle offers no foundation as broad as that cushion. People used to a more comfortable arrangement will not leave their old resting place until they clearly see the deep hollow in the ground beneath it.\n\n1. I cannot tell you through what misfortune,\nOr rather through what twist of fate,\nDeception wins more belief among us\nThan simple, naked truth.\nCasti.\n\n(I cannot say through what accident, or rather through what misfortune, deception is more readily believed among us than simple, naked truth.)\n\n### Section 3\n\nII.\n\nCriticism of the Foundation *Kant* Gave Ethics.\n\nOverview.\n\n*Kant's* great achievement in ethics was to clear it of every form of *making happiness the goal*. Ancient ethics was a theory of happiness; modern ethics was mostly a doctrine of salvation. The ancients wanted to show that virtue and happiness were identical. But they were like two shapes that never match, however you position them. Modern thinkers wanted to connect the two not through the *law of identity* but through the *principle of sufficient reason*, making happiness a consequence of virtue. To do this, however, they had to turn either to a world other than the one we can possibly know or to deceptive arguments. Among the ancients, *Plato* alone is an exception. His ethics does not make happiness the goal, but it becomes mystical instead. Even the ethics of the Cynics and Stoics, by contrast, is only a special kind of *happiness-centered ethics*. I lack neither reasons nor evidence to prove this, but I do lack the space for it in my present undertaking.[2] So for both ancient and modern thinkers, with *Plato* alone excepted, virtue was only a means to an end. Strictly speaking, even Kant banished the pursuit of happiness from ethics more in appearance than in reality. He still leaves a secret connection between virtue and happiness in his doctrine of the highest good. There they meet in a remote, obscure chapter, while in public virtue acts as if happiness were a complete stranger. Apart from this, Kant's ethical principle appears as something entirely independent of experience and its lessons: something transcendental or metaphysical. He recognizes that human conduct has a meaning that goes beyond all possible experience. For that very reason, it is the actual bridge to what he calls the intelligible world, the world of noumena, the world of things in themselves.\n\nBesides the advantages just mentioned, Kant's ethics owes its fame to the moral purity and loftiness of its results. Most people held on to these without troubling much about their foundation. That foundation is very complex and abstract, and presented in an extremely artificial form. Kant had to use all his insight and ability to combine ideas to make it look sound. Fortunately, he devoted a separate work to presenting the *foundation* of his ethics apart from the ethics itself: the “*Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals*.” Its subject is therefore exactly the same as that of our prize question. He says there, S. XIII of the preface: “The present *Groundwork* is nothing more than the search for and establishment of the highest principle of morality. This alone constitutes a task complete in its purpose and to be separated from every other moral investigation.” In this book we find the foundation, and thus the essential part, of his ethics presented with strict organization, conciseness, and precision, as in no other. The book also has the important advantage of being his earliest work on morality, only four years later than the Critique of Pure Reason. It therefore comes from a time when, although he was already 61, age had not yet noticeably harmed his mind. That influence is already clearly felt, however, in the *Critique of Practical Reason*, which dates from 1788. That is one year after the unfortunate revision of the Critique of Pure Reason for its second edition, through which he plainly spoiled his immortal masterpiece. The preface to the new edition prepared by *Rosenkranz* gives us an account of this with which, after examining the matter myself, I can only agree.[3] The *Critique of Practical Reason* contains essentially the same material as the “*Groundwork*” mentioned above. But the latter gives it in a concise and more rigorous form, while the former treats it at great length, interrupted by digressions and reinforced with some moral speeches to heighten the effect. By the time Kant wrote it, he had finally, late in life, achieved his well-earned fame. Sure of unlimited attention as a result, he already gave more room to the talkativeness of old age. As distinctive features of the *Critique of Practical Reason*, however, we should first mention the account of the relationship between freedom and necessity, which is beyond all praise and was certainly written earlier (S. 169–179 of the fourth edition, and S. 223–231 in *Rosenkranz*). This nevertheless agrees completely with the account he gives in the Critique of Pure Reason (S. 560–586; R., S. 438 ff.). Second comes its moral theology, which people will increasingly recognize as what Kant really intended by it. Finally, in the “*Metaphysical First Principles of the Doctrine of Virtue*,” the companion to his deplorable “Doctrine of Right,” written in 1797, the influence of mental decline in old age predominates. For all these reasons, I take the first work mentioned, the “*Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals*,” as my guide in the present criticism. All page numbers I cite without further qualification refer to it; please keep this in mind. I will consider the other two works only as supplementary and secondary material.\n\nIt will greatly help the reader's *understanding* of this criticism, which undermines Kant's ethics at its deepest foundation, to first reread attentively that “*Groundwork*” of *Kant's* to which it primarily refers. This will bring its contents fully back to mind, especially since it occupies only 128 and XIV pages (only 100 pages in all in *Rosenkranz*). I cite the third edition of 1792 and add the page number in *Rosenkranz's* new collected edition, preceded by R.\n\n2. The detailed account can be found in “The World as Will and Representation,” Bd. 1, §. 16, S. 103 ff., and Bd. 2, Kap. 16, S. 166 ff., of the third edition.\n\n3. It is by me; but here I am speaking incognito.\n\n### Section 4\n\nThe imperative form of *Kant's* ethics.\n\n*Kant's* first falsehood lies in his idea of ethics itself. We find that idea stated most clearly on S. 62 (R., S. 54): \"In practical philosophy the task is not to give reasons for what happens. The task is to give laws for *what ought to happen, even if it never happens*.\" This is already a flat case of assuming what has to be proved. Who tells you that there are laws that our actions ought to obey? Who tells you that *what never happens ought to happen*? What gives you the right to assume this from the start? And what gives you the right to push on us right away an ethics in a legislating, commanding form, as the only possible one? I say, against Kant, that the ethicist, like the philosopher in general, must be content with explaining and interpreting what is given, that is, what actually exists or happens, in order to reach an *understanding* of it. I also say that this task keeps the ethicist fully occupied. There is far more to do than has been done to this day, after thousands of years have passed. In line with this *Kantian* assumption of what has to be proved, the preface, which is entirely part of the subject matter, assumes right away, before any investigation, that there are purely *moral laws*. That assumption then stays in place. It is the deepest foundation of the whole system. But first let us examine the concept of a *law*. Its proper and original meaning is limited to civil law—lex, νόμος—a human institution that rests on human choice. The concept of law has a second meaning, a derived, figurative, metaphorical one, when it is applied to nature. Nature has ways of proceeding that always stay the same. Some of these we know independently of experience, and some we have noticed in nature through experience. These we call, metaphorically, laws of nature. Only a very small part of these laws of nature can be seen independently of experience. That part makes up what Kant keenly and admirably separated out and put together under the name Metaphysics of Nature. For the *human will* there is indeed a law too, insofar as the human being belongs to nature. It is a law that can be strictly proved, one that cannot be broken, has no exceptions, and stands solid as rock. It does not carry necessity merely \"so to speak,\" as the categorical imperative does. It carries real necessity. It is the *law of motivation*, a form of the law of causality, namely causality that works through cognition. This is the only provable law for the *human will*, and the will is subject to it *as such*. It says that any action can occur only as the result of a sufficient motive. Like the law of causality in general, it is a law of nature. Moral laws, on the other hand, that are independent of human enactment, state institutions, or religious teaching may not be assumed to exist without proof. So by taking them for granted in advance, Kant assumes what has to be proved. This looks all the bolder because Kant adds right away, on S. VI of the preface, that a moral law is supposed to carry \"*absolute necessity*\" with it. But such necessity always has this mark: the result cannot fail to appear. So how can anyone speak of absolute necessity for these supposed moral laws? As an example of them, Kant gives \"*du sollt* (sic) nicht lügen,\" that is, \"you shall not lie.\" After all, it is well known, and he admits it himself, that such laws mostly, indeed as a rule, remain without effect. Suppose one wants to assume, in scientific ethics, other laws for the will besides the law of motivation, laws that are original and independent of all human enactment. Then one has to prove and derive their whole existence. That holds if one cares not only to recommend honesty in ethics but also to practice it. Until that proof has been given, I recognize no other origin for bringing the concept of law, precept, and ought into ethics than one that is foreign to philosophy: the Ten Commandments of Moses. The spelling \"*du sollt*\" even betrays this origin naively, in the example above, the first example of a moral law that Kant sets up. A concept that can show no origin other than this may not simply push its way into philosophical ethics. It is turned away until valid proof has vouched for it and introduced it. In Kant, this concept gives us the first case of assuming what has to be proved, and it is a big one.\n\nBy that same step, Kant in the preface had taken the concept of the *moral law* without further ado as given and unquestionably present. He does the same on S. 8 (R., S. 16) with the closely related concept of *duty*. This concept is let into ethics as belonging there, without having to pass any further test. But I am forced to enter a protest again here. This concept, together with its relatives, that is, the concepts of *law, command, ought*, and the like, has its origin in theological morality when it is taken in this unconditional sense. In philosophical morality it stays a stranger until it brings a valid credential from the nature of human beings or from the nature of the objective world. Until then I recognize no other origin for it and its relatives than the Ten Commandments. In general, during the Christian centuries, philosophical ethics took its form unconsciously from theological ethics. Theological ethics is essentially *commanding*. So philosophical ethics also appeared in the form of precept and doctrine of duties. It did so in all innocence, without suspecting that some other authorization was needed first. It thought, rather, that this was simply its own natural shape. Human action has an ethical significance that is metaphysical, that is, it reaches beyond this world of appearance and touches eternity. No one can deny this significance. All peoples, ages, and creeds recognize it, and so do all philosophers except the true materialists. But it is not essential to this significance that it be understood in the form of commanding and obeying, of law and *duty*. Besides, once these concepts are cut off from the theological assumptions they came from, they really lose all meaning. Kant thinks he can replace those assumptions by speaking of *absolute ought* and *unconditional duty*. But this fobs the reader off with words. In fact, it gives the reader a contradiction in terms to digest. Every *ought* has sense and meaning only in relation to a threatened punishment or a promised reward. That is why Locke already said, long before anyone thought of Kant: For since it would be utterly in vain, to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will; we must, where-ever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law. (On Understanding, Bk. II, c. 33, §. 6.)[4] So every ought is necessarily conditioned by punishment or reward. In Kant's language, then, it is essentially and unavoidably *hypothetical*, and never, as he claims, *categorical*. But if we take those conditions away in thought, the concept of ought is left empty of sense. That is why *absolute ought* is indeed a contradiction in terms. A commanding voice, whether it comes from within or from outside, simply cannot be imagined except as threatening or promising. But then obeying it will be wise or foolish, depending on circumstances, yet always selfish, and so without moral worth. The complete unthinkability and absurdity of this concept of an *unconditional ought*, which underlies Kant's ethics, comes out later in his own system, in the Critique of Practical Reason. It is like a hidden poison in the body: it cannot stay there, but must finally break out and find an outlet. For that *unconditional ought*, unconditional though it was, afterward postulates a condition for itself after all, and in fact more than one: a reward, and also the immortality of the one to be rewarded, and a rewarder. Of course this is necessary once one has made *duty* and *ought* the basic concept of ethics, since these concepts are essentially relative and have meaning only through threatened punishment or promised reward. This payment is postulated afterward for virtue, which therefore only seemed to work for nothing. But it appears decently veiled, under the name of the *highest good*, which is the union of virtue and happiness. At bottom, however, this is nothing other than the morality that aims at happiness and therefore rests on self-interest, that is, eudemonism. Kant had solemnly thrown it out the main door of his system as heteronomous. Now it sneaks back in by the back door under the name *highest good*. This is how the assumption of an *unconditional, absolute ought*, which hides a contradiction, takes its revenge. The *conditional ought*, on the other hand, can of course not be a basic ethical concept. Everything done with an eye to reward or punishment is necessarily egoistic action, and as such it has no purely moral worth. All this shows that ethics needs a grander and more unprejudiced view, if we are serious about wanting to get to the bottom of the eternal significance of human action, which reaches beyond appearance.\n\nJust as every *ought* is bound to a condition without exception, so is every *duty*. The two concepts are very close relatives and almost identical. The only difference between them may be this: *ought* in general can rest on mere compulsion, while *duty* presupposes *obligation*, that is, the taking on of the *duty*. Obligation takes place between master and servant, superior and subordinate, government and subjects. Precisely because no one takes on a *duty* for nothing, every *duty* also gives a right. A slave has no *duty*, because a slave has no right. But there is an *ought* for a slave, and it rests on mere compulsion. In the next part I will set out the only meaning that the concept *duty* has in ethics.\n\nCasting ethics in an *imperative* form, as a *doctrine of duties*, and thinking of the moral worth or worthlessness of human actions as the fulfilling or violating of *duties*, comes, together with the *ought*, undeniably only from theological morality, and then from the Ten Commandments. Accordingly, it rests essentially on the assumption that human beings depend on another will, one that commands them and announces reward or punishment. It cannot be separated from that assumption. Theology takes the assumption of such a will as settled. But that does not mean it may be drawn quietly and without further ado into philosophical morality. And then one also may not assume in advance that the *imperative form*, the setting up of commands, laws, and duties, goes without saying in philosophical morality and is essential to it. It is a poor makeshift to replace the outer condition that by its nature clings essentially to such concepts with the word \"absolute\" or \"categorical.\" As already said, that produces a contradiction in terms.\n\nKant had borrowed this *imperative form* of ethics from theological morality, silently and without examining it. The assumptions of theological morality, that is, theology, really underlie that morality. They are the very thing that alone gives it meaning and sense. They cannot be separated from it, and they are contained in it implicitly. So afterward, at the end of his exposition, Kant had an easy time of it. He could develop a theology out of his morality in turn, the well-known moral theology. He only had to bring out into the open the concepts that the *ought* had implicitly posited and that lay hidden under his morality, and now to set them up explicitly as postulates of practical reason. So, to the great edification of the world, a theology appeared that was supported by morality alone, and had even come out of it. But this happened because that morality itself rests on hidden theological assumptions. I do not intend a mocking comparison. But in form the matter is like the surprise that a conjuror prepares for us, by letting us find an object in the very place where it had been cleverly planted beforehand. Stated in the abstract, Kant's procedure is this: he made into the result what should have been the principle or assumption (theology), and he took as the assumption what should have been derived as the result (the command). Once he had turned the thing on its head in this way, no one recognized it for what it was, not even he himself, namely the old, well-known theological morality. We will look at how this trick was carried out in the sixth and seventh sections.\n\nIt is true that even before *Kant* the casting of morality in the imperative form, as a doctrine of duties, was in frequent use in philosophy too. But then people also based morality itself on the will of a God who had already been proved by other means, and so they stayed consistent. But as soon as someone undertook, like Kant, to give a basis independent of this, and wanted to establish ethics without metaphysical assumptions, that person was no longer entitled to lay that imperative form at the foundation, that \"you shall\" and \"it is your duty,\" without deriving it some other way.\n\n4. \"For since it would be completely pointless to assume a rule laid down for the free actions of human beings without attaching to it something that gave it force, by determining their will through well-being and pain, we must, wherever we assume a law, also assume some reward or punishment attached to that law.\" (On the Understanding, Bd. II, c. 33, §. 6.)\n\n### Section 5\n\nThe assumption of duties to ourselves, in particular.\n\nBut *Kant* left this form of the doctrine of duties, which was so welcome to him, untouched even when he worked it out, in that he, like his predecessors, set up duties to ourselves alongside duties to others. I flatly reject this assumption. So here, where the context best allows it, I will insert my explanation of it as a side episode.\n\nDuties to ourselves, like all duties, must be either duties of right or duties of love. *Duties of right* to ourselves are impossible, because of the self-evident principle that no wrong is done to someone who is willing. What I do is always what I want. So what happens to me from myself is also always only what I want, and therefore never an injustice. As for *duties of love* to ourselves, morality finds its work already done here and arrives too late. The highest commandment of Christian morality already takes for granted that the duty of self-love cannot be violated: \"Love your neighbor as yourself.\" By this commandment, the love that everyone has for themselves is assumed in advance as the maximum and the condition of every other love. It is by no means added as a command: \"Love yourself as your neighbor.\" Then everyone would feel that too little was being demanded. This would also be the only duty for which doing more than duty requires would be an everyday matter. Even Kant says, in the \"Metaphysical First Principles for the Doctrine of Virtue,\" S. 13 (R., S. 230): \"What everyone unavoidably wants already of their own accord does not belong under the concept of duty.\" Still, this concept of duties to ourselves has kept its standing, and it is generally in special favor. There is no reason to be surprised at that. But it has an amusing effect in cases where people begin to worry about their own person and then speak in all seriousness of the duty of self-preservation. Meanwhile it is plain enough that fear will get them moving on its own, and that no command of duty is needed to give them a shove from behind.\n\nWhat people usually set up as duties to ourselves is first of all an argument against *suicide*. It is deeply caught up in prejudices and conducted on the shallowest grounds. Human beings alone are exposed not only to *bodily* suffering, as animals are, which is limited to the present. They are also exposed to *mental* suffering, which is incomparably greater and which borrows from the future and the past. To humans alone nature has granted, as compensation, the privilege of ending their life at will, even before nature itself sets an end to it. So a human being, unlike an animal, does not necessarily live as long as possible, but only as long as that human being *wants* to. Whether a person must give up this privilege again, on ethical grounds, is a difficult question. At the least, it cannot be decided by the usual shallow arguments. As for the reasons against suicide that Kant does not disdain to give, on S. 53 (R., S. 48) and S. 67 (R., S. 57), in good conscience I cannot call them anything but wretched trifles that do not even deserve an answer. One has to laugh at the thought that such reflections were supposed to wrest the dagger from the hands of Cato, of Cleopatra, of Cocceius Nerva (Tac. Ann., VI, 26), or of the Arria of Paetus (Plin. Ep., III, 16). If there really are genuine moral motives against suicide, they lie, in any case, very deep. The plumb line of ordinary ethics cannot reach them. They belong to a higher way of looking at things than even the standpoint of the present treatise is suited for.[5]\n\nWhat else is usually presented under the heading of duties to oneself consists partly of rules of prudence and partly of rules for healthy living. Neither kind belongs to morality proper. Finally, people also bring in here the ban on unnatural lust, that is, masturbation, pederasty, and bestiality. Of these, first, masturbation is mainly a vice of childhood, and fighting it is far more a matter for the science of healthy living than for ethics. That is why the books against it were written by physicians (such as Tissot and others), not by moralists. The science of healthy living and hygiene have done their part in this matter and have crushed it with irrefutable arguments. If morality now still wants to take it in hand, it finds the work so thoroughly done already that little is left for it. Bestiality, in turn, is a completely abnormal offense that occurs very rarely, so it is truly something exceptional. It is also so outrageous and so contrary to human nature that it speaks against itself and deters, more than any arguments of reason could. Besides, as a degradation of human nature it is, strictly speaking, an offense against the species as such and in the abstract, not against human individuals. Of the three sexual offenses under discussion, then, only pederasty falls to ethics. It will find its place there naturally, in the treatment of justice. For justice is violated by it, and the principle that no wrong is done to someone who is willing cannot be raised against this, because the wrong consists in the seduction of the younger, inexperienced party, who is corrupted physically and morally by it.\n\n5. They are ascetic reasons. You can find them in the fourth book of my main work, Bd. I, §. 69.\n\n### Section 6\n\nOn the Foundation of Kant's Ethics.\n\nThe *imperative form* of ethics, which §. 4. showed to assume what it must prove, is closely tied to one of Kant's favorite ideas. We can excuse this idea, but we cannot accept it.—Sometimes a doctor uses a treatment with brilliant success and then starts prescribing it for almost every illness. I compare Kant to that doctor. By separating what we know independently of experience from what we know through experience, he made the most brilliant and far-reaching discovery that metaphysics can claim. No wonder he then tried to use this method and distinction everywhere. So *ethics*, too, is to have a pure part, knowable independently of experience, and an empirical part. He rejects the latter as inadmissible for *establishing the basis* of ethics. His aim in the \"Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals\" is to find the former and present it separately. This is therefore meant to be a science wholly independent of experience, in the same sense as his \"Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science.\" Thus the *moral law*, whose existence he has already assumed without justification, deduction, or proof, is also to be knowable independently of experience. It is to be independent of all *inner and outer experience*, \"*based solely on concepts of pure reason*; it is to be a *synthetic proposition knowable independently of experience*\" (Critique of Practical Reason, S. 56 of the fourth edition;—R., S. 142). Closely connected with this is the requirement that it be merely *formal*, like everything known independently of experience. It must therefore concern only the *form* of actions, not their *content*.—Think what this means!—He expressly adds (S. VI of the preface to the Groundwork;—R., S. 5) that it \"must not be sought in human nature (the subjective), or in the circumstances of the world (the objective).\" And he says (same place, S. VII; R., S. 6) that \"*not the slightest thing may be borrowed here from knowledge of human beings*, that is, from *anthropology*.\" He repeats (S. 59;—R., S. 52) \"that we must never think of trying to derive the reality of our moral principle from the particular character of human nature.\" Likewise (S. 60;—R., S. 52), nothing can provide a basis for the moral law if it is derived from \"anything peculiar to humanity's natural constitution, from certain feelings and tendencies, or even, if possible, from some particular bent belonging to human nature that would not necessarily apply to the will of *every rational being*.\" This proves beyond dispute that he does *not present the supposed moral law as a fact of consciousness*, something that can be shown empirically to exist. Yet that is what all the philosophical dabblers of recent times would like to make it out to be. He rejects all inner experience, and rejects all outer experience still more firmly, ruling out every empirical basis for morality. Please note this carefully: he does not base his moral principle on any demonstrable *fact of consciousness*, such as an inner disposition. Nor does he base it on any objective relation between things in the outside world. No! That would be an empirical basis. Instead, morality is to rest on *pure concepts independent of experience*. These are concepts that still have no content at all from either outer or inner experience. They are empty shells without a kernel. Consider how much this means. Human consciousness and the whole outside world, with all the experience and facts they contain, have been pulled out from under our feet. We have nothing to stand on. What can we hold on to? A couple of completely abstract concepts, still entirely without substance, which also hang in midair. From these—or rather, merely from the form in which they are combined into judgments—a *law* is supposed to emerge. This law is supposed to hold with so-called *absolute necessity* and have the power to put a bridle and bit on the pressure of desires, the storm of passion, and the gigantic force of egoism. Let us see whether it can.\n\nThis preconceived idea—that the basis of morality absolutely requires *independence from experience* and freedom from everything empirical—is closely connected with a second favorite idea of Kant's. The moral principle he is to establish must be a *synthetic proposition independent of experience, with merely formal content*, and thus entirely a matter of *pure reason*. As such, it is to apply not just to *human beings*, but to *all possible rational beings*. It is to apply to human beings \"only for that reason,\" incidentally and by accident. That is why it rests on pure reason, which knows nothing but itself and the principle of noncontradiction, rather than on any feeling. Here, then, *pure reason* is not taken as a human power of knowing, which is all it really is. Instead, it is *treated as something that exists on its own*. There is no justification for this, and it sets a most harmful example and precedent, as our present miserable age of philosophy can show. Yet setting up morality not for human beings as human beings, but for *all rational beings* as such, is so central and dear to *Kant* that he never tires of repeating it whenever he can. Against this I say that we are never entitled to set up a genus when we know only a single species of it. We could put nothing into the concept of that genus except what we had taken from this *one* species. Anything we said about the genus would therefore still have to be understood as applying only to the *one* species. Meanwhile, to form the genus, we would have unjustifiably thought away features belonging to this species. In doing so, we might have removed the very condition that makes the remaining properties possible—the properties we then treat as a genus existing on its own. We know *intelligence in general* only as a property of animals. We are therefore never entitled to think of it as existing apart from and independently of animal nature. In the same way, we know *reason* only as a property of the human species. We have absolutely no right to think of it as existing outside that species, or to set up a genus called \"rational beings\" distinct from its only species, \"human beings.\" Still less are we entitled to make laws for such imaginary *rational beings considered in the abstract*. Talking about rational beings other than humans is like talking about *beings with weight* other than bodies. We cannot help suspecting that *Kant* was thinking a little of the dear little angels, or at least counting on their help in convincing the reader. In any case, this silently assumes a rational soul, quite distinct from the sensing soul and the vegetative soul, that would remain after death and would then be nothing but rational. Yet he himself had expressly and thoroughly put an end to this entirely transcendent assumption of a thing's existence in the Critique of Pure Reason. Still, throughout Kant's ethics, especially in the Critique of Practical Reason, the idea always hovers in the background that the inner and eternal nature of human beings consists in *reason*. Since this subject comes up here only in passing, I must limit myself to simply asserting the opposite. Reason, like the power of knowing in general, is something secondary. It belongs to appearance and is, indeed, conditioned by the organism. The true core of a human being, the only metaphysical and therefore indestructible element, is *their will*.\n\nKant wanted to transfer to practical philosophy the method he had used so successfully in theoretical philosophy. Here, too, he wanted to separate pure knowledge independent of experience from empirical knowledge gained through experience. He therefore assumed that, just as we know the laws of space, time, and causality independently of experience, we are also given a moral guide for our actions before all experience, or at least in some similar way. This guide was to express itself as a categorical imperative, an absolute ought. But what an enormous *difference* there is between these two things! On one side are those kinds of theoretical knowledge independent of experience. They rest on expressing the mere forms—that is, functions—of our intellect. Only through these can we grasp an objective world, so the world *must* present itself in these forms. That is precisely why these forms lay down absolute laws for it. Every experience must always conform to them exactly, just as everything I see through blue glass *must* appear blue. On the other side is this supposed moral law independent of experience. Experience mocks it at every turn. Indeed, according to *Kant* himself, experience leaves it doubtful whether it has ever actually conformed to that law even once. What utterly different things are being brought together under the concept of *independence from experience*! Kant also overlooked a consequence of his own teaching in theoretical philosophy. The very *independence from experience* of the kinds of knowledge just mentioned restricts them to mere *appearance*: the representation of the world in our heads. It completely deprives them of any validity concerning the *nature of things in themselves*, what exists independently of our way of grasping it. Accordingly, in practical philosophy too, his supposed moral law, if it arises in our heads independently of experience, would have to be merely a form of *appearance*. It would leave the nature of things in themselves untouched. But this consequence would flatly contradict both the subject itself and Kant's views about it. Throughout his work—for instance, Critique of Practical Reason, S. 175;—R., S. 228—he presents *the moral element in us* as most closely connected with the true *nature of things in themselves*, indeed as bearing directly on it. And in the Critique of Pure Reason, wherever the mysterious *thing in itself* comes into somewhat clearer view, it reveals itself as *the moral element* in us, as *will*.—But he brushed this aside.\n\nIn §. 4 I showed that Kant simply took the *imperative form* of ethics, and thus the concepts of ought, law, and duty, from theological morality. Yet he had to leave behind what alone gives these concepts force and meaning there. To give them a basis nonetheless, he goes so far as to demand that the *concept of duty* itself must also be the *reason for fulfilling* it, and thus the *binding force*. An action, he says (S. 11;—R., S. 18), has genuine moral worth only when it is done solely from *duty*, and merely for the sake of *duty*, without any inclination to do it. A person's character begins to have worth only when they do good merely for the sake of tiresome duty, with no sympathy in their heart, cold and indifferent to others' suffering, and *not naturally inclined to human kindness*. This claim outrages genuine moral feeling. It glorifies the absence of love and directly opposes Christian moral teaching, which places love above everything and counts nothing without it (1. Corinthians, 13, 3). *Schiller* mocked this tactless moral pedantry in two apt epigrams headed \"Scruples of Conscience and Decision.\" Their immediate occasion seems to have been some passages in the Critique of Practical Reason that fit this subject exactly. For example, S. 150;—R., S. 211: \"The attitude required of a human being in following the moral law is to follow it from *duty*, not from *freely chosen affection*, or even from an effort *not commanded*, gladly undertaken of one's own accord.\"—It has to be *commanded*! What a morality for slaves! Then, in the same work, S. 213;—R., S. 257, we read \"that feelings of compassion and tenderhearted sympathy would be troublesome even to right-minded people, because they would confuse their carefully considered maxims and so produce the wish to be rid of these feelings and subject to lawgiving reason alone.\" I confidently maintain that what opens the hand of the loveless benefactor described above (S. 11;—R., S. 18), indifferent to other people's suffering, can never be anything but slavish *superstitious fear*—unless he has ulterior motives. It makes no difference whether he calls his fetish \"categorical imperative\" or Fitzlipuzli.[6] What else could move a hard heart but fear?\n\nIn keeping with these views, S. 13;—R., S. 19, says that an action's moral worth is not to lie at all in the *intention* with which it was done, but in the maxim followed. Against this I ask the reader to consider that *intention alone* decides an action's moral worth or lack of worth. The same action can therefore deserve blame or praise, depending on its intention. That is also why, whenever people discuss an action of any moral importance, everyone asks about the *intention* and judges the action by that alone. On the other side, people also appeal to their *intention* alone to justify themselves when they see their action misinterpreted, or to excuse themselves when it has had harmful results.\n\nOn S. 14;—R., S. 20, we finally receive the definition of *duty*, the basic concept of Kant's whole ethics. It is \"*the necessity of an action out of respect for the law*.\"—But what is *necessary* happens and cannot fail to happen. Actions done from pure duty, by contrast, usually do not happen at all. Kant himself even admits, S. 25;—R., S. 28, that we have *no reliable examples at all* of an attitude of acting from pure duty. And on S. 26;—R., S. 29, he says, \"It is utterly impossible to establish with certainty through experience *a single case* in which an action conforming to duty rested solely on the representation of duty.\" The same is said on S. 28;—R., S. 30, and S. 49;—R., S. 50. In what sense, then, can such an action be called *necessary*? Since it is only fair always to interpret an author as favorably as possible, let us say he means that an action conforming to duty is *objectively* necessary but *subjectively* contingent. Yet this is much easier to say than to think through. Where is the *object* of this *objective* necessity, whose effect in objective reality usually—and perhaps always—fails to occur? However fairly I interpret it, I cannot help saying that the definition's phrase \"*necessity of an action*\" is nothing but an artificially concealed and very strained way of saying *ought*. This intention becomes clearer when we notice that the same definition uses the word *respect* where *obedience* was meant. The note on S. 16;—R., S. 20, says: \"*Respect* means only the subordination of my will to a law. The will's direct determination by the law, and the consciousness of this, is called *respect*.\" In what language? In German, what is described here is called *obedience*. The word respect cannot have been put so inappropriately in place of *obedience* for no reason. It must serve some purpose. Clearly, that purpose can only be to conceal the origin of the imperative form and the concept of duty in theological morality. We have already seen that the phrase *necessity of an action*, which takes the place of *ought* so awkwardly and unnaturally, was chosen only because *ought* is precisely the language of the *Ten Commandments*. The definition above, \"Duty is the necessity of an action out of respect for the law,\" would therefore read as follows in natural, undisguised language—that is, without its mask: \"*Duty* means an action that *ought* to be done out of *obedience* to a law.\"—That is \"what lies at the poodle's core.\"\n\nBut now, the *law*, this final foundation stone of Kant's ethics! *What does it say? And where is it written?* This is the main question. First, I point out that these are *two* questions. One concerns the *principle* of ethics, the other its *foundation*. These are two quite different things, though they are usually confused, sometimes perhaps deliberately.\n\nThe *principle*, or highest *basic rule*, of a system of ethics is the shortest and clearest statement of the way of acting it prescribes. Or, if it has no imperative form, it states the way of acting to which it gives genuine moral worth. It is thus that system's instruction for virtue in general, expressed in *one* proposition: the what of virtue.—The *foundation* of a system of ethics, on the other hand, is the why of virtue. It is the *reason* for that obligation, recommendation, or praise, whether we seek it in human nature, in the external conditions of the world, or anywhere else. In ethics, as in all sciences, we should clearly distinguish the what from the why. Most writers on ethics deliberately blur this distinction instead. Probably this is because the what is so easy to state, while the why is so terribly difficult. So they like to make up for poverty on *one* side with wealth on the *other*. By combining both in *one* proposition, they try to arrange a happy marriage between Penia (Poverty) and Poros (Resource). Usually they do this by not stating the what, which everyone knows, in its simple form. Instead, they force it into an artificial formula from which it must first be inferred as the conclusion from given premises. The reader then feels that they have learned not only the fact but also the reason for it. Most familiar moral principles readily show that this is so. In the next part, however, I do not intend to perform such tricks. I mean to proceed honestly, not to pass off the *principle* of ethics as its *foundation* at the same time, but to separate the two quite clearly. So I will state that what—the *principle*, the *basic rule*—right here in what I consider its simplest and purest form. All writers on ethics really agree on its content, however differently they dress it up: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. This is really the proposition that all moral teachers struggle to *justify*. It is the common result of their very different deductions. It is the what for which the why is still being sought, the consequence for which we demand the reason. It is therefore only what is given. What must be found in relation to it is the problem of every system of ethics, as well as of the present prize question. Solving this problem will provide the true *foundation* of ethics, which people have sought for thousands of years, like the philosophers' stone. The formula above really is the purest expression of what is given, the what, the principle. We can see this because it stands in relation to every other moral principle as a conclusion stands to its premises: it is what we are actually trying to reach. Every other moral principle must therefore be seen as a roundabout, indirect, or veiled expression of that simple proposition. This holds even, for example, for the commonplace basic rule considered so simple: What you do not want done to you, do not do to anyone else[7]. Its shortcoming is that it expresses only duties of justice, not duties of virtue. This is easily remedied by repeating it with both negatives removed. For then it, too, really means: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. But it gets there by a detour. This gives it the appearance of also having supplied the actual reason, the why, for that instruction. It has not done so. The fact that I do not want something done to me in no way implies that I ought not to do it to others. The same holds for every *principle* or highest *basic rule* of morality put forward so far.\n\nLet us now return to our question above. What does the *law* say, the law whose observance constitutes duty according to Kant? And what is it based on?—We will find that Kant, too, has very artfully tied the *principle* of morality closely to its *foundation*. Recall his demand, considered at the beginning, that the moral principle must be wholly independent of experience and purely formal—indeed, a synthetic proposition knowable independently of experience. It must therefore have no material content and may rest on nothing empirical. That means neither anything objective in the outside world nor anything subjective in consciousness, such as any feeling, inclination, or drive. Kant was clearly aware of the difficulty of this task. On S. 60;—R., S. 53, he says: \"Here we see philosophy placed in a precarious position indeed. It is supposed to stand firm, although it hangs from nothing and rests on nothing in heaven or on earth.\" We must therefore look forward all the more eagerly to his solution of the task he has set himself. We wait to see how something is to come from nothing: how laws for concrete human action are to take concrete form out of concepts wholly independent of experience, with no empirical or material content at all. We can take as a symbol of this process the chemical process in which three invisible gases—nitrogen, hydrogen, and chlorine—produce solid ammonium chloride before our eyes in an apparently empty space.—But I will set out the process by which Kant solves this difficult task more clearly than he himself wished or was able to do. This seems all the more necessary because the process rarely seems to have been properly understood. Almost all Kantians have fallen into the error of thinking that Kant presents the categorical imperative directly as a fact of consciousness. But then it would have an *anthropological* basis, resting on *experience*, even if inner experience, and thus on an *empirical* basis. This runs directly against Kant's view, and he repeatedly rejects it. Thus he says on S. 48;—R., S. 44, \"It cannot be established empirically whether there is any such categorical imperative at all.\" And on S. 49;—R., S. 45: \"The possibility of the categorical imperative must be investigated wholly independently of experience, since we do not have the advantage here of its actuality being given in experience.\" Yet his very first student, *Reinhold*, was already caught in this error. In his \"Contributions to a Survey of Philosophy at the Beginning of the 19th Century,\" issue 2, S. 21, he says: \"Kant accepts the moral law as an immediately certain fact, as an original fact of moral consciousness.\" But if Kant had wanted to establish the categorical imperative as a fact of consciousness, and thus empirically, he would not have failed at least to show that it was such a fact. Nothing of the kind appears anywhere. To my knowledge, the categorical imperative first appears in the Critique of Pure Reason (S. 802 of the first and S. 830 of the fifth edition). It arrives there all at once, unannounced, connected with the preceding proposition only by a completely unjustified \"therefore.\" It is first formally introduced in the \"Foundation for the Metaphysics of Morals,\" the work we are examining in particular here. And it is introduced entirely by a route *independent of experience*, through a deduction from concepts. By contrast, the \"Formula of Agreement for Critical Philosophy,\" in the fifth issue of *Reinhold's* journal just mentioned, so important for critical philosophy, even puts forward the following proposition on S. 122: \"We distinguish moral self-awareness from the *experience* with which it is connected in human consciousness as an original *fact*, beyond which no knowledge can go. By this self-awareness we mean the *immediate consciousness of duty*: that is, of the *necessity* of adopting the will's conformity to law, independent of pleasure and displeasure, as the incentive and guide for acts of will.\"—There we would indeed have \"a substantial statement—yes, one that really states something too.\" (Schiller.)\n\nBut seriously: what an outrageous assumption of the very thing to be proved Kant's moral law has grown into here! If this were true, ethics would indeed have a foundation of unmatched solidity. There would be no need for prize questions to encourage the search for it. But then the greatest marvel would be that such a fact of consciousness was discovered so late, while people had been eagerly and laboriously searching for a basis of morality for thousands of years. I will show further on how Kant himself gave rise to the error criticized here. Still, we might wonder how such a fundamental error could rule unchallenged among the Kantians. Yet while writing countless books on Kant's philosophy, they did not even notice the damage done to the Critique of Pure Reason in its second edition. That damage made it an incoherent book that contradicts itself. Only now has this come to light, and it has been explained, quite correctly in my view, in Rosenkranz's preface to the second volume of the collected edition of Kant's works. We must remember that many scholars are left little time for thorough learning by their constant teaching from the lectern and in print. \"I learn by teaching\" is not unconditionally true. Sometimes we might rather parody it: \"By always teaching, I learn nothing.\" There is even some justification for what *Diderot* has Rameau's nephew say: \"And these teachers—do you really think they will understand the sciences they teach? Nonsense, my dear sir, nonsense. If they had enough knowledge to teach them, they would not teach them.\"—\"And why?\"—\"They would have spent their lives studying them.\" (Goethe's translation, S. 104.)—Lichtenberg, too, says: \"I have noticed this several times: the professionals often do not know the best things.\" But to return to Kantian morality and the public: most people immediately assume that a conclusion has been correctly derived, as long as it agrees with their moral feelings. If the derivation looks difficult, they will not go deeply into it. They will leave that to the \"specialists.\"\n\n*Kant's way of establishing his moral law* is therefore not an empirical demonstration of it as a fact of consciousness, nor an appeal to moral feeling, nor an assumption of what must be proved under the grand modern name of an \"absolute postulate.\" Instead, it is a very subtle thought process, which he presents twice, on S. 17 and 51;—R., S. 22 and 46. The following sets it out more clearly.\n\nKant rejected every empirical incentive of the will. In doing so, he ruled out in advance, as empirical, everything objective and everything subjective on which a law for the will might be based. So nothing is left to provide the *substance* of this *law* except its own *form*. This form is simply its *character as a law*. Its *character as a law* consists in applying to everyone, and thus in *universal validity*. This, then, becomes its *substance*. Consequently, the law's content is nothing but its *universal validity* itself. It will therefore say: \"Act only on a maxim that you can at the same time will to become a universal law for all rational beings.\"—This, then, is the actual *grounding of Kant's moral principle*, so widely misunderstood, and thus the *foundation* of his entire ethics.—Compare also the end of note 1 in the Critique of Practical Reason, S. 61;—R., S. 147.—I sincerely admire the great ingenuity with which Kant performed this feat. But I continue my serious examination by the standard of truth. I will add just one point here, to return to it later: *reason*, when and insofar as it carries out the specific line of reasoning just explained, receives the name *practical reason*. The categorical imperative of practical reason is the law that results from this thought process. Practical reason is therefore not, as most people—including Fichte early on—have thought, a special faculty that cannot be traced back any further, a hidden quality, a kind of moral instinct resembling Hutcheson's moral sense. Rather, it is one and the same as *theoretical reason*, as Kant says in the preface, S. XII;—R., S. 8, and often enough elsewhere. It is theoretical reason itself insofar as it carries out the thought process explained above. Fichte calls Kant's categorical imperative an *absolute postulate* (Foundation of the Entire Theory of Science, Tübingen 1802, S. 240, note). This is the modern, prettifying expression for assuming what must be proved. And that is how he himself consistently understood the categorical imperative, so he too falls under the error criticized above.\n\nThe first and most direct objection to Kant's basis for morality is this. A moral law cannot originate in us in this way. That would require a person to come up, entirely on their own, with the idea of looking and asking around for a *law* that their will must obey and submit to. This cannot possibly occur to someone on its own. At most, it could occur after some other moral incentive had given the first push and prompted the inquiry. That incentive would have to be real and actively effective. It would have to make itself known, act on the person uninvited, and even force itself on them. But this would contradict Kant's assumption. According to him, the thought process described above is *itself* supposed to be the origin of all moral concepts, the first heartbeat of morality. So long as such an incentive is *not* present—so long as, by hypothesis, there is no moral incentive besides the thought process described—egoism alone guides human conduct, following the law of motivation. In other words, in every individual case, the motives operating at the time, which are entirely empirical and egoistic, determine the person's actions on their own and without interference. On this assumption, nothing prompts the person to ask about a law that would limit their willing and to which they would have to submit it. There is no reason why this should even occur to them. Still less is there a reason to investigate and puzzle over such a law. Yet only this could lead them into the peculiar train of thought in the reflection above. It makes no difference how clearly we suppose Kant's reflective process takes place. We might want to reduce it to a consideration that is only dimly felt. But no such change affects these basic truths: nothing comes from nothing, and an effect requires a cause. Like every motive that moves the will, the moral incentive absolutely must make itself known of its own accord. It must therefore act positively and consequently be *real*. For a human being, only what is empirical—or at least assumed to exist as something possibly empirical—has reality. So the moral incentive must in fact be *empirical*. As such, it must announce itself uninvited and come to us without waiting for us to ask about it. It must force itself on us, with enough power at least possibly to overcome the tremendously strong egoistic motives opposed to it. Morality concerns people's *actual* conduct, not houses of cards built prior to experience. No one would pay any attention to the results of such constructions amid life's serious demands and pressures. Against the storm of the passions, their effect would be that of an enema syringe against a raging fire. I have already mentioned that Kant considers it a great merit of his moral law that it rests solely on abstract, pure concepts prior to experience, and thus on *pure reason*. This supposedly makes it valid not just for human beings but for all rational beings as such. We must regret all the more that pure, abstract concepts prior to experience, without real content or any kind of empirical basis, can never move *human beings*, at least. I cannot speak for other rational beings. So the second defect in Kant's basis for morality is its lack of real content. This has gone unnoticed until now. Probably very few of those who celebrated and promoted Kant's morality ever clearly understood its actual *foundation*, as set out plainly above. The second defect, then, is a complete lack of reality, and therefore of any possible effectiveness. It hangs in the air like a spiderweb of the subtlest and emptiest concepts. It rests on nothing, and so can support nothing and move nothing. Yet Kant has loaded it with an infinitely heavy burden: the assumption of freedom of the will.\n\nKant repeatedly states his conviction that freedom can have absolutely no place in human actions. He says that, in theory, we cannot even see how it could be possible (Critique of Practical Reason, S. 168;—R., S. 223). He also says that, given exact knowledge of a person's character and all the motives acting on them, we could calculate their conduct as certainly and precisely as a lunar eclipse (same work, S. 177;—R., S. 230). Despite this, freedom is assumed, though only in idea and as a postulate, solely on the credit of this moral foundation that hangs so completely in the air. This happens through the famous inference: \"You can, because you ought to.\" But once we have clearly understood that something does not and cannot exist, what good does all this postulating do? Rather, we should reject what the postulate rests on, because it makes an impossible assumption. The rule is that the inference from impossibility to nonexistence is valid. A proof by contradiction would therefore overturn the categorical imperative here. Instead, one false doctrine is built on another.\n\nKant himself must privately have realized how inadequate a moral foundation made up of a few entirely abstract and empty concepts was. In the Critique of Practical Reason, the basis of ethics gradually changes its nature. As I said, Kant already proceeds less rigorously and methodically in that book, and his newly won fame has made him bolder. This basis almost forgets that it is merely a web of combined abstract concepts, and seems to want to become more substantial. For example, at S. 81;—R., S. 163, \"the moral law\" is \"*as it were, a fact of pure reason*.\" What are we supposed to make of this strange expression? Everywhere else, what is factual is contrasted with what can be known through pure reason.—Likewise, at S. 83;—R., S. 164 of the same work, he speaks of \"a reason that determines the will *directly*,\" and so on.—We should remember here that in the *Groundwork* he expressly and repeatedly rejects every anthropological foundation and every attempt to establish the categorical imperative as a fact of consciousness. Such a foundation, he says, would be *empirical*.—Yet casual remarks like these encouraged Kant's followers to go much further down this road. *Fichte* (System of Ethics, S. 49) expressly warns \"that we should not let ourselves be tempted to explain further our awareness that we have duties, or try to derive it from grounds outside itself, because this would detract from the dignity and absoluteness of the law.\" What a fine excuse!—Then, at S. 66 of the same work, he says that \"the principle of morality is a thought founded on the *intellectual intuitive perception* of the absolute activity of intelligence, and is pure intelligence's direct concept of itself.\" What phrases a windbag uses to hide his helplessness!—Anyone who wants to see how completely the Kantians gradually forgot and ignored Kant's original foundation and derivation of the moral law should consult a very readable essay in *Reinhold's* Contributions to a Survey of Philosophy at the Beginning of the 19th Century, issue 2, 1801. At S. 105 and 106, it claims \"that in Kantian philosophy autonomy—which is one and the same as the categorical imperative—is a fact of consciousness and cannot be traced back to anything further, since it announces itself through an immediate consciousness.\"—Then it would have an anthropological, and therefore empirical, foundation. This contradicts Kant's express and repeated declarations.—Nevertheless, at S. 108 of the same work we are told: \"Both in the practical philosophy of criticism and in the whole of purified or higher transcendental philosophy, autonomy is what grounds itself and supplies a ground. It neither can nor needs to be grounded further. It is the absolutely original, what is true and certain through itself, the primal truth, what comes first in the highest sense, the absolute principle.—So if anyone suspects, demands, or seeks a ground for this autonomy outside itself, the Kantian school must believe either that they lack moral consciousness[8], or that in their speculations they misunderstand it through false basic concepts. The Fichte-Schelling school declares that they suffer from the lack of intellect that makes a person incapable of philosophy. This is what characterizes the unholy rabble and the lazy cattle—or, as Schelling puts it more gently, the uninitiated crowd and the sluggish herd.\" Everyone can sense what the truth of a doctrine must amount to when such trump cards are used to force its acceptance. Still, we must explain the truly childlike faith with which the Kantians accepted the categorical imperative, and thereafter treated it as settled fact, by the respect these inspired. Disputing a theoretical claim here could easily be confused with moral wickedness. So even if someone noticed little of the categorical imperative in their own consciousness, they preferred to say nothing about it. They privately believed it must be more developed and appear more clearly in other people. No one likes turning the inside of their conscience outward.\n\nIn the Kantian school, practical reason and its categorical imperative thus appear increasingly as a fact beyond the physical world. They are a temple of Delphi in the human mind. From its dark inner sanctuary, oracular sayings announce without fail—not, unfortunately, what *will* happen, but what *ought to* happen. Once this *direct authority of practical reason* had been accepted—or rather slipped in and forced on people—it was unfortunately transferred to *theoretical* reason as well. Kant himself had often said that the two were, after all, one and the same reason (for example, Preface, S. XII;—R., S. 8). Once people had admitted that in *practical matters* there was a reason issuing pronouncements from an oracle's tripod, the next step was close at hand. They could grant the same privilege to its sister, or indeed to its partner in the very same substance, *theoretical reason*. They could declare it, like practical reason, answerable only to the emperor. The advantage was as enormous as it was obvious. Now all the would-be philosophers and fantasists, led by J. H. Jacobi, the denouncer of atheists, rushed to this little doorway that had unexpectedly opened for them. They came to bring their little wares to market, or at least to rescue their favorite items from the old inheritance that Kant's doctrine threatened to crush.—In an individual's life, one youthful misstep often ruins the whole course of life. *Kant's* single false assumption of a practical *reason* equipped with entirely transcendent credentials and handing down decisions \"without grounds,\" like the highest courts of appeal, had a similar result. From his rigorous, sober critical philosophy there sprang doctrines utterly foreign to it. These taught a *reason* that first only faintly \"*had an inkling of*\" the \"*supersensible*,\" then clearly \"*apprehended*\" it, and finally even \"*perceived it intellectually and intuitively*\" in person. Any fantasist could now pass off his daydreams as its \"absolute\" pronouncements and revelations—that is, as declarations issued from an oracle's tripod. This new privilege was thoroughly exploited. Here, then, is the origin of the philosophical method that appeared immediately after Kant's doctrine. It consists in mystifying, overawing, deceiving, throwing sand in people's eyes, and blustering. The history of philosophy will one day list its era under the heading \"Period of Dishonesty.\" The *character of honesty*, of investigating together with the reader, which marks the writings of all earlier philosophers, has vanished here. The would-be philosopher of this period does not want to teach his reader, but to fool him. Every page bears witness to this. *Fichte* and *Schelling* shine as this period's heroes. Finally there is also *Hegel*, a clumsy, witless charlatan, entirely unworthy even of them and far beneath these talented men. The chorus was supplied by all sorts of philosophy professors. With serious faces, they told their audiences about the infinite, the absolute, and many other things of which they could know absolutely nothing.\n\nEven this feeble play on words had to serve as a step toward that *prophetic role of reason*: since the German word *\"Vernunft,\" reason,* comes from *\"Vernehmen,\" apprehending*, it supposedly means that *reason* is a faculty for apprehending the so-called \"*supersensible*\" (Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, cloud-cuckoo-land). The idea met with boundless applause. For 30 years it was constantly repeated in Germany with unspeakable satisfaction, and even made the cornerstone of philosophical systems. Yet the truth is obvious. *\"Vernunft,\" reason,* does indeed come from *\"Vernehmen,\" apprehending*. But this is only because it gives human beings an advantage over animals: they can not only *hear* but also *apprehend*. What they apprehend is not what goes on in cloud-cuckoo-land, but what one rational person says to another. The other person *apprehends* this, and the ability to do so is called *reason*. This is how all peoples, all ages, and all languages have understood the concept of *reason*: as the capacity for general, abstract representations that are not intuitively perceived. These are called *concepts*, and words identify them and hold them in place. This capacity alone is the real advantage human beings have over animals. These *abstract* representations, or *concepts*, bring many individual things together. They make language possible, and through language, thinking in the proper sense. Through thinking they make possible an awareness not just of the present, which animals also have, but of the past and the future as such. This in turn makes possible clear memory, reflection, foresight, intention, the planned cooperation of many people, the state, trades, arts, sciences, religions, and philosophies—in short, everything that makes human life so strikingly different from animal life. An animal has only representations given in *intuitive perception*, and therefore only motives given in *intuitive perception*. This makes the dependence of its acts of will on motives obvious. Human acts depend on motives no less. Given a person's individual character, motives move them with the strictest necessity too. But these motives are usually not representations given in *intuitive perception*. They are *abstract* representations: *concepts* and *thoughts*. These, however, result from earlier intuitive perceptions, and therefore from outside influences on the person. This gives a human being a *relative* freedom, namely in comparison with an animal. Unlike the animal, the person is not determined by their present surroundings as given in *intuitive perception*, but by their *thoughts*, drawn from past experiences or acquired through instruction. So the motive that moves them by necessity is not visible to an observer alongside the action. The person carries it around in their head. This gives not only their conduct as a whole, but even all their movements, a character visibly different from an animal's. It is as though finer, invisible threads were pulling them. All their movements therefore bear the stamp of deliberation and intention. This gives them an appearance of independence that visibly distinguishes them from animal movements. Yet all these great differences depend entirely on the capacity for *abstract representations*, or concepts. This capacity, then, is the essential feature of *reason*: the faculty that distinguishes *human beings*, called the rational faculty, the reasoning faculty, reason, reason, reasoning, reason, reason, discourse of reason.—But if someone asks me what, by contrast, *understanding*—mind, intellect, understanding, understanding—is, I answer as follows. It is the cognitive faculty that animals also possess, though in different degrees, and that we possess to the highest degree. It is the immediate awareness, preceding all experience, of the *law of causality*. This law constitutes the very form of understanding and its entire essence. Above all, *intuitive perception* of the external world depends on it. By themselves, the senses are capable only of *sensation*. This is a long way from *intuitive perception*: it is merely the material for it. The mind sees and the mind hears; everything else is deaf and blind (the mind sees, the mind hears; everything else is deaf and blind). *Intuitive perception* arises when we immediately relate the *sensation* in our sense organs to its *cause*. Through this very act of intelligence, that cause presents itself as an *external object* in space, our form of intuitive perception. This itself proves that we are conscious of the law of causality prior to experience, and that it does not come from experience. Experience itself presupposes *intuitive perception*, and so becomes possible only through this law. Every superiority of understanding, all cleverness, insight, penetration, and discernment, consists in the *perfection* of this entirely immediate grasp of *causal relations*. That grasp underlies all knowledge of the *connections* between things, in the broadest sense of the word. Its sharpness and accuracy make *one* person *better at understanding*, cleverer, and more cunning than *another*. By contrast, people in all ages have called *someone* *rational* if they let *thoughts and concepts*, rather than impressions of intuitive perception, guide them, and therefore always proceed thoughtfully, consistently, and reflectively. Such conduct is everywhere called *rational conduct*. But this in no way implies honesty and human kindness. Someone can proceed with the greatest rationality—that is, thoughtfully, reflectively, consistently, systematically, and according to a plan—while following the most selfish, unjust, and even wicked maxims. So before *Kant*, it never occurred to anyone to identify just, virtuous, and noble conduct with *rational* conduct. People clearly distinguished the two and kept them separate. One rests on the *kind of motivation*, the other on *differences in basic maxims*. Only for *Kant*, because virtue was supposed to arise from pure reason, are virtuous and rational one and the same. This defies the usage of all peoples. Their usage is not accidental, but the product of shared human knowledge, and therefore agrees across peoples. Rationality and vice are perfectly compatible. Indeed, only their combination makes great, far-reaching crimes possible. Irrationality and generosity are equally compatible. For example, I might give someone in need something today that I myself will need still more urgently tomorrow. Or I might let myself be carried away and give someone in distress the sum my creditor is waiting for. There are very many such cases.\n\nAs I said, reason was raised to the position of the source of all virtue. This rested on the claim that, as *practical reason*, it issues unconditional imperatives like an oracle, entirely prior to experience. Alongside this stood the false account of *theoretical reason* given in the Critique of Pure Reason. It described reason as a faculty essentially directed toward the *unconditioned*, which takes the form of three alleged ideas. At the same time, understanding was said to recognize, prior to experience, the impossibility of this unconditioned. As a model whose faults invited imitation, this combination led the babbling philosophers, headed by Jacobi, to their reason that directly *apprehends* the \"*supersensible*.\" It also led them to the absurd claim that reason is a faculty essentially designed for things beyond all experience, and thus for *metaphysics*. Supposedly, it knows directly and intuitively the ultimate grounds of all things and all existence, the supersensible, the absolute, the deity, and other such things.—Had people wanted to use *their reason* instead of worshiping it, a simple observation should long ago have countered these claims. Suppose human beings possessed a special organ for solving the riddle of the world, and this organ constituted *their reason*. Suppose they therefore carried within themselves an innate metaphysics that needed only to develop. Then people would have to agree as completely about the subjects of metaphysics as they do about the truths of arithmetic and geometry. It would be quite impossible for the earth to contain a large number of fundamentally different religions and an even larger number of fundamentally different philosophical systems. Instead, anyone whose religious or philosophical views differed from everyone else's would immediately have to be regarded as someone not quite right in the head.—The following simple observation should have been equally unavoidable. If we discovered a species of ape that deliberately made tools for fighting, building, or some other use, we would immediately credit it with *reason*. Yet when we find savage peoples without any metaphysics or religion—and such peoples exist—it does not occur to us to deny them *reason* on that account. Through his critique, *Kant* confined to its limits the *reason* that *proves* its supposed supersensible knowledge. But he would surely have considered Jacobi's *reason*, which directly *apprehends* the supersensible, beneath all criticism. Meanwhile, the universities still foist such a *reason*, answerable only to the emperor, on innocent young men.\n\nNote.\n\nIf we want to get to the very bottom of the assumption of practical *reason*, we must trace its family tree a little further back. We find that it descends from a doctrine that *Kant* himself thoroughly refuted. Nevertheless, as a remnant of earlier ways of thinking, it secretly underlies his assumption of a practical reason with its imperatives and autonomy, without even his knowing it. This doctrine is rational psychology. According to it, a human being is composed of two completely different kinds of substance: a material body and an immaterial soul. *Plato* was the first to set out this dogma formally and try to prove it as an objective truth. But *Descartes* brought it to its full development and its extreme point by working it out with the greatest precision and scientific rigor. That very achievement, however, exposed its falsity, which was successively demonstrated by *Spinoza*, *Locke*, and *Kant*. *Spinoza*, whose philosophy chiefly consists in refuting his teacher's double dualism, made this his main proposition in direct and explicit opposition to *Descartes'* two substances: \"Thinking substance and extended substance are one and the same substance, understood now under one attribute, now under the other.\" *Locke* denied innate ideas, derived all knowledge from sensory knowledge, and taught that it was not impossible for matter to think. *Kant* refuted it through the critique of rational psychology as it appears in the first edition. On the other side, *Leibniz* and *Wolff* championed the bad cause. This earned Leibniz the undeserved honor of being compared with the great *Plato*, who was so unlike him. This is not the place to explain all this in detail. According to this rational psychology, the soul was originally and essentially a *knowing* being, and only as a consequence of this also a *willing* being. It had a higher and a lower faculty of knowledge, and likewise a higher and a lower faculty of will. This depended on whether, in these basic activities, it acted purely on its own, unmixed with the body, or in conjunction with it. In the higher faculty, the immaterial soul acted entirely on its own, without the body's cooperation. There it was pure intellect. It dealt only with representations belonging to itself alone, and therefore not sensory at all but purely mental, and with acts of will of the same kind. None of these contained anything sensory, since that would come from the body.[9] Here it knew nothing but pure abstractions, universals, innate concepts, eternal truths, and the like. Accordingly, its *willing* was influenced only by such purely mental representations. The *lower* faculty of knowledge and will, by contrast, was the work of the soul acting together with the body and its organs and closely joined to them. This impaired its purely mental activity. All knowing through *intuitive perception* was supposed to belong here and therefore to be obscure and confused. *Abstract* knowing, by contrast, consisting of abstracted concepts, was supposed to be clear! The will determined by such sensory knowledge was the lower and mostly bad will, since its *willing* was guided by sensory stimulation. The other *willing* was pure, guided by pure reason, and belonged to the immaterial soul alone. The Cartesian *De la Forge* worked this doctrine out most clearly in his Treatise on the Human Mind. At c. 23 he says: \"It is only one and the same will that is called sensory appetite when it is aroused by judgments formed as a consequence of sensory perceptions, and is called rational appetite when the mind forms judgments about its own ideas independently of the confused sensory thoughts that cause its inclinations.———What led people to take these two different tendencies of the will for two different appetites is that one very often opposes the other. The intention that the mind builds upon its own perceptions does not always agree with the thoughts suggested to the mind by the body's condition. This condition often forces it to will one thing while its reason makes it desire another.\"—Ultimately, *Kant's* doctrine of the *autonomy* of the will comes from a dimly conscious memory of such views. As the voice of pure practical reason, this autonomy legislates for all rational beings as such and recognizes only *formal* determining grounds. These contrast with *material* grounds, which alone determine the lower faculty of desire, while the higher faculty opposes it.\n\nIn fact, this whole view, first presented in a properly systematic way by *Descartes*, can already be found in Aristotle. He states it clearly enough in On the Soul, I, 1. Even *Plato* had prepared the way for it and hinted at it in the Phaedo (S. 188 and 189, Bip.).—But because Descartes systematized and consolidated it, we find a hundred years later that the view has become quite bold. It has been pushed to its extreme, and precisely for that reason brought toward disillusionment. Muratori's On the Power of Imagination, cap. 1–4 and 13, offers a summary of the view then current. There imagination, whose function is the entire intuitive perception of the external world on the basis of sensory data, is a purely material, bodily, cerebral organ: the lower cognitive faculty. Only thinking, reflecting, and deciding are left to the immaterial soul.—But this plainly makes the matter questionable, and people must have felt it. If matter is capable of grasping the world through intuitive perception, a process so complex, then why should it not also be capable of abstracting from that perception, and therefore of everything else? Abstraction is clearly nothing more than dropping the features not needed for the purpose at hand: the differences between individuals and species. For example, I set aside what is peculiar to the sheep, the ox, the deer, the camel, and so on, and arrive at the concept of a ruminant. In this operation, representations lose their character as intuitive perceptions. As merely abstract representations that are not intuitively perceived—as concepts—they now need words so that they can be held in consciousness and used.—Despite all this, we still see *Kant* under the lingering influence of that old doctrine when he sets up his practical reason with its imperatives.\n\n6. More correctly, Huitzilopochtli, a Mexican deity.\n\n7. Hugo Grotius traces it back to Emperor Severus.\n\n8. Just as I thought! When they have nothing sensible left to say in reply,  \nThey quickly shove it into your conscience.  \nSchiller.\n\n9. Pure thought is thought that is not concerned with any bodily images. Cart., Medit., p. 188.\n\n### Section 7\n\nThe highest principle of Kant's ethics.\n\nIn the last section I examined the actual foundation of Kant's ethics. I now turn to the *highest principle* of morality that rests on this foundation. It is closely connected with it, indeed fused with it. We remember its wording: \"Act only on a maxim that you can at the same time will to hold as a universal law for all rational beings.\"—It is a strange procedure to tell someone who is assumed to be looking for a law for his own actions that he must first look for one governing the actions of every possible rational being. But let us pass over that. Let us stick to this fact: the basic rule laid down by *Kant* is plainly not yet the moral principle itself. It is only a rule for finding it, an instruction about where to look. It is, so to speak, not yet cash, but a sound bill of exchange. Who is supposed to cash it? To state the truth at once, a very unexpected paymaster appears here—none other than *egoism*. I will make this clear immediately.\n\nSo the actual moral principle would be the maxim according to which I *can will* everyone to act. My *ability to will* is the hinge on which the instruction turns. But what exactly *can I* will, and what can I not will? To decide what I *can will* in this respect, I plainly need another standard. Only that standard would give me the key to an instruction delivered like a sealed order. Where should we look for this standard?—Nowhere but in my *egoism*. This is the nearest, always available, original, living standard for every act of will. It at least has the right of first possession over any moral principle.—The instruction in Kant's highest rule for finding the actual moral principle rests on an unspoken assumption: I *can will* only what leaves me best off. Now, in setting a maxim that everyone is to follow, I must consider myself not only as always the *active* party but also as possibly, and at times, the *passive* party. From this standpoint, my *egoism* decides in favor of justice and human kindness. It does so not because it wants to *practice* them, but because it wants to *receive* them. It thinks like the miser who, after hearing a sermon on charity, cries out:\n\n\"How thoroughly explained, how fine!—\n—I almost feel like going out to beg.\"\n\n*Kant* cannot avoid supplying this essential key to the instruction that makes up his highest moral principle. But he does not supply it immediately when stating the principle, since that might cause offense. He puts it a respectable distance away, deeper in the text. This keeps it from being obvious that, despite the lofty preparations made independently of experience, egoism actually sits in judgment here and decides the matter. It decides from the standpoint of the possibly *passive* side, and its decision is then made binding on the *active* side. Thus, on S. 19;—R., S. 24, we read: \"I *cannot will* a universal law of lying, because people would then no longer believe me, or would pay me back in *the same coin*.\"—S. 55;—R., S. 49: \"Making it a universal law that everyone could promise whatever occurred to him, intending not to keep the promise, would make promising itself, and any purpose one might have in promising, impossible, since *no one would believe* it.\"—On S. 56;—R., S. 50, he says of the maxim of unkindness: \"A will that decided on this would contradict itself, since *cases can arise* in which it needs the love and sympathy of others. Through such a law of nature, arising from its own will, it would rob itself of all *hope of the help* it wishes for.\"—Likewise in the Critique of Practical Reason, Th. I, B. 1, Hauptst. 2, S. 123;—R., S. 192: \"If everyone looked on the distress of others with complete indifference, and you belonged to such an *order of things*, would your will really agree to being in it?\"—\"How rashly we pass an unjust law against ourselves!\" would be the answer. These passages explain well enough how to understand the phrase \"*can will*\" in *Kant's* moral principle. But the true state of this principle is stated most clearly in the Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue, §. 30: \"For everyone wishes *to be helped*. But if he made known his maxim of being unwilling to help others, everyone would be entitled to refuse him help. So the self-interested maxim contradicts itself.\" *Entitled*, he says, *entitled*! Here he states as clearly as possible that moral obligation rests entirely on an assumed *reciprocity*. It is therefore wholly egoistic, and egoism supplies its interpretation. Under the *condition* of *reciprocity*, egoism wisely agrees to a compromise. This would serve to establish the principle of political association, but not the moral principle. So when the Groundwork says, S. 81;—R., S. 67, \"The principle: Always act on a maxim whose universality as a law you can at the same time will—is the only *condition* under which a will can never conflict with itself,\" the real meaning of \"conflict\" is this: if a will had approved the maxim of injustice and unkindness, it would later revoke it when it happened to become the *party that suffers*. It would thus *contradict* itself.\n\nThis explanation makes it perfectly clear that Kant's basic rule is not a *categorical* imperative, as he constantly claims. It is actually a *hypothetical* one. It rests on an unspoken *condition*: when I raise the law I am setting for my *actions* to the status of a *universal* law, it also becomes a law for what I *undergo*. Under this *condition*, as the potentially *passive* party, I certainly *cannot will* injustice and unkindness. But suppose I remove this *condition*. Perhaps I trust in my superior mental and physical powers, and, in choosing a universally valid maxim, think of myself only as the *active* party, never the *passive* one. Then, assuming morality has no foundation other than Kant's, I can very well will injustice and unkindness as a universal maxim. I can therefore arrange the world\n\nupon the simple plan,\nThat they should take, who have the power,\nAnd they should keep, who can.[10]\nWordsworth.\n\nSo the lack of a *real foundation* for Kant's highest moral principle, shown in the last section, is joined by its hidden *hypothetical* character, contrary to *Kant's* express assurance. Because of this character it even rests on mere *egoism*, which secretly interprets the instruction it gives. There is a further point. Considered simply as a formula, it is only a roundabout, dressed-up, veiled statement of the familiar rule: \"Do not do to another what you do not want done to yourself.\" To be sure, this rule must be repeated without its two negatives. That removes its defect of containing only duties of justice, not duties of kindness. For this is plainly the only maxim according to which I can will everyone to act—with regard, of course, to my possibly *passive* role, and thus to my *egoism*. But this rule, \"Do not do to another what you do not want done to yourself,\" is itself only a roundabout statement, or, if one prefers, a premise, of the proposition I have put forward: \"Harm no one; instead, help everyone as much as you can.\" This is the simplest and purest expression of the conduct that all systems of morality unanimously demand. It is and remains the true, pure content of all morality. But what is its foundation? What gives this demand its force? That is the old, difficult problem now before us again. For on the other side *egoism* shouts loudly: \"Help no one; instead, harm everyone if it happens to benefit you.\" Malice offers this variation: \"Instead, harm everyone as much as you can.\" To put up a champion who can match and even defeat this *egoism*, and malice as well—that is the problem of all ethics. Here is Rhodes; jump here!—\n\nOn S. 57;—R., S. 60, *Kant* hopes to confirm the moral principle he has stated in another way. He tries to derive from it the long-recognized division of duties that really does rest on the nature of morality. These are duties of justice, also called perfect, indispensable, or strict duties, and duties of virtue, also called imperfect, broad, or meritorious duties, but best called duties of kindness. Yet his attempt is so forced and plainly unsuccessful that it counts heavily against his highest principle. Duties of justice are supposed to rest on a maxim whose opposite, taken as a universal law of nature, *cannot even be thought* without contradiction. Duties of virtue, by contrast, rest on a maxim whose opposite one can *think of* as a universal law of nature, but cannot possibly *will*.—Now I ask the reader to consider this. The maxim of injustice, the rule of force instead of right, is supposedly impossible even *to think of* as a law of nature. Yet it is actually the law that really and factually rules in nature, not only among animals but among human beings too. Civilized nations have tried to prevent its harmful effects by setting up the state. But whenever and however this institution is removed or evaded, that law of nature immediately returns. And it constantly rules between nations. As everyone knows, the language of justice used between them is merely the official jargon of diplomacy. Brute force decides. Genuine justice, on the other hand, meaning justice that is not forced, certainly does occur, but always only as an exception to that law of nature. Moreover, in the examples *Kant* gives before this division, his first illustration of duties of justice is the so-called duty to oneself not to end one's life voluntarily when its pains outweigh its pleasures (S. 53;—R., S. 48). So this maxim is supposedly impossible even *to think of* as a universal law of nature. I say that, since state power cannot intervene here, precisely this maxim shows itself without obstruction as an *actually existing law of nature*. For it is certainly a general rule that a person actually resorts to suicide as soon as the greatness of his suffering decisively overcomes the immensely strong, inborn drive to preserve life. Everyday experience shows this. But it is a bold assumption that any thought at all could hold him back once the powerful fear of death, so closely bound up with the nature of every living thing, has proved powerless to do so. Such a thought would have to be stronger even than that fear. The assumption is all the bolder when we see that this thought is so hard to discover that moralists still cannot tell us exactly what it is. At any rate, arguments of the kind *Kant* gives against suicide on this occasion, S. 53;—R., S. 48, and also S. 67;—R., S. 57, have certainly never held back anyone tired of life for even a moment. So a law of nature that indisputably exists in fact and operates every day is declared impossible *even to think of* without contradiction, all to support the division of duties derived from Kant's moral principle!—I admit that, from here, I look forward with some satisfaction to the foundation of morality I will present in the next part. The division into duties of justice and kindness—or, more accurately, into justice and human kindness—follows from it without any forcing. A principle of division arising from the nature of the matter draws a sharp boundary entirely on its own. My foundation of morality can thus actually supply the confirmation that *Kant* claims here for his own without any justification.\n\n10. \"By this simple plan,\nThose who have the power should take,\nThose who can should keep.\"\n\n### Section 8\n\nThe *derived* forms of the highest principle of Kant's ethics.\n\nAs is well known, *Kant* also stated the highest principle of his ethics in a second, entirely different form. Unlike the first, this states the principle directly, instead of indirectly telling us how to look for it. Starting on S. 63;—R., S. 55, he prepares the way with extremely strange, strained, indeed distorted definitions of *ends and means*. These concepts can be defined much more simply and correctly: an *end* is the direct motive of an act of will; a *means* is its indirect motive (simplicity is the seal of truth). But through his odd definitions he slips toward this proposition: \"A human being, and in general every rational being, exists as an *end in itself*.\"—I must say outright that \"*existing as an end in itself*\" is not a coherent thought. It is a contradiction in terms. To be an *end* means *to be willed*. Every *end* is an end only in relation to a will whose *end* it is—that is, as I said, whose direct motive it is. Only within this *relation* does the concept of an *end* have any meaning. It loses that meaning as soon as it is torn out of the relation. But this essential *relation* necessarily rules out anything \"in itself.\" An \"*end* in itself\" is just like a \"friend in itself,\" an enemy in itself, an uncle in itself, north or east in itself, up or down in itself, and so on. At bottom, though, the \"*end* in itself\" is in the same position as the \"absolute ought.\" Both secretly, even unconsciously, rest on the same underlying thought as their condition: a theological one.—The \"*absolute value*\" supposedly belonging to this alleged but unthinkable *end* in itself is no better off. I must label this too, without mercy, a contradiction in terms. Every value is a comparative quantity. Indeed, it necessarily stands in a double *relation*. First, it is *relative*, since it is for someone. Second, it is *comparative*, since it exists in comparison with something else by which it is measured. Take it out of these two relations, and the concept of value loses all sense and meaning. This is too clear to need further explanation.—Those two definitions offend logic. In the same way, the statement on S. 65;—R., S. 56, offends genuine morality: beings without reason, meaning animals, are *things* and may therefore be treated merely as *means* that are not also *ends*. In line with this, the Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue, §. 16, expressly says: \"A human being can have a duty to no being except a human being.\" Then §. 17 says: \"Cruel treatment of animals conflicts with a person's duty *to himself*, because it dulls his sympathy with their suffering. This weakens a natural tendency that is very useful to morality in relations *with other human beings*.\"—So we are to feel compassion for animals merely for *practice*. They are, so to speak, the medical dummy on which we *practice* compassion for human beings. Along with all of Asia that has not been Islamized—that is, not Judaized—I find such statements outrageous and disgusting. This also shows once again how completely this philosophical morality depends on biblical morality. As shown above, it is only theological morality in disguise. Christian morality takes no account of animals, a point I will discuss later. So philosophical morality immediately leaves them without protection too. They are mere \"*things*,\" mere *means* to any ends one chooses: for instance, vivisection, hunts in which they are chased to exhaustion, bullfights, races, being whipped to death in front of a cart that is loaded with stone and will not move, and the like.—Shame on such a morality of pariahs, Chandalas, and Mlecchas! It fails to recognize the eternal being present in everything that lives, shining with unfathomable significance from every eye that sees the sunlight. That morality recognizes and considers only its own precious species. It makes that species' distinguishing feature, *reason*, the condition that a being must meet to receive moral consideration.\n\nBy this rough road, indeed by fair means and foul, *Kant* reaches the second statement of the basic principle of his ethics: \"Act so that you always use humanity, both in your own person and in the person of everyone else, at the same time as an end, never merely as a *means*.\" In a highly artificial way, and by a long detour, this says: \"Consider not only yourself, but others too.\" This in turn is a roundabout statement of the rule, \"Do not do to another what you do not want done to yourself.\" As I said, this itself contains only the premises for the conclusion that is the true final goal of all morality and all moral instruction: \"Harm no one; instead, help everyone as much as you can.\" Like everything beautiful, this proposition looks best naked.—But *Kant's* second moral formula deliberately and rather clumsily drags in the supposed duties to oneself as well. I have already said what I think about them.\n\nThere is also this objection to the formula: a criminal who is to be executed is treated, quite rightly and justly, only as a *means*, not as an end. He is the indispensable *means* of preserving the law's power to deter by carrying it out. That power is the law's purpose.\n\nAlthough this second formula of *Kant's* does nothing to *establish a foundation* for morality, and cannot count as an adequate, direct statement of its rules—that is, as its highest principle—it does have another merit. It contains a subtle psychological and moral insight. It identifies *egoism* by a highly characteristic feature that is worth developing further here. We are all bursting with this *egoism*. To hide it as our shameful part, we invented *politeness*. Yet it usually peeps out from under all the veils thrown over it in this way: almost instinctively, in everyone we meet, we first look only for a possible *means* to one of our always numerous ends. When we make a new acquaintance, our first thought is usually whether the man might be useful to us for something. If he cannot be, then for most people he himself becomes nothing as soon as they are sure of this. Looking in everyone else for a possible *means* to our ends, and thus for a tool, is almost part of the natural way we look at people. Whether the tool might *suffer* more or less in being used is a thought that comes much later, and often never comes at all. Many things show that we assume this attitude in others. For example, when we ask someone for information or advice, we lose all trust in what he says as soon as we discover that he might have some interest in the matter, however small or remote. We immediately assume that he will make us a *means* to his ends. His advice will then follow his intentions rather than his understanding, however great that understanding may be and however small his personal aim. For we know only too well that a cubic line of intention weighs more than a cubic rod of understanding. On the other hand, in such a case, when we ask, \"What should I do?\" the other person will often think of nothing except what we would have to do to serve *his* ends. Without even thinking of *our* ends, he will answer that way at once, almost mechanically. His will immediately dictates the answer before the question can even reach the court of his actual judgment. So he tries to steer us toward *his* ends without even becoming aware of it. He believes he is speaking from *understanding*, when only his *intention* is speaking through him. Indeed, he can go so far as actually to lie without noticing it himself. So much stronger is the influence of the will than that of knowledge. As a result, even someone's own consciousness is not a valid witness to whether he is speaking from *understanding* or from *intention*. His personal interest, however, usually is. Take another case. Someone pursued by enemies, terrified for his life, asks a peddler he meets about a side road. He may get the question in return, \"Could you use any of my goods?\" This is not to say it always happens this way. On the contrary, many people certainly do take a direct, genuine interest in another person's well-being and suffering. In *Kant's* language, they see that person as an end, not as a means. But how readily the thought occurs to each person to treat another, for once, as an end rather than, as usual, a means—this measures the great ethical differences between characters. What ultimately determines this will be the true foundation of ethics, which I will approach only in the next part.\n\nSo, in his second formula, *Kant* has identified egoism and its opposite by a highly characteristic feature. I have been all the more glad to point out this bright spot and bring it into clear light by explaining it, since unfortunately I can otherwise accept very little of the foundation of his ethics.\n\nThe third and last form in which *Kant* stated his moral principle is the *autonomy* of the will: \"The will of every rational being lays down universal laws for all rational beings.\" This certainly follows from the first form. But the present form is now supposed to show, according to S. 71;—R., S. 60, that the distinctive mark of the categorical imperative is this: in willing from duty, the will *renounces every interest*. All earlier moral principles supposedly failed \"because they always based actions on an *interest*, whether as a constraint or an attraction, *and whether the interest was one's own or someone else's*\" (S. 73;—R., S. 62). Someone else's too—please note that. \"By contrast, a will that lays down universal laws prescribes actions from duty that are *not based on any interest at all*.\" But now please consider what this actually means. It means nothing less than willing without a *motive*, and thus an effect without a cause. *Interest* and *motive* are interchangeable concepts. Does *interest* not mean \"what concerns me,\" what matters to me? And is that not, in general, everything that stimulates and moves my will? So what else is an *interest* but the effect of a motive on the will? Wherever a *motive* moves the will, it has an *interest*. But where no *motive* moves it, it can no more act than a stone can move from its place without a push or a pull. Surely I do not need to prove this to learned readers. It follows that every action necessarily presupposes an *interest*, since it must necessarily have a *motive*. Yet *Kant* proposes a second, entirely new kind of action that takes place without any *interest*, meaning without a *motive*. And these are supposed to be actions of justice and human kindness! To refute this monstrous assumption, we needed only to reduce it to its actual meaning, which the play on the word *interest* had concealed.—Meanwhile, *Kant* celebrates the triumph of his autonomy of the will (S. 74 ff.;—R., S. 62) by setting up a moral utopia called a *kingdom of ends*. Its population consists entirely of abstract *rational beings*. Every one of them constantly wills without *willing anything*—that is, without an *interest*. They will only this one thing: that everyone should always will according to a maxim—that is, autonomy. It is hard not to write satire.\n\nBut *Kant's* *autonomy* of the will leads him to something else, with more troublesome consequences than this little innocent kingdom of ends. Being entirely harmless, that kingdom can be left alone. The other thing is the concept of *human dignity*. This rests solely on human *autonomy* and consists in this: the law a person is to follow is one he has given himself. So he stands in the same relation to it as subjects under a constitution stand to their own law.—We might let this pass as an ornament to Kant's moral system. But once *Kant* had uttered the expression \"*human dignity*,\" it became the watchword of all helpless and thoughtless moralists. They hid their lack of a real foundation of morality, or at least one that said anything at all, behind that impressive expression, \"*human dignity*.\" They shrewdly counted on the reader's also liking to see himself clothed in such *dignity*, and thus being satisfied with it.[11] Still, let us examine this concept a little more closely and test whether it has any reality.—*Kant* defines *dignity* (S. 79;—R., S. 66) as \"an unconditional, incomparable *value*.\" The lofty sound of this definition is so impressive that hardly anyone dares approach and inspect it closely. If he did, he would find that it too is only an empty exaggeration, with a contradiction in terms nesting inside it like a gnawing worm. Every *value* is an estimate of one thing compared with another. It is therefore a comparative concept, and thus relative. This relativity is precisely what makes up the nature of the concept of *value*. The Stoics already correctly taught, according to Diog. Laert., L. VII, c. 106: \"Value is an appraiser's exchange valuation, whatever an expert in the goods sets; for example, exchanging wheat for barley together with a mule\" (\"Valuation is the return for something appraised, whatever an expert in the goods has set; it is like saying: exchange wheat for barley with a mule added\"). An *incomparable, unconditional, absolute value*, such as dignity is supposed to be, is therefore like so much else in philosophy: a task set in words, asking us to think a thought that *cannot* be thought, any more than the highest number or the largest space.\n\n\"But just where concepts are missing,\nA *word* turns up at the right time.\"\n\nSo here too, \"human dignity\" put a most welcome *word* into circulation. Every morality spun out through all the classes of duties and every case requiring a moral decision now found in it a broad foundation from which it could comfortably keep preaching.\n\nAt the end of his account (S. 124;—R., S. 97), *Kant* says: \"But how can *pure reason*, without any other incentives drawn from anywhere else, be *practical* all by itself? That is, how can the mere principle of the *universal validity of all its maxims* as laws, without any object of the will in which one might take an interest beforehand, by itself provide an incentive and produce an interest that could be called purely moral? Or, in other words, how can *pure reason* be *practical*?—All human reason is unable to explain this, and all effort and work are wasted.\"—Now one would think that if something is claimed to exist, yet *cannot* even be understood as possible, it must at least have been demonstrated to be a fact. But the categorical imperative of practical reason is expressly *not* presented as a fact of consciousness, nor is it otherwise established through experience. On the contrary, we are warned often enough *not* to look for it by this anthropological, experience-based route: for example, S. VI of the preface;—R., S. 5, and S. 59, 60;—R., S. 52. We are also repeatedly assured, for example on S. 48;—R., S. 44, \"that no example, and thus no empirical means, can establish whether any such imperative exists at all.\" And on S. 49;—R., S. 45, \"that the reality of the categorical imperative is *not* given in experience.\"—Put all this together, and one might really suspect that *Kant* is making fools of his readers. This might well be permissible and proper with today's German philosophical public. But in *Kant's* day that public had not yet distinguished itself as it has since. Besides, ethics was the least suitable subject for joking. So we must hold to this conviction: something that can neither be understood as *possible* nor demonstrated as *actual* has no evidence for its existence.—But suppose we merely try to grasp it through imagination. We picture a person whose mind is possessed, as if by a demon, by an *absolute ought* speaking in nothing but categorical imperatives. This ought constantly demands to direct his actions against his inclinations and wishes. Here we see no accurate picture of human nature or of what happens within us. What we do recognize is an artificial substitute for theological morality, standing in the same relation to it as a wooden leg to a living one.\n\nOur result, then, is that Kant's ethics, like all earlier systems, lacks any secure foundation. As I showed by examining its *imperative form* at the very beginning, it is basically only theological morality turned around and disguised in very abstract formulas apparently discovered independently of experience. This disguise had to be all the more elaborate and unrecognizable because *Kant* certainly deceived even himself in the process. He *really* thought he could establish the concepts of a *command of duty* and a *law* independently of all theology and base them on pure knowledge independent of experience, although these concepts plainly have meaning only in theological morality. Against this, I have shown well enough that in his system these concepts have no real foundation and float freely in the air. Toward the end, the disguised *theological morality* even unveils itself under his own hands: in the doctrine of the *highest good*, in the postulates of *practical reason*, and finally in moral theology. Yet none of this freed either him or the public from their illusion about the true connection of things. Instead, both were pleased to see all these articles of faith now established through ethics, even if only in thought and for practical purposes. They innocently mistook the consequence for the ground and the ground for the consequence. They failed to see that all these supposed conclusions from that ethics were already its underlying assumptions—unspoken and hidden, but absolutely necessary.\n\nNow, at the end of this sharp examination, which has been tiring even for the reader, perhaps I may be allowed a playful, even frivolous comparison to lighten things up. I would compare Kant, in this self-deception, to a man at a masked ball who spends the whole evening courting a masked beauty, imagining that he is making a conquest, until at the end she takes off her mask and reveals herself—as his wife.\n\n11. The first person to make the concept of \"*human dignity*\" expressly and exclusively the cornerstone of ethics, and to develop his ethics accordingly, seems to have been G. W. Block, in his New Groundwork of the Philosophy of Morals, 1802.\n\n### Section 9\n\n*Kant's* account of *conscience*.\n\nThe supposed practical reason, with its categorical imperative, is clearly most closely related to *conscience*. Yet it differs from conscience in two essential ways. First, the categorical imperative gives commands, so it necessarily speaks *before the act*. *Conscience*, strictly speaking, speaks only afterward. *Before the act*, it can speak only *indirectly*, at most. It does this through reflection, which brings back memories of earlier cases when similar acts later met with the disapproval of conscience. I think even the origin of the word *\"Gewissen\" (\"conscience\")* rests on this, since only what has already happened is *\"gewiß\" (\"certain\")*. In everyone, even the best person, impure, base, malicious thoughts and wishes arise. An outside event, a stirred-up emotion, or an inner bad mood may cause them. But a person is not morally responsible for these, and they must not burden his *conscience*. They show only what *human beings in general* might be capable of doing, not what the person thinking them could do. Other motives oppose them in him, though these do not enter his awareness at that moment along with those thoughts. So the thoughts can never become acts. They resemble the outvoted minority in an assembly making a decision. Each person comes to know himself, like other people, through experience of his *acts* alone. Only these burden *conscience*. Unlike thoughts, acts are not merely possible. They are *certain* and stand there unchangeably. They are not merely thought but *known*. The same is true of the Latin \"conscientia\" (\"conscience\"). It is Horace's \"conscire sibi, pallescere culpa\"—\"to be aware of one's guilt and grow pale at it.\" The same applies to \"συνείδησις\" (\"conscience\"). It is a person's knowledge of what he has done. Second, *conscience* always takes its material from experience. The supposed categorical imperative cannot do this, since it is purely independent of experience.—In the meantime, we may assume that *Kant's* account of *conscience* will also shed light on this concept he newly introduced. His main presentation of conscience is in the \"Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue,\" §. 13. In the criticism that follows, *I assume the reader has those few pages at hand*.\n\nKant's presentation of conscience makes a most imposing impression. People stood before it in respectful awe. They were all the less willing to object because they had to fear that a theoretical objection would be mistaken for a practical one. If they denied the correctness of Kant's account, they might be thought to have no conscience. This cannot deter me. Our concern here is theory, not practice. The aim is not to preach morality but to examine rigorously the ultimate grounds of ethics.\n\nTo begin with, *Kant* uses *Latin legal expressions* throughout. These hardly seem suited to describing the most secret movements of the human heart. Yet he keeps this language and this legal way of presenting things from beginning to end. So it seems essential and specific to the subject. He shows us a complete court of law inside the mind, with a trial, judge, prosecutor, defense lawyer, and verdict. If the inner process really worked as *Kant* describes it, we would have to wonder how anyone could be—I will not say so *bad*, but so *stupid*—as to act against *conscience*. Such a unique supernatural institution within our self-awareness, such a masked Vehmic secret tribunal in the mysterious darkness of our inner life, would fill everyone with horror and superstitious fear. It would surely stop people from grasping at brief, passing advantages against the prohibition and under the threats of terrifying supernatural powers that announce their presence so clearly and so close at hand.—In reality, we see the opposite. The influence of conscience is generally thought so weak that all peoples have tried to help it through positive religion, or even to replace it entirely with such religion. And if conscience were like this, the Royal Society could never have thought of the present prize question.\n\nBut when we look more closely at Kant's account, we find that its imposing effect is mainly achieved in this way. *Kant* gives moral self-judgment a form he treats as specific and essential to it. It is nothing of the kind. This form can be fitted to moral self-judgment just as it can to any other brooding over what we have done and could have done differently, even when that brooding has nothing to do with morality proper. An obviously false, artificial conscience, based on mere superstition, will also sometimes take this form of accusation, defense, and judgment. A Hindu may blame himself for having given occasion to the murder of a cow. A Jew may remember smoking a pipe in his house on the Sabbath. But even self-examination that starts from no ethical point of view at all, and is more immoral than moral, will often take the same form. For example, suppose that, out of kindness but without thinking, I have become guarantor for a friend. That evening I realize what a heavy responsibility I have taken on. I see how easily this could bring me serious losses, as the old voice of wisdom predicts: \"Stand surety, and ruin is close!\" Here too a prosecutor appears within me. Facing him is a defense lawyer who tries to make my hasty guarantee look better. He appeals to the pressure of circumstances, my obligations, the seeming harmlessness of the matter, and even praises my kindness. Finally the judge appears and delivers the merciless verdict, \"A stupid move!\" I collapse under it.\n\nWhat is true of the courtroom form *Kant* favors is also true of most of the rest of his description. For example, what he says at the very beginning of the paragraph, as though it were specific to conscience, applies to every scruple of an entirely different kind. It can be understood quite literally of the secret awareness of someone living on investment income who knows that his expenses far exceed the interest, that he is using up his capital, and that it must gradually melt away: \"It follows him like his shadow when he thinks of escaping. He can indeed numb himself with pleasures and distractions, or put himself to sleep, but he cannot avoid coming to himself or waking up now and then, when he immediately hears its terrifying voice,\" and so on.—Having described that courtroom form as essential to the subject, and therefore kept it from beginning to end, Kant uses it for the following carefully planned piece of false reasoning. He says: \"But to represent the person accused by his conscience as *one and the same person as the judge* is an absurd way of representing a court of law. For then the prosecutor would always lose.\" He adds a very strained and unclear note to explain this. From it he concludes that, to avoid a contradiction, we must think of the inner judge in that courtroom drama of conscience as distinct from ourselves, as *someone else*. We must think of this judge as one who knows our hearts, knows everything, obligates everyone, and, as the power that enforces the verdict, is all-powerful. The path is now entirely smooth. He leads his reader from conscience to superstitious fear as a wholly necessary consequence of it. He secretly relies on the reader being all the more willing to follow him because early education has made such concepts familiar, indeed second nature. So *Kant* has an easy task here. But he should have rejected it and taken care not only to *preach* honesty here but also to *practice* it.—I completely deny the statement quoted above, on which all these conclusions rest. Indeed, I call it an evasive trick. It is not true that the prosecutor must always lose if the accused and the judge are one person—at least not in the inner court. Did the prosecutor lose in my example of the guarantee?—Or, to avoid a contradiction, did we have to personify something here too? Did we have to think of *someone else*, existing objectively, as the one whose verdict was that thunderous \"A stupid move!\"? Perhaps a Mercury in the flesh? Or a personification of the practical cleverness (Metis) recommended by Homer (Il., 23, 313 seq.)? Would we then have to take the path of superstitious fear here too, though a pagan one?\n\n*Kant* guards against giving objective validity to his moral theology, which is already outlined here briefly but in its essentials. He presents it only as a subjectively necessary form. But that does not clear him of the arbitrary way he constructs it, even if only as subjectively necessary. He does so by means of wholly groundless assumptions.\n\nThis much, then, is certain. The whole legal and dramatic form in which *Kant* presents conscience is entirely inessential to it and in no way specific to it. He maintains this form throughout, right to the end, as though it were one with the thing itself, and finally draws conclusions from it. In fact, it is a much more general form that reflection on any practical matter can easily take. It arises mainly from the conflict of opposing motives that usually occurs in such reflection. Reflecting reason weighs these motives one after another. It makes no difference whether they are moral or egoistic motives, or whether we are deciding what to do or brooding over what we have already done. Now remove this arbitrarily imposed dramatic and legal form from *Kant's* account. The halo around it and its imposing effect disappear too. Only this remains: when we think about our actions, we sometimes feel a special kind of dissatisfaction with ourselves. Its distinctive feature is that it concerns not the outcome but the act itself. Unlike every other dissatisfaction in which we regret the foolishness of what we did, it does not rest on *egoistic grounds*. For here we are dissatisfied precisely because we acted too egoistically. We cared too much about our own well-being and too little about the well-being of others. Or we even made others' suffering an end in itself, without gaining anything for ourselves. We can be dissatisfied with ourselves over this and grieve over sufferings we have not *endured* but *caused*. That is the bare fact, and no one will deny it. Later we will examine how it connects with the only basis of ethics that stands up to scrutiny. But *Kant*, like a clever advocate, tried to get as much as possible out of the original fact by dressing it up and enlarging it. He wanted to secure in advance as broad a basis as possible for his morality and moral theology.\n\n### Section 10\n\n*Kant's* account of intelligible and empirical character.—Theory of freedom.\n\nIn the service of truth, I have attacked Kant's ethics. Unlike earlier attacks, mine do not merely touch its surface but undermine its deepest foundation. Now justice seems to require that I not leave it without recalling *Kant's* greatest and most brilliant contribution to ethics. This is his account of how freedom and necessity exist together. He first presents it in the Critique of Pure Reason (S. 533–554 of the first edition and S. 561–582 of the fifth). He gives an even clearer account in the Critique of Practical Reason (fourth edition, S. 169–179; R., S. 224–231).\n\nFirst *Hobbes*, then *Spinoza*, then *Hume*, also *Holbach* in Syst. d. la nat., and finally, most fully and thoroughly, *Priestley* proved the complete and strict necessity of acts of will when motives occur. They established it so clearly and beyond doubt that it must be counted among fully demonstrated truths. Only ignorance and crudeness could therefore keep talking of freedom in a person's individual actions, of a free choice indifferent between alternatives. The irrefutable arguments of these predecessors also led *Kant* to accept the complete necessity of acts of will as settled beyond any further doubt. This is shown by every passage in which he discusses freedom from the *theoretical* point of view alone. Yet it remains true that our actions are accompanied by an awareness that we act on our own authority and are the original source of our actions. Through this awareness we recognize them as our work. Each of us feels with unfailing certainty that he is the actual doer of his deeds and morally *responsible* for them. But *responsibility* presupposes that we could have acted differently, and thus presupposes freedom in some way. So awareness of *responsibility* also contains an indirect awareness of freedom. The key to resolving this contradiction, which arises from the subject itself, was finally found in Kant's profound distinction between appearance and the thing in itself. This distinction is the innermost core of his whole philosophy and its chief achievement.\n\nThe individual has an unchangeable, inborn character. All its expressions are strictly determined by the law of causality. Here, because causality works through the intellect, it is called motivation. This individual is only the appearance. The thing in itself underlying that appearance lies outside space and time. It is therefore free of any sequence or multiplicity of acts. It is one and unchangeable. Its nature in itself is the *intelligible character*. This is equally present in all the individual's deeds and imprinted on them all, like a stamp in a thousand seals. It determines the *empirical character* of this appearance, which shows itself in time and in a sequence of acts. Thus the appearance must show the constancy of a natural law in all its expressions brought about by motives. All its acts therefore occur with strict necessity. This also gave a rational basis to the unchangeable, unbending rigidity of each person's empirical character. Thoughtful minds had always noticed this, while others thought a person's character could be reshaped by reasonable arguments and moral warnings. It was now established for philosophy too, bringing philosophy into agreement with experience. Philosophy no longer had to be put to shame by popular wisdom, which had long expressed this truth in the Spanish proverb: \"What comes in with the baby's cap goes out with the burial shroud\" (What comes in with the child's cap goes out again with the burial shroud), or: \"What is sucked in with milk is spilled out into the burial shroud\" (What is taken in with milk is poured out again into the burial shroud).\n\nI consider this account by *Kant* of how freedom and necessity exist together the greatest achievement of deep human thought. It and the transcendental aesthetic are the two great diamonds in the crown of Kant's fame, which will never fade away.—As is well known, *Schelling*, in his essay on freedom, gave a paraphrase of this account by *Kant*. Its vivid coloring and concrete presentation make it easier for many people to grasp. I would praise it if *Schelling* had had the honesty to say that he was presenting *Kant's* wisdom here, not his own. Some of the philosophical public still take it for his own today.\n\nWe can make both this Kantian account and the nature of freedom in general easier to understand by connecting them with a general truth. I think its most concise expression is a statement often made by the Scholastics: \"Acting follows being\" (operari sequitur esse). That is, everything in the world acts according to what it is, according to its nature. All its expressions are therefore already potentially contained in that nature. They become actual when outside causes bring them about, and in this way that nature itself becomes known. This is the *empirical character*. Its inner, ultimate ground, which is inaccessible to experience, is the *intelligible character*: the thing's nature in itself. Human beings are no exception to the rest of nature here. Each person too has an unchangeable character, but it is entirely individual and different in everyone. For our way of knowing, this character is *empirical*, and for that very reason it is only appearance. What it may be in its own nature, however, is called the *intelligible character*. All a person's actions are determined in their outward form by motives. They can never turn out otherwise than in agreement with this unchangeable individual character. A person must act according to what he is. So for any given individual in any given case, only one action is possible: \"Acting follows being\" (operari sequitur esse). Freedom belongs not to the empirical character but only to the intelligible character. A given person's acting (operari) is necessarily determined from outside by motives and from within by his character. So everything he *does* happens necessarily. But freedom lies in his being (esse). He could have been a different person. His guilt and merit lie in what he is. For everything he *does* follows from this of itself, as a mere consequence.—*Kant's* theory actually brings us back from the basic error that placed necessity in being (esse) and freedom in acting (operari). It leads us to see that the reverse is true. So a person's moral responsibility does, at first and on the surface, concern what he *does*. At bottom, however, it concerns what he *is*. Once this is given, his actions, when the motives occurred, could never have turned out differently. Yet however strict the necessity with which motives bring about deeds, given a particular character, no one will ever think of using this to excuse himself and shift the guilt onto the motives. Not even someone convinced of this necessity will do so. He clearly recognizes that, as far as the matter and the circumstances were concerned—that is, objectively—a very different, even opposite action was quite possible. Indeed, it would have occurred if only *he had been a different person*. But he feels responsible for being *this sort of person and not another*, as his action reveals.—Here, in being (esse), lies the spot struck by the sting of conscience. For conscience is simply the increasingly intimate acquaintance with one's own self that develops from one's own way of acting. So although acting (operari) gives conscience its occasion, what it actually accuses is being (esse). We are aware of *freedom* only through *responsibility*. So where responsibility lies, freedom must lie too: in being (esse). Acting (operari) falls under necessity. But we come to know ourselves, like other people, only *through experience*. We have no knowledge of our character in advance of experience. In fact, we start out with a very high opinion of it. For the principle \"Everyone is presumed good until the opposite is proved\" also applies before the inner court.\n\nNote.\n\nAnyone who can recognize the essential point of a thought even when it is expressed in very different forms will see, as I do, that Kant's account of intelligible and empirical character brings an insight already held by Plato to the clarity of abstract thought. But Plato had not recognized the ideal nature of time, so he could present this insight only in a temporal form. He could therefore express it only through myth and in connection with the migration of souls. That the two accounts are identical becomes much clearer through Porphyry's explanation and development of Plato's myth. He presents it so clearly and precisely that its agreement with Kant's abstract account becomes unmistakable. Stobaeus has preserved this discussion in full from a work of Porphyry's that no longer survives. In it, Porphyry gives a detailed and exact commentary on the myth at issue here, which Plato presents in the second half of the tenth book of the Republic. It is in the second book of Stobaeus's Eclogues, Kap. 8, §§. 37–40. This section is very much worth reading. As a sample, I give the short §. 39 here, to encourage the interested reader to take up Stobaeus himself. He will then recognize that this Platonic myth can be seen as an allegory of the great and profound insight that Kant presented in its abstract purity as his account of intelligible and empirical character. So Plato had already reached the essentials of this insight thousands of years ago. It reaches even further back, since Porphyry thinks Plato received it from the Egyptians. But it is already present in the teaching of the migration of souls in Brahmanism, from which the wisdom of the Egyptian priests most probably comes.—The §. 39 just mentioned reads:\n\n\"For Plato's overall meaning seems to be this. Before souls enter bodies and different lives, they have the power to choose this course of life or another, which they are to live out with a particular kind of life and a body suited to that life. (For it is in their power to choose the life of a lion or of a human being.) But that power of self-direction is restricted as soon as they enter one of these lives. For when they descend into bodies and become the souls of living creatures instead of unbound souls, they have a power of self-direction suited to the creature's constitution. In some, as in human beings, it is highly intelligent and active. In others, as in almost all other animals, it has little scope for movement and follows a single course. This power of self-direction depends on the constitution. It moves of its own accord, but follows the impulses arising from that constitution.\" (\"For Plato's view as a whole seems to be this. Before souls enter bodies and definite kinds of life, they have the power to choose one life or another, which they are to spend in a body suited to that life [for they are allowed to choose the life of either a lion or a human being]. But as soon as a particular life has been taken on, that freedom is removed. When they descend into bodies and change from free souls into the souls of animals, they acquire a freedom suited to the animal's organism. In some cases, as in human beings, it is very intelligent and mobile. In others, as in almost all other animals, it is simple and has little mobility. This freedom depends on the animal's organism in such a way that it moves on its own, but is carried along according to the organism's appetites.\")\n\n### Section 11\n\nFichte's ethics as a magnifying mirror for the faults in Kant's ethics.\n\nIn anatomy and zoology, students sometimes see things less clearly in prepared specimens and natural objects than in engravings that exaggerate them a little. In the same way, I can recommend Fichte's \"System of Ethics\" to anyone who, after the criticism in the sections above, still does not fully see that Kant's foundation for ethics is worthless. It can help make this clear.\n\nIn old German puppet plays, the emperor or some other hero always had the clown Hanswurst alongside him. Afterward, the clown repeated everything the hero had said or done, in his own style and with exaggerations. In just this way, behind the great *Kant* stands the creator of the \"Wissenschaftslehre\" (Theory of Science), more accurately the \"Wissenschaftsleere\" (Emptiness of Science). This man's plan was to attract attention through a philosophical deception, and then use that attention to secure his own and his family's well-being. Given the German philosophical public he faced, the plan was entirely suitable and deserves approval. He carried it out mainly by *outdoing* Kant in every respect, presenting himself as Kant's living superlative. By enlarging Kant's most prominent features, he produced what was quite literally a caricature of Kant's philosophy. He did the same in ethics. In his \"System of Ethics,\" we find that the categorical imperative has grown into a despotic imperative. The absolute ought, reason as lawgiver, and the command of duty have developed into a *moral fate*: an unfathomable necessity requiring the human race to act in strict accordance with certain maxims (S. 308–309). Judging by the moral arrangements made, a great deal must depend on this, though we never actually learn what. We see only this much: just as bees have an instinct to build cells and a hive together, human beings supposedly have an instinct to perform together a great, strictly moral comedy on the world stage, in which we would be nothing but puppets on strings. There is, however, an important difference: the beehive actually gets built, whereas the comedy actually performed on the world stage is highly immoral instead of moral. Here, then, we see the imperative form of Kant's ethics, its moral law and absolute ought, taken further, until it has become a system of *moral fatalism*. Its development sometimes turns comic.[12]\n\nIf *Kant's* ethics shows a certain moral pedantry, *Fichte's* most ridiculous moral nitpicking offers plenty of material for satire. Read, for example, S. 407–409, where he settles the familiar example from casuistry, in which one of two human lives must be lost. We also find all *Kant's* faults pushed to their extreme. For example, S. 199: \"To act on the impulses of sympathy, compassion, and human kindness is simply not moral, but to that extent opposed to morality.\"!—S. 402: \"The incentive for being helpful must never be thoughtless good-heartedness, but the clearly conceived aim of promoting reason's causal activity as much as possible.\"—Among these pieces of nitpicking, however, *Fichte's* real philosophical crudeness plainly shows through—as we might expect from a man whose teaching never left him time to learn. He seriously asserts a will free to choose either way, and supports it with the most commonplace arguments (S. 160, 173, 205, 208, 237, 259, 261).—Anyone who is not yet fully convinced that a motive, though it works through knowledge, is a cause like any other, and therefore brings about its result with the same necessity as any other cause, so that all human actions follow with strict necessity—anyone who has not understood this is still philosophically crude and has not learned the basics of philosophical knowledge. Understanding the strict necessity of human actions is the dividing line between philosophical minds and all the rest. When *Fichte* reached this line, he clearly showed that he belonged to the rest. Later, again following *Kant's* lead (S. 303), he says things that directly contradict the passages above. Like so many other contradictions in his writings, this only proves that, because he was never serious about discovering the truth, he had no firm basic conviction at all. Nor did he need one for his purposes. Nothing is more ridiculous than that people have praised this man for the strictest consistency. They simply mistook his pedantic tone, with its long-winded demonstrations of trivial things, for consistency.\n\nThe fullest development of *Fichte's* system of *moral fatalism* appears in his last work, \"The Theory of Science Presented in Its General Outline,\" Berlin 1810. It has the advantage of being only 46 S. long, in 12° format, while containing his entire philosophy in a nutshell. I therefore recommend it to anyone who thinks their time too valuable to waste on this man's larger productions. Those are written with Christian Wolff's long-windedness and dullness, and are really designed to deceive the reader, not to teach him. In this little work, then, we read on S. 32: \"The intuition of a world of the senses existed only so that, in this world, the I might become visible to itself as *absolutely bound by an ought*.\"—On S. 33 we even get \"the ought of the visibility of the ought,\" and on S. 36 \"an ought of seeing that I ought.\"—This, then, is where the *imperative form* of *Kant's* ethics led immediately after *Kant*, as a model whose faults could be imitated. Its unproved ought was something it requested as a very convenient place to stand.\n\nStill, nothing said here takes away *Fichte's* achievement. It consists in having obscured, and indeed displaced, *Kant's* philosophy—that late masterpiece of human intellectual depth—among the nation in which it appeared. He did this with blustering superlatives, extravagances, and the nonsense masquerading as depth in his \"Foundation of the Entire Theory of Science.\" In doing so, he showed the world beyond dispute how competent the German philosophical public was: he made it play the part of a child coaxed into handing over a precious jewel by being offered a Nuremberg toy in exchange. The fame he gained this way still lives on credit today. Even today, *Fichte* is always mentioned alongside *Kant* as another man of the same kind (Heracles and an ape!—i. e. Hercules and an ape!), and is often ranked above him.[13] Because of this, his example also brought forth those successors in the art of philosophically deceiving the German public whom everyone knows. They were driven by the same spirit and crowned with the same success. This is not the place to discuss them at length, although philosophy professors still explain their respective opinions at great length and discuss them seriously, as if they were really dealing with philosophers. So we owe it to Fichte that clear documentary evidence exists, ready to be reviewed one day before the court of posterity. This court overturns the judgments of the present, and in nearly every age it has had to be for genuine merit what the Last Judgment is for the saints.\n\n12. To support what I have said, I will make room here for just a few passages. S. 196: \"The moral drive is absolute; it demands unconditionally, without any aim beyond itself.\"—S. 232: \"Now, according to the moral law, the empirical being in time ought to become an exact copy of the original I.\"—S. 308: \"The whole human being is a vehicle of the moral law.\"—S. 342: \"I am only an instrument, a mere tool of the moral law, absolutely not an end.\"—S. 343: \"Everyone is an end as a means of making reason real: this is the final, ultimate aim of his existence. This alone is what he exists for, and if it is not to happen, he need not exist at all.\"—S. 347: \"I am a tool of the moral law in the world of the senses!\"—S. 360: \"The moral law commands us to nourish the body and promote its health. Of course, this may not be done in any sense or for any purpose other than to be an effective tool for advancing reason's aim.\"—(Vergl. S. 371) S. 376: \"Every human body is a tool for advancing reason's aim. I must therefore aim to make every tool as fit as possible for this task; consequently, I must take care of everyone.\"—This is how he derives human kindness!—S. 377: \"I can and may take care of myself only because, and only insofar as, I am a tool of the moral law.\"—S. 388: \"To defend someone being persecuted, at the risk of one's own life, is an absolute duty:—as soon as a human life is in danger, you no longer have the right to think about the safety of your own.\"—S. 420: \"Within the sphere of the moral law, there is no way of viewing my fellow human being except as a tool of reason.\"\n\n13. I will support this with a passage from the very latest philosophical literature. Mr. Feuerbach, a Hegelian (that says it all), expresses himself as follows in his book \"P. Bayle, A Contribution to the History of Philosophy,\" 1838, S. 80: \"But still more sublime than *Kant's* are *Fichte's* ideas, which he expressed in his ethics and here and there in his other writings. Christianity has nothing whose sublimity could be set beside *Fichte's* ideas.\"\n\n### Section 12\n\nIII.\n\nEstablishing a Foundation for Ethics.\n\nRequirements.\n\nSo even *Kant's* foundation for ethics, regarded for sixty years as solid ground, sinks before our eyes into the deep, perhaps unfillable abyss of philosophical errors. It turns out to be an unjustified assumption and nothing more than theological morality in disguise.—As I have said, I can take it as known that earlier attempts to establish a foundation for ethics are even less satisfactory. They mostly consist of unproved assertions plucked out of thin air. Like *Kant's* own foundation, they are also contrived subtleties that demand the finest distinctions and rest on the most abstract concepts: difficult combinations of ideas, rules for finding answers, propositions balanced on a needlepoint, and maxims on stilts, so high up that real life and its bustle are no longer visible below. That is why they are certainly well suited to echoing around lecture halls and providing an exercise in sharp thinking. But things like these cannot produce the call to act justly and help others that, after all, really does exist in every human being. Nor can they counterbalance the strong impulses toward injustice and harshness, or form the basis for the reproaches of conscience. Trying to trace these reproaches back to the violation of such hair-splitting maxims can only make them ridiculous. So if we take the matter seriously, artificial combinations of concepts like these can never contain the true *impulse* toward justice and human kindness. Instead, this impulse must be something that needs little reflection and still less abstraction or combination of ideas. It must speak to everyone, even the least cultivated person, regardless of intellectual training. It must rest solely on directly grasping what is before us, and impress itself on us straight from the reality of things. Until ethics can show a foundation of this kind, it may argue and parade around in lecture halls: real life will mock it. I must therefore give moral philosophers this paradoxical advice: first take a little look around at human life.\n\n### Section 13\n\nThe skeptical view.\n\nOr does a look back over the attempts that have been made in vain for more than two thousand years to find a secure foundation for morality perhaps show that there is no natural morality at all, none independent of human rules? Is morality, on this view, through and through an artifact, a device invented to keep the selfish and spiteful human race under better control? And would it therefore fall away without the support of the positive religions, because it would have no inner proof and no natural basis? Justice and police cannot be enough everywhere. Some offenses are too hard to discover, and for some, punishment is awkward. In such cases public protection leaves us. Besides, civil law can at most enforce justice. It cannot enforce love of humanity and kindness, if only because in such cases everyone would want to be the one who receives and no one the one who gives. This has led to the hypothesis that morality rests on religion alone, and that the purpose of both is to make up for the unavoidable shortcomings of the state's institutions and legislation. So, the claim goes, there can be no natural morality, that is, one based only on the nature of things or of human beings. That would explain why philosophers search in vain for its foundation. This opinion is not without plausibility. The Pyrrhonists already put it forward: Nothing is good by nature, and nothing is bad,\nbut people have judged these things by what they think,\naccording to Timon (nothing is good by nature, and nothing is bad, \"but these things are judged at the choice of human beings,\"—according to Timon). Sext. Emp. adv. Math., XI, 140. Outstanding thinkers in more recent times have also declared themselves for it. So it deserves careful examination, even though it would be more convenient to dismiss it with an inquisitor's sidelong glance at the conscience of those in whom such a thought could arise.\n\nWe would be making a great and very youthful mistake if we believed that all the just and lawful actions of human beings have a moral origin. Most of the time, the relation between the justice people practice and genuine *honesty* of heart is much like the relation between expressions of politeness and genuine love of one's neighbor. Genuine love, unlike politeness, does not merely seem to overcome egoism. It really does. People show off the integrity of their attitude everywhere and want it to be beyond all doubt. They show great indignation at the faintest hint of suspicion on this point, and that indignation is ready to turn into the fiercest anger. Only the inexperienced and simple-minded will take all this at once for hard cash, and for the effect of a delicate moral feeling or conscience. In truth, the integrity that is generally practiced in human dealings, and held up as a rock-solid maxim, rests mainly on two outside necessities. The first is the legal order, through which public authority protects everyone's rights. The second is the recognized need for a good name, or civil honor, in order to get ahead in the world. Through this need, everyone's steps stand under the watch of public opinion. Public opinion is relentlessly strict. It never forgives even a single misstep in this matter. It holds it against the guilty person until death, as an indelible stain. In this, public opinion is truly wise. It starts from the principle \"acting follows being\" (operari sequitur esse), and so from the conviction that character does not change. Therefore, whatever someone has done once, that person will inevitably do again under exactly the same circumstances. These two guards, then, are what watch over public integrity. Without them, to speak frankly, we would be in a bad way, especially with regard to property. Property is the chief point in human life, the one around which its activity mainly turns. For purely ethical motives for honesty, assuming they exist, can mostly find their application to civil property only after a long detour. First and directly, they can relate only to *natural* right. They can relate to *positive* law only indirectly, insofar as natural right underlies it. But *natural* right attaches to no property except what has been acquired by one's own effort. If someone attacks such property, the powers the owner spent on it are attacked too, and so are stolen from the owner. I reject the theory of first occupation outright, but I cannot go into refuting it here.[14] Now, of course, every possession founded on positive law is supposed to rest in the end, at its first source, on the natural right of property, however many intermediate links there may be. But in most cases, how far our civil property lies from that original source of the natural right of property! Usually the connection between the two is very hard to demonstrate, or cannot be demonstrated at all. Our property is inherited, married into, or won in a lottery. Or if it is none of these, it was still not gained by real labor in the sweat of our brow, but by clever thoughts and ideas, for example in speculative trading. Sometimes it was even gained by stupid ideas, which the god of outcomes, Deus Eventus, has crowned and glorified by way of chance. In very few cases is property really the fruit of genuine effort and labor. Even then, the labor is often only mental, like that of lawyers, doctors, officials and teachers. To a crude person's eye, such work seems to cost little effort. It takes considerable education to recognize the ethical right in all such property, and so to respect it from a purely moral impulse. As a result, many people privately regard other people's property as held by positive law alone. So if they find a way to take it from them by using the laws, or even just getting around them, they have no scruples. It seems to them that the owners are losing it by the same route by which they obtained it earlier. So they consider their own claims just as well founded as those of the former owner. From their point of view, in civil society the right of the cleverer has taken the place of the right of the stronger. Meanwhile, a rich person is often truly of unbreakable integrity. They are devoted with their whole heart to a rule, and they uphold a maxim on whose observance their entire property rests, along with the many advantages they thereby have over others. So they profess the principle \"to each person what belongs to them\" (suum cuique) in full earnest and do not depart from it. There really is such an *objective* attachment to good faith, with a resolve to hold it sacred. It rests only on the fact that good faith is the basis of all free dealings among people, of good order and of secure property. So it often benefits us ourselves, and in this respect it even has to be upheld at some cost, just as we also spend something on a good field. Yet honesty with this basis will, as a rule, be found only among well-off people, or at least people engaged in profitable work. It is found most of all among merchants, who have the clearest conviction that trade and commerce have their indispensable support in mutual trust and credit. That is also why the merchant's honor is a quite special kind. The poor person is different. They have come off badly in the matter. Because of the inequality of property, they see themselves condemned to want and hard work, while others, before their eyes, live in abundance and idleness. This person will hardly recognize that a corresponding inequality of merit and honest earnings underlies this inequality. But if they do not recognize this, where are they to get the purely ethical drive toward honesty that keeps them from reaching out a hand for other people's abundance? Mostly it is the legal order that holds them back. But suppose the rare opportunity comes once, in which they are safe from the effect of the law. By a single deed they could roll off the crushing burden of want, which the sight of other people's abundance makes even more painful. They could also put themselves in possession of the pleasures they have so often envied. What will hold their hand back then? Religious doctrines? Faith is seldom that firm. A purely moral motive for justice? Perhaps in individual cases. But in the great majority it will be only the concern for their good name, their civil honor, which matters a great deal even to a person of modest standing. It will be the obvious danger of being cast out forever, by such a deed, from the great Masonic lodge of honest people. These people follow the law of integrity, and by it they have divided up property among themselves all over the earth and manage it. It will be the danger of being, because of a single dishonest act, a pariah of civil society for life, someone whom no one trusts any more, whose company everyone shuns, and for whom all advancement is therefore cut off. In a word, that is: \"A fellow who has stolen\"—and the proverb applies to such a person: \"Whoever steals once is a thief for life.\"\n\nThese, then, are the guardians of public integrity. Anyone who has lived and kept their eyes open will admit that by far the greatest part of the honesty in human dealings is owed to them alone. There is also no shortage of people who hope to escape even their watchfulness. They regard justice and honesty only as a signboard, a flag, under whose protection one carries out one's privateering raids with all the better success. So we should not flare up at once in holy zeal and get angry when a moralist raises the question whether all honesty and justice might be, at bottom, merely conventional. We should not do so when this moralist then follows the principle further and tries to trace all the rest of morality back to more remote, indirect, but in the end still egoistic reasons, as Holbach, Helvetius, d'Alembert and others of their time have shrewdly tried to do. For the greater part of just actions this is in fact true and correct, as I have shown above. There is no doubt that it is also true of a considerable part of acts of love of humanity. They often come from showing off. Very often they come from belief in a future retribution, which would even be repaid squared, or indeed cubed. They also allow other egoistic reasons. But it is just as certain that there are acts of selfless love of humanity and of wholly voluntary justice. Proofs of the latter, if I am to appeal not to facts of consciousness but only to facts of experience, are the isolated but undoubted cases in which not only the danger of legal prosecution but also that of discovery, and even of any suspicion, was entirely ruled out, and yet even a poor person gave a rich person what was theirs. For example: a lost-and-found item brought back to its owner; something deposited by a third party who had already died, brought to the owner; a deposit made in secret with a poor man by a fugitive from the country, faithfully kept and returned. Cases like these do exist, without doubt. But the surprise, the emotion and the respect with which we receive them clearly show that they belong among unexpected things, among rare exceptions. There really are truly honest people, just as there really is four-leaf clover. But Hamlet speaks without exaggeration when he says: To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man pick’d out of ten thousand.[15] Against the objection that religious doctrines lay at the bottom of the actions mentioned above, and so a regard for punishment and reward in another world, one could also point to cases in which those who performed them held no religious belief at all. That is not nearly as rare as publicly admitting it.\n\nAgainst the skeptical view, people first appeal to *conscience*. But doubts are raised against its natural origin too. At least there is also a counterfeit conscience (conscientia spuria), which is often mistaken for it. The remorse and anxiety that many a person feels about what they have done is often, at bottom, nothing other than fear of what may happen to them for it. Breaking external, arbitrary, even absurd rules torments many a person with inner reproaches, just in the manner of conscience. For example, it weighs heavily on the heart of many an overly pious Jew that, although it says in the second book of Moses, Kap. 35, 3, \"You shall kindle no fire on the Sabbath day in any of your dwellings,\" he has smoked a pipe at home on Saturday. Many a nobleman or officer is gnawed by a secret self-reproach that on some occasion they did not properly follow the laws of the fools' code that people call chivalrous honor. This goes so far that many a member of this class, when put in the impossible position of keeping a given word of honor, or even of satisfying the said code in quarrels, will shoot themselves dead. (I have witnessed both.) On the other hand, the same person will break their word any day with a light heart, as long as the shibboleth \"honor\" was not attached to it. In general, every inconsistency, every thoughtless act, every action against our resolutions, principles or convictions, of whatever kind, and even every indiscretion, every mistake, every blunder, afterward nags at us quietly and leaves a sting in the heart. Many a person would be astonished to see what their conscience, which seems quite impressive to them, is really made of: perhaps 1/5 fear of other people, 1/5 superstitious fear of the gods, 1/5 prejudice, 1/5 vanity and 1/5 habit. So at bottom they are no better than the Englishman who said outright: I cannot afford to keep a conscience (keeping a conscience is too expensive for me). Religious people of every faith very often mean by *conscience* nothing other than the doctrines and rules of their religion, and the self-examination carried out in relation to them. The expressions *coercion of conscience* and *freedom of conscience* are indeed taken in this sense too. The theologians, scholastics and casuists of the middle and later periods took it the same way: everything a person knew of the church's rules and regulations, together with the intention to believe and follow them, made up their conscience. Accordingly there was a doubting conscience, an opining conscience, an erring conscience, and the like, and to set these right people kept a counselor for matters of conscience. How little the concept of conscience, like other concepts, is fixed by its object itself, how differently different people have grasped it, and how shaky and uncertain it appears in the writers, one can see in brief from Stäudlin's \"History of the Doctrine of Conscience.\" None of this is suited to vouch for the reality of the concept, and so it has prompted the question whether there really is a proper, innate conscience at all. In §. 10, in the discussion of freedom, I was already led to state my concept of conscience briefly, and I will come back to it further below.\n\nNone of these skeptical doubts, taken together, is enough to deny that any genuine morality exists. But they do lower our expectations of the moral disposition in human beings, and so of the natural foundation of ethics. So much that is credited to it demonstrably comes from other incentives. And looking at the moral corruption of the world proves well enough that the incentive toward the good cannot be very powerful, especially because it often does not work even where the motives opposing it are not strong. Even so, the individual difference between characters remains fully valid here. Meanwhile, our recognition of that moral corruption is made harder, because its expressions are held back and hidden by the legal order, by the necessity of honor, and even by politeness. Finally, there is this as well. In education, people think they promote the morality of their pupils by presenting integrity and virtue to them as the maxims generally followed in the world. Then experience later teaches them otherwise, often to their great harm. The discovery that their teachers in youth were the first to deceive them can then affect their own morality more harmfully than if those teachers had set them the first example of frankness and honesty themselves, and had said openly: \"The world lies in wickedness. People are not as they should be. But don't let that mislead you; be better yourself.\" All this, as I said, makes it harder for us to recognize the real immorality of the human race. The state is the masterpiece of everyone's egoism, an egoism that understands itself, is rational and has been added up. It has put the protection of everyone's rights into the hands of a power that is infinitely superior to the strength of any individual, and that forces each person to respect the rights of all others. Then the boundless egoism of almost everyone, the malice of many, the cruelty of some cannot show itself. Compulsion has tamed everyone. The illusion that results is so great that, in individual cases where state power cannot protect or is evaded, we see people's insatiable greed, base lust for money, deeply hidden falseness and treacherous malice come into view. Then we often shrink back and raise a hue and cry, thinking we have run into a monster never seen before. But without the compulsion of the laws and the necessity of civil honor, such events would be entirely everyday matters. One must read crime stories and descriptions of anarchic conditions to recognize what a human being really is in moral terms. These thousands who crowd past one another before our eyes in peaceful dealings should be regarded as so many tigers and wolves whose bite is secured by a strong muzzle. So when we imagine state power once abolished, that is, that muzzle thrown off, every thoughtful person recoils from the spectacle that would then be expected. In doing so, they show how little effect they really credit to religion, to conscience, or to the natural foundation of morality, whatever it may be. But precisely then, facing those immoral powers set free, the true moral incentive in human beings would also show its effectiveness uncovered. So it could be recognized most easily. At the same time the unbelievably great moral difference between characters would come out unveiled, and would be found just as great as the intellectual difference between minds. That certainly says a lot.\n\nSomeone may perhaps want to object to me that ethics is not concerned with how people actually act. They may say it is the science that states how they *ought* to act. But this is exactly the principle I deny. In the critical part of this essay I showed well enough that the concept of ought, the *imperative form* of ethics, is valid only in theological morality and loses all sense and meaning outside it. I, by contrast, set ethics the aim of interpreting and explaining the human way of acting, which differs enormously in moral terms, and of tracing it back to its final ground. So, to find the foundation of ethics, no other way remains but the empirical one: to investigate whether there are any actions at all to which we must grant *genuine moral worth*. These will be the actions of voluntary justice, pure love of humanity and true nobility of character. These are then to be regarded as a given phenomenon. We have to explain it correctly, that is, trace it back to its true grounds, and so show the incentive, in any case a special one, that moves human beings to actions of this kind, which is specifically different from every other kind. This incentive, together with receptiveness to it, will be the final ground of morality, and knowledge of it will be the foundation of morals. That is the modest path along which I point ethics. Whoever finds it not grand, professorial and academic enough, because it is no construction a priori and contains no absolute legislation for all rational beings in the abstract, may go back to the categorical imperatives, to the shibboleth of \"human dignity,\" to the hollow phrases, fancies and soap bubbles of the schools, to principles that experience mocks at every step and about which, outside the lecture halls, no one knows anything or has ever felt anything. By contrast, experience stands beside the foundation of morals that emerges on my path, and gives its quiet testimony for it every day and every hour.\n\n14. See \"The World as Will and Representation,\" Bd. 1, §. 62, S. 396 ff., and Bd. 2, Kap. 47, S. 682.\n\n15. By the course of this world, being honest means being one person picked out of ten thousand.\n\n### Section 14\n\nAntimoral[16] incentives.\n\nThe main and basic incentive in human beings, as in animals, is *egoism*, that is, the urge toward existence and well-being. The German word *Selbstsucht* (literally \"self-sickness\") carries a false side-meaning of illness. The word *Eigennutz* (self-interest), on the other hand, names *egoism* insofar as it is guided by reason. Reason enables it, through reflection, to pursue its aims according to a plan. So animals can be called egoistic, but not self-interested. For the more general concept, then, I will keep the word *egoism*. This *egoism*, in the animal as in the human being, is tied most closely to the innermost core and essence of the being. In fact it is identical with it. Therefore, as a rule, all of a being's actions arise from *egoism*, and the explanation of any given action must always be sought there first. The calculation of all the means by which people try to steer a human being toward some goal is likewise built throughout on egoism. By its nature, *egoism* is boundless. The human being wants unconditionally to preserve their existence. They want it unconditionally free of pain, which includes every lack and deprivation. They want the greatest possible sum of well-being and every enjoyment they are capable of. They even try, if possible, to develop new capacities for enjoyment in themselves. Everything that stands in the way of the striving of their *egoism* arouses displeasure, anger and hatred. They will try to destroy it as an enemy. If possible, they want to enjoy everything and have everything. Since that is impossible, they want at least to rule everything. \"Everything for me, and nothing for the others\" is their motto. Egoism is colossal. It towers over the world. For if every individual were given the choice between their own destruction and the destruction of the rest of the world, I do not need to say which way the choice would fall for the great majority. Accordingly, everyone makes themselves the center of the world and relates everything to themselves. Whatever happens, for example the greatest changes in the fate of nations, they will first relate to their own interest in it. However small and indirect that interest may be, they will think of it before everything else. There is no greater contrast than the one between the intense and exclusive interest that each person takes in their own self and the indifference with which, as a rule, everyone else regards that very self, just as that person regards theirs. It even has its comic side to see the countless individuals, each of whom, at least in practical terms, holds only themselves to be *real* and regards the others as, in a way, mere phantoms. This rests in the end on the fact that each person is given to themselves *directly*, while others are given to them only *indirectly*, through the representation of them in their head. And directness asserts its right. That is, because subjectivity is essential to every consciousness, each person is the whole world to themselves. For everything objective exists only *indirectly*, as a mere representation of the subject, so that everything always depends on self-consciousness. The only world that each person really knows and is aware of, they carry within themselves as their representation, and so each is the center of it. That is exactly why each person is everything to themselves. They find themselves to be the holder of all reality, and nothing can be more important to them than they themselves. Now, while in their subjective view their self presents itself in this colossal size, in the objective view it shrinks to almost nothing, namely to about 1/1000,000,000 of the humanity now living. At the same time they know with complete certainty that this very self, more important than everything, this microcosm, of which the macrocosm, that is, their whole world, appears as a mere modification or accident, must perish in death. For them, death is therefore the same as the end of the world. These, then, are the elements from which egoism grows, on the basis of the will to live. Egoism always lies like a wide ditch between one human being and another. If someone does once jump across it to help another, it is like a miracle, which arouses amazement and earns applause. Above, in §. 8, in explaining Kant's moral principle, I had occasion to describe how egoism shows itself in everyday life. There, despite the politeness that is pinned on in front of it as a fig leaf, it still always peeks out from some corner. Politeness is the conventional and systematic denial of egoism in the small things of daily dealings. It is, of course, acknowledged hypocrisy. Even so, it is demanded and praised, because what it hides, egoism, is so ugly that people do not want to see it, although they know it is there. In the same way, people want repulsive objects at least covered by a curtain. Egoism pursues its aims without condition wherever it is not opposed either by outside force (which includes every fear, whether of earthly or of otherworldly powers) or by the genuine moral incentive. So, given the countless multitude of egoistic individuals, the war of everyone against everyone would be the order of the day, to the ruin of all. That is why reflecting reason very soon invents the institution of the state. The state arises from mutual fear of mutual violence, and it prevents the harmful consequences of general egoism as far as can be done by the *negative* route. Where, by contrast, those two powers opposing it do not take effect, egoism will at once show itself in its whole terrible size, and the phenomenon will not be a pretty one. I wanted to express the strength of this antimoral power without long discussion. So I was intent on marking the size of egoism in a single stroke, and looked for some really emphatic hyperbole. In the end I arrived at this one: many a person would be capable of killing another just to grease their boots with the victim's fat. But I was still left with the scruple whether it really is a hyperbole. *Egoism*, then, is the first and chief, though not the only, power that the *moral incentive* has to fight. Already here one sees that, to take the field against such an opponent, the moral incentive must be something more real than a hair-splitting piece of cleverness or an a priori soap bubble. Meanwhile, in war the first thing is to reconnoiter the enemy. In the coming fight, egoism, as the main force on its side, will oppose above all the virtue of *justice*, which in my view is the first and truly proper cardinal virtue.\n\nThe virtue of *love of humanity*, on the other hand, will more often face *ill will* or *hatefulness*. So let us first consider the origin and the degrees of these. Ill will in its lower degrees is very common, even nearly usual, and it easily reaches the higher ones. Goethe is probably right to say that in this world indifference and dislike are truly at home. (Elective Affinities, Th. 1, C. 3.) It is very fortunate for us that prudence and politeness throw their cloak over it and do not let us see how widespread mutual ill will is, and how the war of everyone against everyone is carried on at least in thought. But now and then it does come into view, for example in the so frequent and so merciless gossip. It becomes fully visible in outbursts of anger. These mostly exceed their cause many times over. They could not turn out so strong if they had not been compressed, like gunpowder in a gun, as long-nursed hatred brooding inside. For the most part, ill will arises from the unavoidable collisions of egoism, which occur at every step. Then it is also aroused objectively, by the sight of vices, faults, weaknesses, follies, defects and imperfections of every kind, which each person, more or less, at least occasionally, presents to the others. This can go so far that to some people, especially in moments of hypochondriac low mood, the world looks, from the aesthetic side, like a cabinet of caricatures; from the intellectual side, like a madhouse; and from the moral side, like a lodging house for crooks. If such low mood becomes lasting, misanthropy arises. Finally, a main source of ill will is envy. Or rather, envy itself is already ill will, aroused by another's good fortune, possessions or advantages. No human being is entirely free of it, and Herodotus (III, 80) already said so: Envy is born in human beings from the start (envy is planted in human beings from the origin). Its degrees, however, differ greatly. It is most implacable and most poisonous when directed at personal qualities, because here no hope is left for the envious person. It is also the most despicable then, because it hates what it should love and honor. But that is how it is:\n\nIt seems envy is felt more toward these than toward others,\nwho have lifted themselves into flight on their own,\nleaving the common cage.[17]\n\nPetrarch already laments. More extended reflections on envy can be found in the second volume of the Parerga, §. 114. In a certain respect, the opposite of envy is *Schadenfreude*. Yet to feel envy is human; to enjoy Schadenfreude is devilish. There is no more infallible sign of a thoroughly bad heart and deep moral worthlessness than a streak of pure, heartfelt Schadenfreude. One should avoid forever anyone in whom one has noticed it: This one is wicked; Roman, keep away from him. Envy and Schadenfreude are in themselves merely theoretical. In practice they become malice and cruelty. Egoism can lead to crimes and misdeeds of every kind. But the harm and pain it causes to others is for it merely a means, not an end, and so occurs only incidentally. For malice and cruelty, on the other hand, the sufferings and pains of others are an end in themselves, and reaching that end is enjoyment. For this reason, malice and cruelty make up a higher degree of moral badness. The maxim of the most extreme egoism is: Help no one, but on the contrary, if it happens to be useful (so even this is still conditional), harm everyone. The maxim of malice is: Harm everyone as much as you can. As Schadenfreude is only theoretical cruelty, so cruelty is only practical Schadenfreude, and Schadenfreude will appear as cruelty as soon as the occasion comes.\n\nTracing the special vices that spring from the two basic powers just named would be in place only in a fully worked-out ethics. Such an ethics would derive from *egoism*, roughly, greed, gluttony, lust, self-interest, stinginess, avarice, injustice, hard-heartedness, pride, arrogance, and so on. From *hatefulness* it would derive grudging, envy, ill will, malice, Schadenfreude, prying curiosity, slander, insolence, petulance, hatred, anger, betrayal, sly spite, vengefulness, cruelty, and so on. The first root is more animal, the second more devilish. Which one predominates gives the main line in the ethical classification of characters. It may be the one, the other, or else the moral incentive, which has yet to be shown further on. No human being is entirely without something of all three.\n\nWith this I have finished the review of the antimoral powers. It is certainly a terrifying review, and it recalls the review of the princes of darkness in Milton's Pandemonium. My plan, however, made it necessary for me to consider this gloomy side of human nature first. Because of this my path certainly departs from that of all other moralists and becomes like Dante's, which leads first into hell.\n\nThe overview of the antimoral powers given here makes clear how hard the problem is: to find an incentive that could move human beings to a way of acting opposed to all those inclinations rooted deep in their nature. Or, if this opposite way of acting should happen to be found in experience, to find an incentive that gave a sufficient and unforced account of it. The problem is so hard that, to solve it for humanity at large, people everywhere have had to call in machinery from another world. People pointed to gods whose will and command was the way of acting demanded here, and who gave force to this command by punishments and rewards, either in this world or in another world to which death would transfer us. Suppose that belief in a doctrine of this kind took root generally, as is indeed possible through very early instilling. And suppose also, though this is much harder and has much less confirmation in experience, that it produced the intended effect. Then legality of actions would indeed be brought about, even beyond the limit to which justice and police can reach. But everyone feels that this would by no means be what we really mean by morality of disposition. For clearly all actions called forth by motives of this kind would always be rooted only in mere egoism. How could one speak of selflessness where a reward lures me or a threatened punishment scares me off? A reward in another world, firmly believed in, is to be regarded as a perfectly safe bill of exchange, but one that falls due only after a very long time. Satisfied beggars everywhere so often promise that the giver will be repaid the gift a thousandfold in that other world. This promise may move many a miser to give generous alms. The miser hands them out cheerfully as a good investment, firmly convinced that in that other world, too, he will at once rise again as an extremely rich man. For the great mass of the people it may perhaps have to remain with incentives of this kind. Accordingly, the various religions, which are precisely the metaphysics of the people, hold them up to the people. Here, however, it should be noted that we are sometimes just as mistaken about the true motives of our own doing as about those of other people's. So many a person, though they can account for their noblest actions only by motives of the kind above, surely acts from much nobler and purer incentives, ones much harder to make clear. They truly do from direct love of their neighbor what they can explain only by their God's command. Philosophy, by contrast, looks here, as everywhere, for the true, final explanations of the problem at hand. These must be founded on human nature and independent of all mythical interpretations, religious doctrines and transcendent entities posited as real, and philosophy demands to see them demonstrated in outer or inner experience. Our task here, however, is a philosophical one. So we must set aside entirely all solutions of it that depend on religions. I have mentioned them here only to bring out the great difficulty of the problem.\n\n16. I allow myself the irregular compounding of the word, since \"anti-ethical\" would not be apt here. The \"sittlich\" and \"unsittlich\" that have now come into fashion (the German-rooted words for \"ethical\" and \"unethical\") are a poor substitute for \"moral\" and \"immoral.\" First, \"moral\" is a scientific concept, and as such it deserves a Greek or Latin name, for reasons found in my main work, Bd. 2, Kap. 12, S. 134 ff. Second, \"sittlich\" is a weak and tame expression, hard to tell apart from \"sittsam\" (demure), which people popularly call \"zimperlich\" (prissy). One must make no concessions to German chauvinism.\n\n17. People seem, more than others, to envy those\nwho, raised up by the force of their own wings,\ndepart from the cage that everyone shares.\n\n### Section 15\n\nHow to recognize actions with moral worth.\n\nThe first question to settle now is a question of experience: do people actually act justly of their own free will and show unselfish love for others, even to the point of nobility and generosity of spirit? Unfortunately, the question cannot be settled by experience alone. We can observe only the deed, not the motives behind it. So the possibility always remains that a selfish motive influenced a just or good action. I will not use the illegitimate trick of turning this theoretical inquiry into an appeal to the reader's conscience. But I believe very few people will doubt the matter. Their own experience will have convinced them that people often act justly for one reason alone: to prevent someone else from being wronged. Indeed, some people seem to have an *inborn* principle of giving others their due. They never deliberately wrong anyone. They do not pursue their own advantage without limits, but also take other people's rights into account. When they and someone else have taken on obligations to each other, they make sure not only that the other person does what is required, but also that the other person receives what is due. They sincerely do not want anyone dealing with them to lose out. These are the *truly honest people*, the few who are fair among the countless unfair people. But such people do exist. I also think it will be granted that some people help and give, work for others and give things up, with no further aim in their hearts than to help someone whose need they see. As for Arnold von Winkelried, he cried out, \"Loyal, dear fellow Confederates, will you remember my wife and child?\" Then he gathered as many of the enemy's spears into his arms as he could hold. Anyone who can imagine that he had some selfish aim in doing this is welcome to do so. I cannot.—In §. 13 above, I already pointed to cases of freely chosen justice that cannot be denied without quibbling and stubbornness.—But if someone still insists on denying that any such actions occur, then, on that person's view, morality would be a science with no real subject matter, like astrology and alchemy. It would be a waste of time to keep arguing about its basis. I would therefore have nothing more to say to that person. I am speaking to those who accept that these actions really occur.\n\nOnly actions of the kind just described, then, are credited with *moral worth* in the proper sense. What distinguishes them is the exclusion of the sort of motives that otherwise produce all human actions: *self-interested* motives, in the widest sense of the word. That is precisely why discovering a selfish motive completely removes an action's moral worth if it was the only motive, and reduces its moral worth if it was a contributing motive. The absence of all selfish motivation is therefore the *test of whether an action has moral worth*. Someone might object that actions done out of pure malice and cruelty are not selfish either. But clearly these cannot be what is meant here, since they are the opposite of the actions we are discussing. Anyone who insists on a strict definition can explicitly rule them out by their essential feature: they aim at someone else's suffering.—Another sign of actions with moral worth is entirely internal and therefore less obvious. They leave us with a certain satisfaction with ourselves, called the approval of conscience. In the same way, the opposite actions—those of injustice and lack of love, and still more those of malice and cruelty—bring an opposite inner judgment of ourselves. There is also a secondary, incidental outward sign: actions of the first kind win the approval and respect of uninvolved witnesses, while actions of the second kind have the opposite effect.\n\nWe have now identified actions with moral worth and accepted that they actually occur. We must treat them as the phenomenon before us that needs explaining. We must therefore ask what can move people to act in this way. If this inquiry succeeds, it must reveal the genuine moral motive. Since all ethics must rest on that motive, our problem would then be solved.\n\n### Section 16\n\nStating and proving the only genuine moral motive.\n\nAfter these essential preparations, I come to showing what the true motive is behind every action with genuine moral worth. We will find that its seriousness and unquestionable reality set it far apart from all the hair-splitting, overly clever reasoning, fallacies, baseless claims, and soap bubbles of reasoning independent of experience that earlier systems have tried to make the source of moral action and the basis of ethics. I do not want merely to *propose* this moral motive for people to accept if they choose. I want actually to *prove* that it is the only possible one. The proof requires us to bring together many ideas. So I will first state some premises on which the argument depends. These can readily be accepted as axioms, except for the last two, which refer back to explanations already given.\n\n1) No action can occur without a sufficient motive, any more than a stone can move without a sufficient push or pull.\n\n2) Likewise, an action cannot fail to occur when there is a motive sufficient for the acting person's character, unless a stronger opposing motive makes it necessary not to act.\n\n3) The only things that move the will are well-being and suffering, understood generally and in the widest sense of the words. Conversely, well-being and suffering mean \"in agreement with a will, or against it.\" So every motive must have some connection with well-being and suffering.\n\n4) It follows that every action has as its ultimate aim some being capable of well-being and suffering.\n\n5) This being is either the person acting or someone else. In the latter case, that other person is involved as the recipient of the action, which is done either to harm that person or to benefit and help them.\n\n6) Every action whose ultimate aim concerns the acting person's own well-being and suffering is *self-interested*.\n\n7) Everything said here about actions applies equally to refraining from actions for which both a motive and an opposing motive are present.\n\n8) As the explanation in the previous section shows, *self-interest* and an action's *moral worth* absolutely exclude each other. If an action is motivated by a selfish aim, it cannot have moral worth. If an action is to have moral worth, no selfish aim may motivate it, directly or indirectly, whether close at hand or far removed.\n\n9) Since §. 5 ruled out supposed duties toward ourselves, an action's moral significance can lie only in its relation to others. Only in relation to others can it have moral worth or deserve moral condemnation, and so be an act of justice or love for others, or the opposite of either.\n\nThe following is clear from these premises. The well-being and suffering that, according to premise 3, must be the ultimate aim behind every action or decision not to act belong either to the acting person or to someone else who is affected by the action. In the first case the action is necessarily selfish, because it rests on a self-interested motive. This applies not only to actions we openly undertake for our own benefit and advantage, as we do in the great majority of cases. It applies equally whenever we expect an action to have some distant result for ourselves, whether in this world or another. It also applies when we have in mind our honor, our reputation among people, someone's high regard, the sympathy of spectators, or anything similar. The same is true if, by our action, we mean to uphold a rule from whose general observance we expect some eventual advantage for ourselves: for example, a rule of justice or of everyone helping one another, and so on.—It is also true if we think it advisable to obey some absolute command coming from a power that, though unknown, is clearly superior. Here, only fear of the harmful consequences of disobedience can motivate us, even if we think of those consequences only generally and vaguely.—The same applies when, by acting or refraining from action, we try to maintain our own high opinion of ourselves, our worth or dignity, whether our idea of these is clear or vague. Otherwise we would have to give up that opinion and see our pride hurt.—Finally, it also applies if, following *Wolff's* principles, we want to work toward our own perfection through the action. In short, whatever we make an action's ultimate motive, it will always turn out that, by some roundabout route, the real driving force is ultimately *the acting person's own well-being and suffering*. The action is therefore selfish and consequently has no moral worth. There is only one case where this does not hold: when the ultimate motive for acting or not acting lies directly and exclusively in the *well-being and suffering* of someone else who is affected. In that case, the person who acts or refrains from acting has only *someone else's* well-being and suffering in view. That person aims at nothing except that the other should remain unharmed, or even receive help, support, and relief. *This aim alone* gives an action or a decision not to act the stamp of *moral worth*. That worth therefore rests exclusively on acting or refraining from action solely for someone else's benefit. Whenever this is not the case, the well-being and suffering that drive someone to act or hold them back can only be their own. But then acting or not acting is always *selfish* and thus *without moral worth*.\n\nBut if I am to act solely *for the other person's sake*, then *their well-being and suffering must be my immediate motive*, just as my own are in every other action. This brings our problem into sharper focus. How is it possible for someone else's well-being and suffering to move my will immediately, that is, in just the way that normally only my own do? How can they become my direct motive, sometimes even so strongly that I give them more or less priority over my own well-being and suffering, which are otherwise the only source of my motives?—Clearly, this is possible only if the other person becomes the ultimate aim of my will, just as I myself normally am. I must want their well-being and not want their suffering just as directly as I normally want only my own well-being and not my own suffering. But this necessarily means that I directly share in their suffering simply as their suffering. I feel it as I otherwise feel only my own, and therefore want their well-being as directly as I otherwise want only my own. This requires me to be *identified* with them in some way. In other words, the complete difference between me and everyone else, on which my self-interest rests, must be removed at least to a certain extent. But I am not inside the other person's skin. So only through the *knowledge* I have of them, that is, the representation of them in my head, can I identify with them so far that my deed shows that difference to have been removed. The process analyzed here is not something dreamed up or invented out of nothing. It is entirely real and by no means rare. It is the everyday phenomenon of *compassion*: an entirely direct sharing, independent of all other considerations, first in someone else's suffering, and through this in preventing or ending that suffering. Ultimately, all satisfaction, well-being, and happiness consist in that prevention or ending of suffering. This compassion alone is the real basis of all freely chosen justice and all genuine love for others. An action has moral worth only to the extent that it comes from compassion. Every action arising from any other motives has none. As soon as this compassion is stirred, the other person's well-being and suffering matter directly to me, in just the same way, though not always to the same degree, as normally only my own do. So the difference between that person and me is no longer absolute.\n\nThis process is certainly astonishing, even mysterious. It is, in fact, the great mystery of ethics, its fundamental phenomenon, and the boundary beyond which only metaphysical speculation can venture a step. In this process we see the dividing wall removed that, by the light of nature—as the old theologians call reason—completely separates one being from another. What is not myself has, in a certain sense, become myself. For now, though, let us leave the metaphysical interpretation of this phenomenon alone. Let us first see whether all actions of freely chosen justice and genuine love for others really arise from this process. Our problem will then be solved. We will have shown that morality's ultimate foundation lies in human nature itself. This foundation cannot in turn be a problem for *ethics*, though, like everything that exists simply as such, it can be a problem for *metaphysics*. But the metaphysical interpretation of this fundamental ethical phenomenon already goes beyond the Royal Society's question, which asks about the basis of ethics. At most, it can be attached as a supplement that one is free to offer and free to accept.—Before I move on to deriving the cardinal virtues from the basic motive we have identified, I still need to add two essential remarks.\n\n1) To make the argument easier to understand, I simplified the account above, which derives compassion as the only source of actions with moral worth. I deliberately left out the motive of *malice*. Like compassion, it is not self-interested, but it makes another person's pain its ultimate aim. By including it now, we can restate the proof above more completely and rigorously as follows:\n\nThere are only *three basic motives* for human actions. Every possible motivating consideration works only by stirring one of them. They are:\n\na) Self-interest, which wants one's own well-being (it has no limits).\n\nb) Malice, which wants someone else's suffering (it goes as far as the most extreme cruelty).\n\nc) Compassion, which wants someone else's well-being (it goes as far as nobility and generosity of spirit).\n\nEvery human action must be traceable to one of these motives, although two of them can also work together. We have accepted that actions with moral worth actually occur. So they too must arise from one of these basic motives. But according to premise 8, they cannot come from the *first* motive. Still less can they come from the *second*: every action arising from it deserves moral condemnation, whereas some actions produced by the first are morally neutral. So they must come from the *third* motive. What follows will confirm this through experience.\n\n2) Our direct sharing in another person's condition is limited to their *suffering*. Their *well-being* does not stir it, at least not directly. In itself, their well-being leaves us indifferent. J. J. Rousseau says this too in Émile (liv. IV): \"First maxim: The human heart is not inclined to put itself in the place of people who are happier than we are, but only in the place of those who are more to be pitied.\" etc.\n\nThe reason is that pain and suffering—which include every lack, deprivation, need, and indeed every wish—are what is *positive*, what we feel directly. By contrast, satisfaction, enjoyment, and happiness consist only in the removal of a deprivation or the relief of a pain. Their effect is therefore *negative*. That is precisely why need and desire are the condition of every enjoyment. Plato already recognized this, making exceptions only for pleasant smells and the pleasures of the mind. (De Rep., IX, p. 264 sq. Bip.) Voltaire also says, \"There are no real pleasures without real needs.\" So pain is what is positive, what makes itself known through itself. Satisfaction and enjoyments are what is *negative*: merely the removal of that pain. This is the immediate reason why only another person's suffering, lack, danger, and helplessness stir our concern directly and in themselves. A happy, contented person, simply as such, leaves us indifferent. This is really because their condition is negative: an absence of pain, lack, and distress. We can, of course, be glad about other people's happiness, well-being, and enjoyment. But this is a secondary response, brought about because their earlier suffering and deprivation had saddened us. Or we may take an interest in a happy person enjoying life, not *as such*, but because that person is our child, father, friend, relative, servant, subject, or the like. But someone happy and enjoying life *simply as such* does not stir our direct concern in the way that someone suffering, deprived, or unhappy does *simply as such*. Even in our own case, it is really only our suffering that moves us to act. This includes every lack, need, wish, and even boredom. A state of contentment and happiness, by contrast, leaves us inactive and resting idly. Why should it not be the same with respect to others, since our sharing in their condition rests on identifying with them? In fact, the sight of a happy person enjoying life, simply as such, can very easily arouse our envy. Everyone has a tendency toward envy, which was listed above among the forces working against morality.\n\nFollowing the account above of compassion as being motivated directly by someone else's suffering, I must also criticize an error made by Cassina (Analytical Essay on Compassion, 1788; translated into German by Pockels, 1790) and often repeated since. He thinks compassion arises from a momentary illusion of the imagination: we put ourselves in the suffering person's place and then imagine we are suffering their pain in *our own* person. This is not at all what happens. At every moment we remain clearly aware that the other person is suffering, not us. We feel the suffering directly in *their* person, not in *our own*, and it saddens us. We suffer with them, and therefore in them. We feel their pain as *theirs* and do not imagine it is our own. Indeed, the happier our own condition is, and so the greater the contrast between our awareness of it and the other person's situation, the more open we are to compassion. But explaining how this extremely important phenomenon is possible is not so easy, nor can it be done by a purely psychological approach, as Cassina tried to do. The explanation can only be metaphysical. I will try to give one in the final part.\n\nNow I will turn to deriving actions with genuine moral worth from the source we have shown them to have. In the previous part I already set out the following rule as the general maxim of these actions, and therefore as the highest principle of ethics: \"Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can.\" Since this maxim contains *two* statements, the actions that correspond to it naturally fall into two classes.\n\n### Section 17\n\nThe Virtue of Justice.\n\nA closer look at compassion, the process identified above as the basic phenomenon of ethics, immediately shows two clearly separate degrees. Another person's suffering can directly become my motive—that is, determine what I do or refrain from doing—in either of these ways. First, it can work against selfish or malicious motives and stop me from making someone else suffer: from bringing about suffering that does not yet exist and becoming the cause of another person's pain. Then, at the higher degree, compassion can work positively and drive me to give active help. The distinction between so-called duties of right and duties of virtue, or more accurately between justice and loving kindness, emerges here entirely on its own. *Kant* could arrive at it only by forcing things. Its natural emergence confirms the soundness of the principle. It is the natural, unmistakable, clear boundary between the negative and the positive, between not hurting and helping. The existing names, duties of right and duties of virtue—the latter also called duties of love or imperfect duties—have a basic flaw: they put a general class alongside one of its subdivisions. Justice is a virtue too. These names also rest on far too broad a use of the concept of *duty*. I will return that concept to its proper limits below. In place of these two duties, then, I put two virtues: justice and loving kindness. I call them cardinal virtues because all the others arise from them in practice and can be derived from them in theory. Both have their roots in natural compassion. Compassion itself is an undeniable fact of human consciousness, an essential part of it. It does not depend on assumptions, concepts, religions, dogmas, myths, upbringing, or education. It is original and direct, grounded in human nature itself. That is precisely why it holds good under all conditions and appears in every country and age. People everywhere confidently appeal to it as something that must be present in every human being. Nowhere does it count as one of the \"foreign gods.\" By contrast, we call someone who seems to lack it inhuman; and \"humanity\" is often used as another word for compassion.\n\nThe first degree at which this genuine, natural moral incentive works is therefore only *negative*. To begin with, we are all inclined toward injustice and violence. Our needs, desires, anger, and hatred enter consciousness directly and so have the right of first occupancy. The suffering that our injustice and violence cause others, on the other hand, enters consciousness only by the secondary route of *mental representation*, and only through experience: in other words, *indirectly*. That is why *Seneca* says, \"No one acquires a good disposition before having a bad one\" (Ep. 50). The first degree of compassion's effect, then, is to oppose and check the suffering I would cause others through the anti-moral forces within me. It calls out \"Stop!\" and stands as a defensive barrier in front of the other person, protecting him from the harm my selfishness or malice would otherwise drive me to inflict. From this first degree of compassion comes the rule \"hurt no one\": the principle of *justice*. Here alone this virtue has its pure, unmixed, genuinely moral origin. It cannot have such an origin anywhere else, because otherwise it would have to rest on selfishness. If I am receptive to compassion to this degree, it will hold me back whenever and wherever I might want to use another person's suffering as a means to my own ends. It makes no difference whether that suffering comes at once or later, directly or indirectly through intermediate steps. I will therefore attack neither another person's property nor his person, and cause him neither mental nor physical suffering. I will not only refrain from physical harm but also avoid causing mental pain through insults, intimidation, vexation, or slander. The same compassion will keep me from seeking to satisfy my lust at the expense of women's happiness in life, from seducing another man's wife, or from corrupting young men morally and physically by leading them into pederasty. Still, compassion need not actually be stirred in every single case; it would often come too late. Noble minds have learned once and for all that every unjust act necessarily brings suffering on others, sharpened by the feeling of being wronged—that is, of being at the mercy of someone else's greater power. This knowledge gives rise to the rule \"hurt no one.\" Rational reflection raises it into a firm, settled resolve: to respect everyone's rights, never to permit oneself to infringe them, and to remain free of the self-reproach of having caused another person's suffering. It also means not using force or cunning to shift onto others the burdens and suffering that life's circumstances bring each of us, and instead carrying one's own allotted share, so as not to double someone else's. For although *principles*, and abstract knowledge in general, are certainly not the original source or first foundation of morality, they are indispensable for a moral life. They are the container, the reservoir, in which we store the disposition that comes from the source of all morality. That source does not flow at every moment; when an occasion for action comes, its stored contents can flow there through channels. Morality in this respect resembles physiology. The gallbladder, for example, is needed as a reservoir for what the liver produces; and there are many similar cases. Without firmly established *principles*, we would be helplessly exposed to anti-moral incentives whenever outside impressions stirred them into strong emotions. Holding to our principles and following them despite opposing motives is *self-control*. Here, too, lies the reason why women generally fall below men in the virtue of justice, and therefore in honesty and conscientiousness. Because of the weakness of their reason, they are much less able than men to understand general *principles*, hold on to them, and use them as guides. Injustice and deceit are therefore their most common vices, and lying is their true element. But they surpass men in the virtue of *loving kindness*. The occasion for this virtue is usually something *directly perceived*, so it speaks immediately to compassion, to which women are decidedly more receptive. Yet only what can be directly perceived, what is present and immediately real, truly exists for them. They have difficulty grasping the distant, absent, past, or future, which can be known only through concepts. So there is compensation here too: justice is more the male virtue, loving kindness more the female. The thought of seeing women serve as judges provokes laughter; but the Sisters of Mercy surpass even the Brothers of Mercy. The *animal* goes further still: it entirely lacks abstract or rational knowledge. It is incapable of resolutions, let alone principles, and therefore of *self-control*. It is defenseless against impressions and emotions. Precisely for this reason it has no conscious *morality*, although species differ greatly in malice and goodness of character, as do individuals in the highest groups. Thus in the just person's individual actions, compassion now works only indirectly, through principles: not so much actually as potentially. It is rather like the greater *speed* made possible in statics by a longer balance arm, which lets the smaller mass balance the larger. At rest this speed works only potentially, yet just as effectively as if it were actual. Compassion nevertheless remains ready to become active itself. So if the chosen principle of justice ever falters in a particular case, no motive—leaving selfish ones aside—is more effective in supporting it and reviving just intentions than one drawn from the original source, compassion. This applies not only to harm against someone's person but also to harm against his property. Suppose, for example, that someone feels tempted to keep a valuable object he has found. Apart from all prudential and religious motives against doing so, nothing will bring him back to the path of justice more readily than imagining the loser's anxiety, heartbreak, and lamenting. A sense of this truth often leads people who publicly appeal for the return of lost money to add that the loser is poor, a servant, or someone of that kind.\n\nI hope these considerations make it clear that justice too, as a genuine, freely practiced virtue, has its origin in compassion, however unlikely that may seem at first. If this still seems too meager a soil for such a great and truly cardinal virtue to have its only root in, recall what was said above. Genuine, voluntary, unselfish, undisguised justice is found among human beings only in very small measure. It always appears as a surprising exception. In both quality and quantity it stands to its imitation—the justice based on mere prudence and loudly advertised everywhere—as gold stands to copper. I would call the latter common justice and the former heavenly justice. For it is the former that, according to Hesiod, leaves the earth in the Iron Age to live with the heavenly gods. The root I have identified is strong enough for this rare plant, which is always an exotic on earth.\n\n*Injustice*, or *wrong*, therefore always consists in *hurting* someone else. The concept of *wrong* is thus *positive* and comes before the concept of *right*. The latter is *negative* and merely identifies the actions we can perform without hurting others—that is, without doing *wrong*. It is easy to see that this also includes every action whose sole purpose is to ward off an attempted wrong. No concern for another person, no compassion for him, can require me to let him hurt me: to suffer a wrong. That the concept of *right* is *negative*, as opposed to *wrong*, which is *positive*, is also clear from the first explanation of this concept given by the father of the philosophical theory of right, *Hugo Grotius*, at the beginning of his work: \"Right here means nothing other than what is just, and that in a negative rather than an affirmative sense: right is what is not unjust\" (On the Law of War and Peace, L. I, c. 1, §. 3). The negative nature of justice shows itself, despite appearances, even in the commonplace definition \"Give everyone what is his.\" If it is his, there is no need to give it to him. What this means, then, is \"Take from no one what is his.\" Because justice makes only a negative demand, it can be enforced: everyone can practice \"hurt no one\" at the same time. The institution that enforces it is the *state*. Its sole purpose is to protect individuals from one another and the whole community from external enemies. Some German would-be philosophers of this venal age want to twist it into an institution for moral education and spiritual improvement. Behind this lurks the Jesuit aim of abolishing personal freedom and individual development, turning each person into a mere cog in a Chinese machine of state and religion. But that is the road that once led to inquisitions, autos-da-fé, and religious wars. Frederick the Great's statement, \"In my country everyone should be able to see to his own salvation in his own way,\" meant that he never intended to take that road. Yet even now we see the state everywhere assuming responsibility for its members' metaphysical needs, with North America more an apparent than a real exception. Governments seem to have chosen as their principle the saying of Quintus Curtius: \"Nothing controls the masses more effectively than superstition. Otherwise unruly, savage, and changeable, once they are captured by an empty religion they obey prophets more readily than their own leaders.\"\n\nThe concepts of *wrong* and *right* mean hurting and not hurting, with the latter including the warding off of harm. Clearly, these concepts are independent of all enacted law and come before it. There is therefore a purely ethical right, or natural right, and a pure theory of right independent of all enacted rules. Its principles do have an empirical origin insofar as they arise on the occasion of the concept of *harm*. In themselves, however, they rest on pure understanding, which supplies the following principle a priori: the cause of a cause is the cause of its effect. Here that means that whatever I must do to prevent someone else from hurting me has him, not me, as its cause. I can therefore resist all his encroachments without doing him wrong. It is, so to speak, a moral law of recoil. Thus the empirical concept of harm combines with this rule supplied by pure understanding to produce the basic concepts of wrong and right. Everyone grasps these a priori and immediately applies them when experience presents the occasion. An empiricist who denies this, and accepts experience alone, need only be referred to the savages. They all distinguish wrong and right correctly, often with subtlety and precision. This is especially striking in their barter and other agreements with the crews of European ships, and in their visits aboard them. They are bold and confident when right is on their side, but anxious when it is not. In disputes they accept a just settlement, whereas unjust treatment drives them to war. The *theory of right* is a part of morality that identifies the actions we must not perform if we do not want to hurt others—that is, commit a wrong. Morality here considers the *active* side. Legislation takes this chapter of morality and uses it in reverse, with regard to the *passive* side. It considers these same actions as things no one has to endure, since no one should suffer a wrong. Against these actions the state erects the barrier of laws, as enacted law. Its aim is that no one should *suffer* a wrong. The aim of the moral theory of right, by contrast, is that no one should *do* wrong.[18]\n\nIn every unjust action the wrong is the same in *quality*: hurting someone else, whether in his person, freedom, property, or honor. But it can differ greatly in *quantity*. Moralists do not seem to have properly investigated this difference in the *size of a wrong*. Yet it is recognized everywhere in actual life: the amount of blame people express corresponds to it. The same applies to the *justice* of actions. To illustrate: someone on the verge of starvation who steals a loaf of bread commits a wrong. But how small his injustice is compared with that of a rich man who somehow deprives a poor man of his last possessions. A rich man who pays his day laborer acts justly. But how small this justice is compared with that of a poor man who voluntarily returns a purse of gold he has found to its rich owner. The measure of this very significant difference in the *quantity* of justice and injustice, while their quality remains the same, is not direct and absolute like the measure on a ruler. It is indirect and relative, like that of sines and tangents. I propose the following formula: the size of the injustice of my action equals the size of the harm I cause someone else by it, divided by the size of the benefit I gain from it. And the size of the justice of my action equals the size of the benefit I would gain by hurting someone else, divided by the size of the harm he would suffer from it. Besides this, however, there is a *double injustice*, different in kind from any single injustice, however great. This shows itself in the indignation of an uninvolved witness, which is always proportional to the size of the injustice. Only with double injustice does it reach its highest degree, and the witness then abhors it as something outrageous, crying out to heaven: an atrocity, a sacrilege, at which the gods themselves seem to cover their faces. This *double injustice* occurs when someone has expressly undertaken an obligation to protect another person in a particular respect. Merely failing to fulfill this obligation would already hurt the other person and so be a wrong. But the person now goes further and himself attacks and hurts the other person in the very respect in which he was supposed to protect him. This happens, for example, when an appointed guard or escort becomes a murderer; when a trusted custodian becomes a thief; when a guardian deprives his wards of their property; when an attorney betrays his client's case; when a judge takes a bribe; or when someone asked for advice deliberately gives advice that will ruin the questioner. All these come under the concept of *betrayal*, which the world abhors. Accordingly, *Dante* places traitors at the very bottom of hell, where Satan himself lives (Inf., XI, 61–66).\n\nNow that the concept of *obligation* has come up, this is the place to define the concept of *duty*, which is used so often in ethics and in life, but given too broad a scope. We have found that wrong always consists in hurting someone else, whether in his person, freedom, property, or honor. It seems to follow that every wrong must be a positive attack, an act. But there are actions whose mere *omission* is a wrong. Such actions are called *duties*. This is the true philosophical definition of *duty*. The concept loses its distinctive character, and is therefore lost altogether, if we follow previous moral teaching and call every praiseworthy way of acting a *duty*. That forgets that a *duty* must also be *something owed*. *Duty—what ought to be done, what is owed, duty—is therefore an action whose mere omission hurts someone else, that is, commits a wrong.* Clearly this can happen only if the person omitting the action has undertaken to perform it: has placed himself under an *obligation*. All duties therefore rest on an obligation undertaken. As a rule this is an explicit mutual agreement: between ruler and people, government and officials, master and servant, attorney and client, doctor and patient, or, more generally, anyone who has undertaken to provide any kind of service and the person who commissioned it, in the broadest sense of that word. That is why every duty confers a right: no one can undertake an obligation without a motive, which here means some benefit to himself. I know of only *one* obligation that is undertaken *not* through an agreement but directly through an act alone. The person to whom it is owed did not yet exist when it was undertaken. This is the obligation of parents to their children. Whoever brings a child into the world has the *duty* to support it until it can support itself. If that time should *never* come—as with a blind person, a cripple, a cretin, or the like—the duty never ends either. For merely failing to give help, an omission, would hurt the child and indeed bring about its destruction. The moral duty of children to their parents is not so direct and definite. It rests on the fact that, since every duty confers a right, parents too must have a right against their children. This establishes the children's duty of obedience. Later, however, that duty ends along with the right from which it arose. Gratitude then takes its place, for whatever the parents did beyond their strict duty. Ingratitude is an ugly vice, often even an outrageous one, but gratitude should not be called a duty. Its absence does not hurt the other person and is therefore no *wrong*. Otherwise the benefactor would have to have thought he was silently making a bargain. Compensation for damage caused might perhaps be put forward as an obligation arising directly from an act. But this only reverses the consequences of an unjust act and is a mere attempt to erase it. It is something purely negative, based on the fact that the act itself should not have occurred. It should also be noted here that equity is the enemy of justice and often does it serious damage. We should therefore not give it too much room. The German favors equity; the Englishman sides with justice.\n\nThe law of motivation is just as strict as the law of physical causation, and therefore brings with it an equally irresistible compulsion. Accordingly, there are two ways of committing a wrong: *force* and *cunning*. Just as I can use force to kill or rob another person, or compel him to obey me, I can also do all this through cunning. I put false motives before his intellect, and as a result he must do what he otherwise would not do. This is done by means of a *lie*. Its wrongfulness rests on this alone, and attaches to it only insofar as it is a tool of cunning—that is, of compulsion through motivation. As a rule, however, that is what it is. To begin with, even my lying cannot happen without a motive. With the rarest exceptions, that motive will be unjust: the intention to direct others over whom I have no power according to my own will, to compel them through motivation. This intention underlies even merely boastful lying. The person who uses it tries to gain more standing in other people's eyes than he deserves. The binding force of a *promise* or *contract* rests on the fact that, if unfulfilled, it is the most solemn kind of lie. The intention to exercise mental compulsion over another person is all the more obvious here, since the motive for lying—the performance demanded of the other party—is expressly stated. Fraud is contemptible because it disarms its victim through a show of sincerity before attacking him. *Betrayal* is its highest point and is deeply abhorred because it belongs to the category of *double injustice*. But just as I can repel force with force without doing wrong, and therefore rightfully, I can also repel it through cunning if I lack force or find cunning more convenient. Thus, in cases where I have a right to use force, I also have a right *to lie*. This applies, for example, against robbers and aggressors of every kind who have no right to use violence, and whom I therefore lure into a trap by cunning. That is why a promise extorted by force is not binding. But *the right to lie* actually goes further. It applies to every wholly unauthorized question about my personal or business affairs—a prying question—if not only answering it but even refusing it with \"I won't say\" would arouse suspicion and put me in danger. Here lying is self-defense against unauthorized curiosity, which is usually not well-intentioned. I have the right to prepare physical resistance against other people's presumed ill will and the physical violence I accordingly anticipate, at the risk of the aggressor. As a preventive measure I can therefore put sharp spikes on my garden wall, let vicious dogs loose in my yard at night, and even, depending on the circumstances, set foot traps and spring guns. The intruder has only himself to blame for their harmful consequences. In the same way, I have the right to use every means to keep secret anything whose disclosure would expose me to attack by others. I also have reason to do so, because here too I must assume that others' ill will is quite possible and take precautions against it in advance. That is why Ariosto says:\n\nAlthough pretense is most often\nBlamed and taken as a sign of bad intent,\nStill, in many, many matters\nIt has plainly done good,\nPreventing harm, disgrace, and death:\nFor we do not always deal with friends\nIn this mortal life, much darker than bright,\nAnd filled with envy.[19]\n\n(Orl. fur., IV, 1.)\n\nThus, without doing wrong, I may use cunning in advance to counter even a merely presumed attempt to hurt me through cunning. I need not answer someone who pries without permission into my private affairs. Nor need I say \"I want to keep that secret,\" pointing out the place where a secret lies that is dangerous to me, perhaps useful to him, and in any case gives him power over me:\n\nThey want to know the household's secrets, and so be feared.\n\nInstead, I am entitled to put him off with a lie, at his own risk if it leads him into a harmful mistake. Here lying is the only way to meet prying, suspicious curiosity; I am therefore in a position of self-defense. \"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies\"[20] is the right rule here. Among the English, accusing someone of lying is regarded as the gravest insult. For that very reason they really do lie less than other nations. Correspondingly, all unauthorized questions about another person's affairs are considered bad manners, described by the expression \"to ask questions.\" Every sensible person acts on the principle stated above, even if he is scrupulously upright. Suppose, for example, that he is returning from a remote place where he has collected money. An unknown traveler joins him and, as usual, first asks *where he is going*, then *where he has come from*, and gradually what took him to that place. He will answer with a lie to guard against the danger of robbery. Someone who is found in the house where the father of a daughter he is courting lives, and is asked why he is unexpectedly there, will give a false reason without hesitation, unless he is a fool. There are very many such cases in which every reasonable person lies without any qualms of conscience. Only this view removes the glaring contradiction between the morality people teach and the morality practiced daily, even by the most honest and best people. Yet the restriction stated above, to cases of self-defense, must be strictly maintained. Otherwise this teaching would be open to horrible abuse, since lying is in itself a very dangerous tool. Although the law protects the public peace, it still allows everyone to carry and use weapons, that is, in self-defense. In the same way, morality allows lying in that case, but also *only* in that case. Apart from this case of self-defense against force or cunning, every lie is a wrong. Justice therefore demands truthfulness toward everyone. But the claim that lying is utterly and unconditionally reprehensible, without exception and by its very nature, is already contradicted by the existence of cases in which lying is even a *duty*, particularly for doctors. There are also *noble* lies: that of the Marquis of Posa in Don Carlos, the one in Jerusalem Delivered, II, 22, and all cases in general where one person wants to take another's guilt upon himself. Finally, even Jesus Christ once deliberately spoke an untruth (Joh. 7, 8). Accordingly, *Campanella*, in his Philosophical Poems, madr. 9, says outright, \"Lying is beautiful when it brings about great good.\"[21] By contrast, the usual doctrine of the lie of necessity is a miserable patch on the clothing of a poverty-stricken morality. The arguments given in some textbooks at *Kant's* prompting, which derive the wrongfulness of lying from the human *power of speech*, are so shallow, childish, and absurd that merely to mock them one might be tempted to throw oneself into the devil's arms and say with *Talleyrand*, \"Human beings were given speech so they could hide their thoughts.\" *Kant's* unconditional, boundless horror of lying, displayed on every occasion, rests either on affectation or on prejudice. In the chapter on lying in his \"Doctrine of Virtue,\" he denounces it with every insulting description but supplies no actual reason for its reprehensibility. A real reason would have been more effective. Declaiming is easier than proving, and moralizing easier than being sincere. *Kant* would have done better to direct this special zeal against *pleasure in others' suffering*. That, not lying, is the truly devilish vice. It is the exact opposite of compassion: nothing but powerless cruelty. Unable to bring about the suffering it so enjoys seeing in others, it thanks chance for doing the job in its place. Under the code of chivalric honor, an accusation of lying is taken so very seriously that it must actually be washed away with the accuser's blood. This is not because lying is *wrong*. If it were, an accusation of a wrong committed by force would have to cause just as grave an offense, which, as everyone knows, it does not. The reason is that, under the code of chivalric honor, force is really what establishes right. A person who resorts to a lie to commit a wrong shows that he lacks force, or the courage needed to use it. Every lie shows fear. That is what condemns him.\n\n18. A full account of the theory of right can be found in \"The World as Will and Representation,\" Bd. 1, §. 62.\n\n19. However much pretense is usually blamed and taken as evidence of bad intent, it has nevertheless plainly done good in very many matters by preventing harm, disgrace, and death. For we do not always speak with friends in this mortal life, which is much darker than bright and overflows with envy.\n\n20. Don't question me, and I won't lie to you.\n\n21. Lying is beautiful when it brings about much good.\n\n### Section 18\n\nThe Virtue of Loving Kindness.\n\nJustice, then, is the first and most fundamental cardinal virtue. The ancient philosophers recognized it as such, though they placed three other, poorly chosen virtues alongside it. But they did not yet identify loving kindness—charity, love—as a virtue. Even *Plato*, who reaches the greatest heights in morality, gets no further than voluntary, unselfish justice. Loving kindness has, of course, always existed in practice and in fact. But Christianity was the first to discuss it in theory and formally establish it as a virtue, indeed the greatest of all, and even extend it to enemies. This is Christianity's greatest achievement, though only in relation to Europe. In Asia, a thousand years earlier, unlimited love of one's neighbor had already been both taught and prescribed, as well as practiced. The Veda and Dharma-Shastra, the Itihasa and Purana, and the teaching of the Buddha Shakyamuni never tire of preaching it. Strictly speaking, traces of recommendations of loving kindness can also be found among the ancients: for example, in *Cicero*, De finib., V, 23, and even as early as Pythagoras, according to Iamblichus, On the Life of Pythagoras, c. 33. My task now is to derive this virtue philosophically from my principle.\n\nThrough *compassion*—the process whose reality was established above, though its origin remains mysterious—another person's suffering in itself and as such directly becomes my motive. The second degree at which this happens is clearly distinct from the first because of the *positive character* of the actions it produces. Compassion then does not merely stop me from hurting the other person; it actually drives me to help him. The livelier and more deeply felt this direct concern is, and the greater and more urgent the other person's distress, the greater the sacrifice this purely moral motive will lead me to make to meet his need or relieve his distress. This can mean using my physical or mental powers on his behalf, or sacrificing my property, health, freedom, or even life. Here, then, in direct concern that neither rests on an argument nor needs one, lies the only pure origin of loving kindness—charity, love. This is the virtue whose rule is \"help everyone as much as you can.\" From it comes everything that ethics prescribes under the names duties of virtue, duties of love, or imperfect duties. This entirely direct, indeed instinctive concern for another person's suffering—in other words, compassion—is the only source of such actions if they are to *have moral worth*. That means they must be free of all selfish motives. Precisely for that reason, they must awaken in us the inner satisfaction called a good, satisfied, approving conscience. They must also produce in an observer that distinctive approval, respect, admiration, and even humbling reflection on himself, whose existence is an undeniable fact. If a charitable act has any other motive, however, it can only be selfish, unless it is actually malicious. The basic incentives of all actions identified above are selfishness, malice, and compassion. Correspondingly, the *motives* that can move human beings at all fall under three completely general and highest classes: 1) one's own well-being, 2) another's suffering, 3) another's well-being. If the motive of a charitable act does *not belong to the third class*, it must necessarily belong to the *first* or the *second*. The *second* really does occur sometimes. I might, for example, help someone in order to hurt someone else whom I do not help, or make that person's suffering more keenly felt. Or I might want to shame a third person who did not help the recipient, or, finally, humiliate the recipient himself by helping him. But the *first* occurs much more often. This happens whenever, in doing a good deed, I have *my own well-being* in view, however remotely and indirectly. I may be thinking of a reward in this world or another, or of the respect I will gain and the reputation for having a noble heart. I may calculate that the person I help today could one day help me in return, or benefit and serve me in some other way. I may even be driven by the thought that the rule of generosity or charity must be upheld because it could someday benefit me too. In short, it happens whenever my purpose is anything other than the purely *objective* one: wanting to know that I have helped the other person, rescued him from his distress and difficulties, and freed him from suffering. Nothing beyond that, and nothing alongside it! Only then, and then alone, have I really shown the loving kindness—charity, love—whose preaching is Christianity's great and distinctive achievement. The very instructions the Gospel adds to its command to love, such as \"Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing\" (\"Your left hand should not know what the right does\"), and similar sayings, rest on a sense of what I have derived here: only another person's distress, and no other consideration, must be my motive if my action is to have moral worth. The same passage rightly says (Matth. 6, 2) that people who give to show off have already received their reward. But here too the Vedas give us, so to speak, a higher initiation. They repeatedly assure us that anyone who desires any reward for his deeds is still on the path of darkness and not yet ready for liberation. If someone giving alms asked me what he got out of it, my honest answer would be: \"This: that the poor person's lot is made that much easier. Beyond that, absolutely nothing. If that does not satisfy you, and you really do not care about it, then you did not really want to give alms. You wanted to make a purchase, and you have been cheated out of your money. But if you do care that the person burdened by poverty suffers less, then you have achieved your aim. What you get out of it is that he suffers less, and you see exactly how far your gift is rewarded.\"\n\nBut how is it possible for suffering that is not *mine*, that does not affect *me*, to become my motive just as directly as only my own suffering usually does, and move me to act? As I have said, this can happen only if, although it is given to me merely as something outside me, through external perception or information, I nevertheless *share the feeling* of it, feel it *as mine*, yet not *in me* but *in someone else*. Then what *Calderón* expressed has happened:\n\nthat between seeing\nSuffering and suffering\nThere was no distance.\n\n\"The Worst Isn't Always Certain,\" Jorn. II, p. 229.\n\n(that there is no difference between seeing suffering and suffering.)\n\nThis presupposes that I have to some extent identified myself with the other person, and that the barrier between self and not-self has therefore been removed for the moment. Only then do the other person's concerns, needs, distress, and suffering directly become my own. I no longer see him as empirical perception presents him: someone alien to me, of no concern to me, entirely different from me. Instead, I suffer with him *in him*, even though his skin does not enclose my nerves. Only in this way can *his* pain and *his* distress become a motive for *me*. Otherwise only my own can do so. This *process*, I repeat, is *mysterious*. Reason cannot give a direct account of it, and its grounds cannot be discovered through experience. Yet it happens every day. Everyone has often experienced it in himself. Even the most hard-hearted and selfish person has not remained a stranger to it. It happens before our eyes every day, in individual, small-scale cases, wherever one person, on a direct impulse and without much reflection, helps and supports another. Sometimes someone even puts his own life in the most obvious danger for a person he is seeing for the first time, with no thought beyond the great distress and danger he sees the other person in. It happens on a large scale when, after long reflection and difficult debate, the generous British nation gives 20 million pounds sterling to buy freedom for the Black slaves in its colonies, to the cheers of a whole world. Anyone who would deny compassion as the motive of this fine, large-scale act and attribute it to Christianity should consider that not a word in the entire New Testament is said against slavery, however common it was at that time. Indeed, as late as 1860, in North America, someone in a debate about slavery appealed to the fact that Abraham and Jacob had also kept slaves.\n\nEthics may explain what practical results this mysterious inner process will have in each individual case, in chapters and sections about duties of virtue, duties of love, imperfect duties, or whatever else they are called. The root and foundation of it all is what I have presented here. From it comes the principle \"help everyone as much as you can.\" Everything else here follows very easily from this, just as all the duties of justice follow from the first half of my principle, \"hurt no one.\" Ethics is really the easiest of all the sciences. We should expect no less, since everyone has the responsibility to construct it for himself: to derive the rule for each case that arises from the highest principle rooted in his heart. Few people have the leisure and patience to learn a fully constructed system of ethics. All virtues flow from justice and loving kindness. These are therefore the cardinal virtues, and deriving them lays the foundation of ethics. Justice makes up the entire ethical content of the Old Testament, and loving kindness that of the New. The latter is the \"new commandment\" (Joh. 13, 34), which, according to Paul (Röm. 13, 8–10), contains all the Christian virtues.\n\n### Section 19\n\nEvidence supporting the basis of morality presented here.\n\nThe truth just stated—that compassion, as the only motive not based on self-interest, is also the only genuinely moral motive—strikes people as a paradox. This is strange, indeed almost impossible to understand. So I will try to make it less foreign to the reader's convictions by showing that experience and the expressions of common human feeling confirm it.\n\n1) For this purpose, I will first take an invented case that can serve as a decisive test in this investigation. But to avoid making things easy for myself, I will not choose a case of love for humanity. Instead I will take a violation of someone's rights, and the most serious kind at that.—Suppose there are two young men, Caius and Titus, both passionately in love, but each with a different girl. Each has a rival who has an advantage because of outside circumstances and stands completely in his way. Both decide to get rid of their respective rivals. Both are completely safe from discovery, and even from any suspicion. But when each begins making the actual arrangements for the murder, both struggle with themselves and give it up. They must give us an honest, clear account of why they abandoned their plans.—I will leave the account Caius gives entirely up to the reader. Perhaps religious reasons held him back: God's will, eventual reward or punishment, the Last Judgment, or something similar. Or he might say: “I considered that the principle behind my action in this case would not have been fit to serve as a universally valid rule for all possible rational beings. After all, I would have treated my rival only as a means and not also as an end.”—Or, with Fichte, he might say: “Every human life is a means of putting the moral law into practice. So I cannot destroy someone who is meant to contribute to putting it into practice without being indifferent to whether the moral law is put into practice.” (The Science of Ethics, S. 373.)—(In passing, he could get past this scruple by hoping that, once he had his beloved, he would soon produce a new instrument of the moral law.)—Or, following *Wollaston*, he might say: “I considered that this action would express an untrue statement.”—Or, following *Hutcheson*: “The moral sense, whose feelings cannot be explained any further than those of any other sense, led me to leave it undone.”—Or, following *Adam Smith*: “I foresaw that my action would not arouse any sympathy with me in those who witnessed it.”—Or, following *Christian Wolff*: “I realized that this would work against my own perfection and would not promote anyone else's either.”—Or, following *Spinoza*: “Nothing is more useful to a human being than another human being; therefore I did not want to kill a human being.”—In short, let him say whatever you like.—But I reserve the right to give *Titus's* account. He should say: “When it came to making the arrangements, I had to think for the moment not about my passion but about that rival. Only then did I fully understand what was actually about to happen to him. But then compassion and pity took hold of me. I felt sorry for him. I couldn't bring myself to do it: I wasn't able to do it.”—Now I ask every honest and unbiased reader: Which of the two is the better person?—Which of the two would the reader rather trust with his own fate?—Which of them was held back by the purer motive?—Where, then, does the basis of morality lie?\n\n2) Nothing outrages our moral feelings so deeply as cruelty. We can forgive every other crime, but not cruelty. The reason is that cruelty is the exact opposite of compassion. Suppose we hear of a very cruel act. For example, the newspapers are reporting just now that a mother murdered her five-year-old boy by pouring boiling oil down his throat, and her younger child by burying it alive. Or take the report just received from Algiers: after a chance quarrel and fight between a Spaniard and an Algerian, the Algerian, being stronger, tore the Spaniard's entire lower jaw clean off and carried it away as a trophy, leaving him alive. We are horrified and cry out: “How is it possible to do something like that?”—What does this question mean? Does it perhaps mean: How is it possible to have so little fear of punishment in the life to come?—Hardly.—Or: How is it possible to act on a principle so completely unfit to become a universal law for all rational beings?—Certainly not.—Or: How is it possible to neglect one's own perfection and other people's so badly?—No more than the others.—The meaning of that question is certainly just this: How is it possible to have no compassion at all?—So it is the greatest lack of compassion that marks an act as morally depraved and disgusting in the deepest sense. It follows that compassion is the true moral motive.\n\n3) In general, the basis of morality and motive for moral conduct that I have put forward is the only one that can claim real, indeed widespread, effectiveness. Surely no one would want to claim this for the other moral principles offered by philosophers. These consist of abstract statements, some of them positively hair-splitting, with no foundation beyond an artificial combination of concepts. Applying them to actual behavior would often even have a ridiculous side. A good deed done solely out of regard for Kant's moral principle would really be a product of philosophical pedantry. Otherwise it would amount to self-deception: the person acting would use his reason to interpret a deed arising from other, perhaps nobler motives as a product of the categorical imperative and the unsupported concept of duty. But it is seldom possible to show a definite effect not only from *philosophical* moral principles, which are designed for theory alone, but even from *religious* moral principles, which are set up entirely for practical use. The first evidence of this is that, despite the great differences between religions around the world, the level of morality—or rather immorality—shows no corresponding difference at all. In essence, it is much the same everywhere. We must simply avoid confusing roughness and refinement with morality and immorality. The Greeks' religion had very little moral tendency, almost entirely limited to oaths. No dogma was taught and no morality publicly preached. Yet we do not see that the Greeks, taken as a whole, were morally worse than the people of the Christian centuries. Christianity's moral teaching is of a much higher kind than that of the other religions that have ever appeared in Europe. But suppose someone therefore believed that European morality had improved to the same extent and now at least stood above that of its contemporaries. It would soon be possible to show him that Muslims, Zoroastrians, Hindus, and Buddhists display at least as much honesty, faithfulness, tolerance, gentleness, charity, generosity, and self-denial as Christian peoples do. More than that, the long list of inhuman cruelties that have accompanied Christianity would make us fear that the balance might tip against it. These include the many religious wars; the indefensible Crusades; the extermination of a large part of America's native inhabitants and the peopling of that continent with Black slaves dragged over from Africa, torn from their families, their homeland, their continent, without any right or any semblance of right, and condemned to endless prison labor[22]; the tireless persecution of heretics and the outrageous tribunals of the Inquisition; the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre; Alba's execution of 18000 people in the Netherlands; etc., etc.—But more generally, compare the excellent morality preached by Christianity, and more or less by every religion, with the actual behavior of their followers. Imagine what that behavior would become if the secular authorities did not prevent crimes. Indeed, imagine what we would have to fear if all laws were suspended for even a single day. We will then have to admit that all religions actually have very little effect on morality. Admittedly, weakness of faith is to blame for this. In theory, and as long as it remains a matter of pious reflection, everyone's faith seems firm to him. But action is the hard test of all our convictions. When the moment for it comes, and faith has to prove itself through great acts of renunciation and difficult sacrifices, its weakness becomes clear. When someone seriously plans a crime, he has already broken through the barrier of genuine, pure morality. After that, the first thing that stops him is always the thought of the courts and the police. If he puts this aside because he hopes to escape them, the second barrier in his way is concern for his honor. But if he gets past this defense too, the odds are heavily against any religious dogma still having enough power over him to keep him from acting, once he has overcome those two powerful obstacles. Anyone not frightened off by immediate and certain dangers will hardly be kept in check by distant dangers based only on faith. Besides, against every good action that comes entirely from religious convictions, one can still object that it was not unselfish. It was done with an eye to reward and punishment, and therefore has no purely moral worth. We find this insight forcefully expressed in a letter by the famous Grand Duke Karl August of Weimar: “Baron *Weyhers* himself thought that a man must be a bad fellow if religion made him good, rather than his being naturally inclined that way. Wine brings out the truth.” (Letters to J. H. Merck, Br. 229.)—Now consider, by contrast, the moral motive I have put forward. Who would dare deny for a moment that it has a definite and truly wonderful effect at all times, among all peoples, in every situation in life, even in a lawless state, even amid the horrors of revolutions and wars, in great matters and small, every day and every hour? Who would deny that it prevents much wrongdoing every day and brings about many good deeds, without any hope of reward and often quite unexpectedly? And when it alone has been at work, who would deny that we all, moved and respectful, recognize the deed's genuine moral worth without reservation?\n\n4) Boundless compassion for all living beings is the firmest and most reliable guarantee of morally good behavior. It needs no detailed rules for particular cases. Anyone filled with it will certainly not injure anyone, infringe on anyone's rights, or cause anyone pain. Instead he will be patient with everyone, forgive everyone, and help everyone as much as he can. All his actions will show justice and love for humanity. By contrast, try saying: “This person is virtuous, but he has no compassion.” Or: “He is an unjust and malicious person; yet he is very compassionate.” The contradiction becomes obvious.—Tastes differ, but I know no more beautiful prayer than the one that closes the ancient Indian plays, just as English plays in earlier times closed with a prayer for the king. It says: “May all living beings remain free from pain.”\n\n5) Particular details also show that compassion is the true basic moral motive. For example, it is equally wrong to use risk-free legal tricks to cheat a rich person or a poor person out of a hundred thalers. But the reproaches of conscience and the blame expressed by uninvolved witnesses will be much louder and stronger in the second case. That is why even Aristotle says: “It is worse to wrong someone unfortunate than someone fortunate” (“It is more unjust to have wronged an unfortunate person than a fortunate one”), Probl., XXIX, 2. By contrast, the reproaches will be even quieter than in the first case if it is a state treasury that has been cheated, because it cannot be an object of compassion. We can see that what directly gives rise to our own and other people's blame is not the violation of someone's rights, but first of all the suffering it causes that person. Certainly, conscience and other people will also condemn a violation of rights simply as such, like the one against a state treasury mentioned above. But they do so only because it breaks the principle of respecting *every* right, which is what makes someone truly honest. So their condemnation is indirect and less severe. But if the state treasury had been *entrusted* to the person, the case would be entirely different. The concept of *double injustice* established above, with its special characteristics, would then apply. What I have explained here accounts for the gravest accusation everywhere made against greedy extortionists and scoundrels who keep within the law: that they have seized the property of widows and orphans. Being completely helpless, these people should have aroused their compassion even more than others. So it is the complete absence of compassion that proves someone's wickedness.\n\n6) Compassion is even more obviously the basis of love for humanity than it is of justice. No one will receive proof of genuine love for humanity from others as long as he is doing well in every respect. A fortunate person can certainly experience the goodwill of his relatives and friends in many ways. But the expressions of pure, unselfish concern focused on another person's situation and fate, which result from love for humanity, are reserved for someone who is suffering in some respect. We do not take an interest in a fortunate person *simply because he is fortunate*. He remains a stranger to our hearts *in that respect*: let him keep what he has. Indeed, if he has a great advantage over others, he will easily arouse envy. This threatens to turn into pleasure at his misfortune if he ever falls from his high position of good fortune. But this threat usually goes unfulfilled. It does not come to Sophocles' “the enemies laugh” (“the enemies laugh”). For as soon as the fortunate person falls, a great change takes place in other people's hearts, and it has something to teach us here. First, it now becomes clear what kind of interest the friends of his fortunate days took in him: “Friends scatter when the wine jars have been drained to the dregs.” But on the other side, what he feared more than misfortune itself, and found unbearable to think about, usually does not happen: the rejoicing of those who envied his good fortune, the mocking laughter of people enjoying his suffering. Envy has been appeased. It has vanished with its cause, and the compassion that now takes its place produces love for humanity. When a fortunate person has fallen, those who envied him and his enemies have often turned into considerate friends who comfort and help him. Who has not experienced something like this personally, at least to a lesser degree? After suffering some misfortune, who has not been surprised to see people who had previously shown the greatest coldness, even ill will, now approach with genuine concern? Misfortune is the condition for compassion, and compassion is the source of love for humanity.—A related observation is that nothing calms our anger so quickly, even when it is justified, as hearing someone say of its target: “He is an unfortunate person.” Compassion does to anger what rain does to fire. So I advise anyone who does not want to have something to regret: if you are burning with anger against someone else and intend to make him suffer greatly, vividly imagine that you have already done it. Imagine seeing him struggle with his mental or physical pain, or with hardship and misery, and having to tell yourself: I did this. If anything can calm your anger, this can. For compassion is the true antidote to anger. By using this trick on ourselves, we bring on in advance, while there is still time,\n\ncompassion, whose voice,\nonce we have had revenge, makes its laws heard.\n*Volt.*, “Semiramis”, A. 5, Sc. 6.\n\nIn general, nothing removes our hostile feelings toward others so easily as finding a point of view from which they call on our compassion.—Even the fact that parents usually love a sickly child the most rests on its constantly arousing compassion.\n\n7) The moral motive I have put forward also proves itself genuine by extending its protection to *animals*, for which other European moral systems make such inexcusably poor provision. The supposed absence of rights for animals, the delusion that our actions toward them have no moral significance—or, in the language of those moral systems, that we have no duties toward animals—is simply an outrageous crudity and barbarism of the West, whose source lies in Judaism. In philosophy it rests on the assumption, against all the evidence, that humans and animals are entirely different. As everyone knows, *Descartes* expressed this most firmly and starkly, as a necessary consequence of his errors. When Cartesian-Leibnizian-Wolffian philosophy built rational psychology out of abstract concepts and constructed an immortal rational soul, the natural claims of the animal world plainly stood in the way of this exclusive privilege and patent of immortality for the human species. Nature, as on all such occasions, lodged its silent protest. Troubled by their intellectual consciences, the philosophers now had to try to support rational psychology with empirical psychology. They therefore worked to open an enormous gulf, an immeasurable distance, between humans and animals, so as to present them as fundamentally different despite all the evidence. *Boileau* already mocks such efforts:\n\nDo animals have universities?\nDo we see all four faculties flourishing among them?\n\nIn the end, animals supposedly could not even distinguish themselves from the outside world and had no awareness of themselves, no self! Against such absurd claims, we need only point to the boundless selfishness present in every animal, even the smallest and lowest. This is sufficient evidence of how clearly animals are aware of their own self as opposed to the world, or the not-self. If a Cartesian of this kind found himself in a tiger's claws, he would understand very clearly how sharply such an animal distinguishes its self from its not-self. Alongside these philosophical sophistries, we find something similar in ordinary speech. Some languages, especially German, have entirely separate words for animals' eating, drinking, being pregnant, giving birth, dying, and dead bodies. The aim is to avoid using the words that describe those acts in humans and to hide the complete identity of the thing under different words. Ancient languages do not have this double set of expressions. Without any qualms, they name the same thing with the same word. So that wretched trick is undoubtedly the work of the European priesthood. In its irreverence, it thinks it cannot go far enough in denying and insulting the eternal being that lives in all animals. In this way it laid the foundation for the harshness and cruelty toward animals customary in Europe, which someone from High Asia can view only with justified disgust. We do not find this contemptible trick in English, undoubtedly because the Saxons were not yet Christians when they conquered England. But something similar appears in the peculiar fact that in English all animals are neuter in gender. They are therefore represented by the pronoun “it,” just like lifeless things. This is quite outrageous, especially with primates, such as dogs, apes, etc., and is unmistakably a priestly trick for reducing animals to things. The ancient Egyptians, whose whole lives were devoted to religious purposes, placed the mummies of humans and those of ibises, crocodiles, etc., in the same tombs. But in Europe it is an abomination and a crime to bury a faithful dog beside its master's resting place. Sometimes the dog has waited there for its own death, out of a faithfulness and attachment not found among the human race.—Nothing leads more decisively to recognizing that the same essential nature appears in animals and humans than studying zoology and anatomy. What, then, should we say when today (1839) a sanctimonious animal anatomist dares to insist on an absolute and fundamental difference between humans and animals? What should we say when he goes so far as to attack and slander honest zoologists who, free from all priestcraft, currying of favor, and religious hypocrisy, follow the guidance of nature and truth?\n\nYou would have to be truly blind in every sense, or completely chloroformed by the Jewish stench, not to see that what is essential and chief in an animal and in a human being is the same. What separates the two does not lie in what is primary: the principle, the vital force, the inner being, the core of both appearances. In the one as in the other, that core is the *will* of the individual. The difference lies only in what is secondary: the intellect, the degree of the power of knowing. In humans this degree is incomparably higher, because of the added ability of *abstract* knowledge, which is called *reason*. Yet it can be shown to be higher only because of a greater development of the brain. That is a bodily difference in one single part, the brain, and specifically in how much of it there is. What animals and humans have in common, however, both in mind and in body, is beyond all comparison greater. A Western, Judaized despiser of animals and idolater of reason has to be reminded that, as he was nursed by *his* mother, so the dog was nursed by *its* mother. I have criticized above the fact that even *Kant* fell into this mistake of his contemporaries and countrymen. Christian morality takes no account of animals. This is a defect in it, and it is better to admit it than to keep it going. It is all the more surprising because in other respects this morality agrees very closely with that of Brahmanism and Buddhism. It is only expressed less strongly and is not carried through to the extremes. So one can hardly doubt that it comes from India, as the idea of a god who became a human being (Avatar) does too, and that it may have reached Judea by way of Egypt. Christianity would then be a reflection of the original Indian light from the ruins of Egypt, which unfortunately fell on Jewish ground. One could take the following fact as a neat *symbol* of the defect I have just criticized in Christian morality, which otherwise agrees so closely with the Indian. John the Baptist appears quite in the manner of an Indian sannyasi. But he is—dressed in animal skins! As everyone knows, this would be an abomination to any Hindu. The Royal Society at Calcutta even received its copy of the Vedas only on the promise that it would not have it bound in leather, in the European way. That is why it is found in their library bound in silk. The Gospel story of Peter's catch of fish offers a similar, characteristic contrast. The Savior blesses that catch by a miracle, in such a way that the boats are overfilled with fish to the point of sinking (Luke 5). Set against it is the story of Pythagoras, who was initiated into Egyptian wisdom. He buys the fishermen's catch from them while the net is still under the water, and then gives all the caught fish their freedom (Apul., On Magic, p. 36. Bip.).—Compassion for animals is so closely connected with goodness of character that one may say with confidence: whoever is cruel to animals cannot be a good person. This compassion also shows itself to spring from the same source as the virtue we are to practice toward people. For example, sensitive people may remember that they once mistreated their dog, their horse or their monkey, in a bad mood, in anger, or heated by wine. They did it undeservedly or needlessly, or beyond what was right. They then feel the same remorse and the same dissatisfaction with themselves that they feel when they remember wrong done to people. In that case it is called the voice of the punishing conscience. I remember reading that an Englishman in India shot a monkey while hunting. He could not forget the look the monkey gave him as it died, and from then on he never shot at a monkey again. It was the same with William Harris, a true Nimrod, who traveled deep into the interior of Africa in 1836 and 1837 only to enjoy the pleasure of hunting. In his travel account, published at Bombay in 1838, he tells the following story. He had killed the first elephant, a female. The next morning he went to look for the fallen animal. All the other elephants of the area had fled. Only the fallen one's young had spent the night with its dead mother. Now, forgetting all fear, it came toward the hunters. It showed its inconsolable grief in the liveliest and clearest ways, and it wound its small trunk around them to call for their help. At that moment, Harris says, true remorse for his deed seized him, and he felt as if he had committed a murder. We see this sensitive English nation stand out, above all others, for a striking compassion for animals. It shows itself on every occasion. It has had the power to move the nation, in spite of the “cold superstition” that otherwise degrades it, to fill the gap that religion left in morality by means of legislation. For this very gap is the reason that in Europe and America animal-protection societies are needed. Even these can work only with the help of the courts and the police. In Asia the religions give animals enough protection, so no one there thinks of such societies. Meanwhile, in Europe too, the sense of animals' rights is waking more and more. It grows to the degree that the strange notions slowly fade and vanish. These notions say that the animal world came into existence merely for the use and amusement of humans. Because of them, animals are treated entirely as things. For these notions are the source of the crude and completely thoughtless treatment of animals in Europe, and I have shown their Old Testament origin in the second volume of the Parerga, section 177. So let it be said to the credit of the English that among them the law was the first to take animals under its protection, quite seriously, against cruel treatment. The wrongdoer really has to pay for having committed an outrage against animals, even when they belong to him. Indeed, they are not satisfied even with that. In London there is a society, formed of its members' own free will for the protection of animals: the Society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. By private means, and at considerable expense, it does a great deal to work against the torturing of animals. Its emissaries watch in secret, so that afterward they can come forward as informers against the tormentors of speechless, feeling beings. People have to fear their presence everywhere.[23] At steep bridges in London the society keeps a team of horses. It is hitched, free of charge, in front of every heavily loaded wagon. Is that not fine? Does it not win our applause just as much as a kind deed toward people? The Philantropic Society in London, for its part, also offered a prize of 30 pounds in 1837. It was for the best statement of moral reasons against cruelty to animals. The reasons, however, were to be taken mainly from Christianity, which of course made the task harder. In 1839 the prize was awarded to Mr. Macnamara. In Philadelphia there is an Animals friends Society for similar purposes. T. Forster (an Englishman) dedicated his book Philozoia, moral reflections on the actual condition of animals and the means of improving the same (Brussels 1839) to its president. The book is original and well written. As an Englishman, the author naturally tries to support his appeals for humane treatment of animals with the Bible too, but he slides\n\noff everywhere. So in the end he reaches for the argument that Jesus Christ was, after all, born in a stable among the little ox and the little donkey. This, he says, would hint symbolically that we should regard animals as our brothers and treat them accordingly.—All that has been cited here shows that the moral side we are discussing is by now beginning to find an echo in the Western world too. Besides, compassion for animals does not have to go so far that we should give up animal food, as the Brahmans do. The reason is that in nature the capacity for suffering keeps pace with intelligence. So a human being would suffer more by doing without animal food, especially in the north, than the animal suffers from a quick death that always comes unforeseen. Still, this death should be made even easier with chloroform. Without animal food, in fact, the human race could not even survive in the north. By the same standard, humans also let animals work for them. Only excess in the effort laid on them turns into cruelty.\n\n8) Let us for once set aside any metaphysical investigation of the final ground of that compassion, though such an investigation may be possible. Only from this compassion can non-egoistic actions come. Let us look at it from the empirical standpoint, simply as a device of nature. Then it will be clear to everyone that nature could do nothing more effective for two purposes. One is to ease as much as possible the countless and many-sided sufferings to which our life is exposed and which no one entirely escapes. The other is to balance the burning egoism that fills all beings and often turns into malice. What nature did was to plant in the human heart that wonderful disposition by which one person feels the suffering of another along with them. From it comes the voice that, depending on the occasion, calls out strongly and clearly to one person “Spare!” and to another “Help!” Surely the mutual help that springs from this offered more hope for the welfare of all than a general, abstract, strict command of duty could. Such a command would come out of certain reflections of reason and combinations of concepts. Even less success could be expected from it, because general propositions and abstract truths are quite incomprehensible to the unrefined person. For him only the concrete counts for anything. And all of humanity, except an extremely small part, has always been unrefined and must remain so. The reason is that the great amount of physical labor, which the whole of society absolutely needs, does not allow the mind to be trained. To awaken compassion, by contrast, no abstract knowledge is needed. Compassion has been shown to be the *only source of unselfish actions and therefore the true basis of morality*. It needs only intuitive knowledge, the mere grasp of the concrete case. Compassion responds to that at once, without any further mediation by thought.\n\n9) We will find the following fact in complete agreement with this last consideration. The foundation I have given to ethics leaves me, it is true, without a predecessor among the academic philosophers. In fact, in relation to their doctrines it is paradoxical, since some of them flatly reject and condemn compassion. Examples are the Stoics (Sen., De clem., II, 5), Spinoza (Eth., IV, prop. 50), and Kant (Critique of Practical Reason, p. 213;—R., p. 257). On the other hand, my foundation has on its side the authority of the greatest moralist of all modern times. That is, without doubt, J. J. Rousseau. He knew the human heart deeply. He drew his wisdom not from books but from life, and he meant his teaching not for the lecture desk but for humanity. He was an enemy of prejudices and a pupil of nature. Nature had given him alone the gift of being able to moralize without being boring, because he hit the truth and touched the heart. So I will allow myself to set down a few passages from him in confirmation of my view. Up to now I have been as sparing with quotations as I could.\n\nIn the Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, p. 91 (edit. Bip.), he says: There is another principle, which Hobbes did not perceive at all. It was given to human beings to soften, in certain circumstances, the ferocity of their self-love, and it tempers the ardor they have for their own well-being by an *innate repugnance at seeing their fellow creature suffer*. I do not believe I have any contradiction to fear in granting to human beings *the only natural virtue* that the most extreme detractor of human virtues was forced to recognize. I am speaking *of compassion*, etc.—p. 92: Mandeville sensed very well that, with all their morality, men would never have been anything but monsters, if nature had not given them *compassion* in support of reason. But he did not see that *from this single quality flow all the social virtues*, which he wants to deny to human beings. In fact, what are generosity, clemency, humanity, if not *compassion* applied to the weak, to the guilty, or to the human race in general? Goodwill and even friendship are, rightly understood, products of a constant compassion fixed on one particular object. For to wish that someone not suffer at all, what is that other than to wish that he be happy?——Sympathy will be all the more energetic as *the animal looking on will identify itself* more intimately *with the suffering animal*.—p. 94: It is therefore quite certain that compassion is a natural feeling. In each individual it moderates self-love, and it contributes to the mutual preservation of the whole species. It is compassion that, in the state of nature, takes the place of laws, customs and virtues, with this advantage: nobody will be tempted to disobey its gentle voice. It is compassion that will keep any robust savage from taking from a weak child, or from an infirm old man, the livelihood he has gained with difficulty, if he himself hopes to find his own elsewhere. It is compassion that, in place of that sublime maxim of reasoned justice, “Do to others as you would have them do to you,” inspires in all human beings this other maxim of natural goodness, much less perfect but perhaps more useful than the former: “Do your own good with the least possible harm to others.” In a word, it is *in this natural feeling, rather than in subtle arguments, that one must seek the cause of the repugnance that every person would feel at doing wrong*, even independently of the maxims of education.—Compare with this what he says in Emile, Book IV, pp. 115–120 (ed. Bip.), where it says, among other things: In fact, how do we let ourselves be moved to compassion, if not by transporting ourselves outside ourselves and *identifying ourselves with the suffering animal; by leaving our own being, so to speak, to take on its being*? We suffer only so far as we judge that it suffers. *It is not in ourselves, it is in it, that we suffer*. ———to offer the young man objects on which the expansive force of his heart can act, which widen it, which extend it over other beings, which make him everywhere *find himself again outside himself*; to keep away with care those that constrict it, concentrate it, and tighten the spring *of the human self*, etc.—\n\nSince I have, as I said, no authorities on the side of the schools, I add further that the *Chinese* recognize five cardinal virtues (Tschang), and that compassion (Sin) stands at the top of them. The other four are: justice, politeness, wisdom and sincerity.[24] In agreement with this, we see among the Hindus too, on the memorial tablets set up in memory of dead princes, that compassion for humans and animals takes first place among the virtues praised in them. In Athens, compassion had an altar in the forum: “The Athenians have an altar of Compassion in their marketplace. They alone among the Greeks honor this god, who is more helpful than any other god to human life and to the reversals of fortune.” Paus., I, 17. (“The Athenians have an altar of compassion in the forum. Because this god helps human life and the changes in affairs more than any other god, the Athenians alone among the Greeks give it honors.”) Lucian also mentions this altar in the Timon, section 99.—A saying of Phocion, preserved for us by Stobaeus, presents compassion as the holiest thing in human beings: “One should remove neither the altar from a sanctuary nor compassion from human nature” (“One should remove neither the altar from the temple nor compassion from human life”). In the Wisdom of the Indians, which is the Greek translation of the Panchatantra, it says (Sect. 3, p. 220): “For it is said that compassion comes first among the virtues” (“Compassion is counted as the chief of the virtues”). One sees that all times and all countries have recognized the source of morality very well. Only Europe has not. The only one to blame is the Jewish stench, which runs through everything here. So morality absolutely has to be a command of duty, a moral law, an imperative—in short, an order and a command that is obeyed. They do not give this up. They refuse to see that anything of this kind always has only egoism as its basis. Among individuals, to be sure, and superior ones, the truth as something felt has made itself known. So it did with Rousseau, as cited above. And Lessing too says, in a letter of 1756: “The most compassionate person is the best person, the one most disposed to all social virtues and to every kind of generosity.”\n\n22. Even now, according to Buxton, The African slavetrade, 1839, their number is increased every year by about 150000 newly captured Africans. In capturing them and on their journey, over 200000 others die miserably.\n\n23. How seriously the matter is taken is shown by the following quite recent example, which I translate from the Birmingham Journal of December 1839: “Arrest of a company of 84 dogfighters.—Word had come that a dogfight was to take place yesterday on the open ground in Fox Street in Birmingham. So the Society of Friends of Animals took precautions to make sure of the help of the police. A strong detachment of police marched to the place of combat, and as soon as it was let in, it arrested the entire company present. These participants were then tied together in pairs with loops around their hands, and the whole group was joined by a long rope in the middle. In this way they were led to the police office, where the mayor sat in session with the magistrate. The two main persons were each sentenced to a fine of 1 pound sterling plus 8½ shillings costs and, if they failed to pay, to 14 days of hard labor in the house of correction. The rest were released.”—The dandies, who are never missing from such noble pleasures, will have looked very embarrassed in the procession.—But we find a still sterner example from more recent times in the Times of April 6, 1855, p. 6, and in fact it was set by that newspaper itself. It reports a case that came before a court. The daughter of a very wealthy Scottish baronet had tortured her horse in a most cruel way, with a club and a knife. For this she had been sentenced to a fine of 5 pounds sterling. But a girl like that cares nothing about this, and so she would really have skipped off unpunished if the Times had not followed with the right and painful punishment. The paper printed the girl's first and last names twice, in large letters, and went on: “We cannot help saying that a couple of months in prison, together with some whippings, given in private but by the sturdiest woman in Hampshire, would have been a much more fitting punishment for Miss N. N. A wretch of this kind has forfeited all the consideration and privileges due to her sex. We can no longer regard her as a woman.”—I dedicate these newspaper reports especially to the societies against cruelty to animals that have now been founded in Germany, so that they see how one has to go about it if anything is to come of it. Still, I give my full recognition to the praiseworthy zeal of Court Councilor Perner in Munich, who has devoted himself entirely to this branch of charity and is spreading the stimulus for it all over Germany.\n\n24. Journ. Asiatique, Vol. 9, p. 62, to be compared with Mencius, ed. Stan. Julien, 1824, Book I, section 45; also with Mencius in the Sacred Books of the Orient by Pauthier, p. 281.\n\n### Section 20\n\nOn the ethical difference between characters.\n\nThe last question, whose answer is needed to complete the foundation of ethics I have set out, is this: What is the reason for the great difference in the moral conduct of people? If compassion is the basic motive of all genuine, that is, unselfish, justice and love of humanity, why is one person moved by it and another not?—Perhaps ethics, by uncovering the moral motive, can also set it in action? Can it remake a hard-hearted person into a compassionate one, and so into a just and kind one?—Certainly not. The difference between characters is inborn and cannot be wiped out. A malicious person's malice is as inborn in him as the snake's fangs and venom sac are in the snake. And he can no more change it than the snake can. “Willing cannot be learned,” said Nero's teacher. *Plato* examines at length in the Meno whether virtue can be taught or not. He cites a passage from Theognis:\n\nYet by teaching\nYou will never turn a bad man into a good one.\n\n(By teaching you will never produce a good man from a bad one.)\n\nand he arrives at the result: “Virtue would be neither natural nor teachable, but would come by divine fate, without understanding, to those it comes to” (“Virtue will be present in us neither through teaching nor through nature, but by a divine lot, without the mind, it will flow into whoever has received that lot”). In this, the difference between “by nature” and “by divine fate” seems to me to mark roughly the difference between the physical and the metaphysical. Already the father of ethics, *Socrates*, according to *Aristotle*, asserted: “It does not depend on us to be good or bad” (“It is not in our power to be good or bad”). (Eth. magna, I, 9.) Aristotle himself speaks in the same sense: “For everyone thinks that each kind of character belongs to us somehow by nature. We have justice, self-control and the rest right from birth” (“For each single character trait seems to be present in all people somehow by nature: as soon as we are born, we are suited and ready for justice, self-control, courage and the other virtues”). (Eth. Nicom., VI, 13.) We also find this conviction stated very decidedly in the fragments of the Pythagorean Archytas, which are in any case very old, even if perhaps not genuine. Stobaeus has preserved them for us in the Anthology, Tit. I, section 77. They are also printed in the Short Greek Works of Maxims and Morals, edited by Orelli, Vol. 2, p. 240. There, in the Doric dialect, it says: “The virtues that make use of reasons and proofs ought to be called forms of knowledge. Virtue, however, is the moral and best state of the unreasoning part of the soul, by which we are said to be of a certain character, for example generous, just and self-controlled.” (“The virtues that use reason and proof may rightly be called forms of knowledge; but by the word virtue we mean the moral and best *condition of the part of the soul without reason*, by which we are said to have some moral quality and are called, for instance, generous, just and temperate.”) Suppose one surveys all the virtues and vices that *Aristotle* put together for a short overview in the book On Virtues and Vices. One will find that all of them can be thought of only as inborn qualities. Indeed, they can be genuine only as such. If, on the other hand, they were taken up arbitrarily as a result of rational reflection, they would really come down to pretense and would not be genuine. Then there would be no reckoning at all on their lasting or proving true under the pressure of circumstances. It is no different with the virtue of love of humanity, which is missing in Aristotle, as in all the ancients. In the same sense, then, though keeping his skeptical tone, *Montaigne* says: “Would it be true that, to be entirely good, we must be so by a hidden, natural and universal property, without law, without reason, without example?” (Book II, chapter 11.) *Lichtenberg* says outright: “All virtue out of intention is not worth much. Feeling or habit is the thing.” (Miscellaneous Writings, “Moral Remarks”.) But even the original teaching of Christianity agrees with this view. In the Sermon on the Mount itself, in Luke, chapter 6, verse 45, it says: “The good man brings out what is good from the good treasure of his heart, and the wicked man brings out what is wicked from the wicked treasure of his heart” (“A good man brings forth good from the good treasure of his mind, and a bad man brings forth evil from the bad treasure of his mind”). In the two verses before it, the figurative illustration of the matter had been given first, through the fruit, which always turns out according to the tree.\n\nIt is *Kant*, however, who first made this important point completely clear. He did it through his great teaching that the *empirical character* has the *intelligible character* as its ground. The empirical character is an appearance. It presents itself in time and in a multitude of actions. The intelligible character is the nature of the thing in itself behind that appearance. So it is independent of space and time, of multiplicity and of change. Only from this can we explain the rigid unchangeableness of characters. It is known to everyone with experience, and it is astonishing. Reality and experience have always held it up victoriously against the promises of an ethics that wants to make people morally better and talks about progress in virtue. In this way they have proved that virtue is inborn and is not preached into people. Suppose character were not something original, unchangeable, and so closed to all improvement through the correction of knowledge. Suppose instead, as that shallow ethics claims, that improving character by means of morality were possible, and so “a steady progress toward the good.” Then, unless all the many religious institutions and moralizing efforts have failed in their purpose, the older half of humankind would have to be considerably better than the younger half, at least on average. But there is so little trace of this that, on the contrary, we hope for something good more readily from young people than from old ones, who have become worse through experience. It can happen, to be sure, that one person seems somewhat better in old age and another worse than he was in youth. But this is only because in old age, thanks to more mature knowledge that has been corrected many times, the character shows itself more purely and clearly. In youth, ignorance, errors and fantasies sometimes put forward false motives and sometimes covered up real ones.—This follows from what was said in the preceding essay, p. 50 and following pages, under 3. Among punished criminals there are many more young people than old. The reason is that where a disposition to such deeds lies in the character, it soon finds the occasion to come out as an act, and it reaches its goal, the galleys or the gallows. And the other way around: someone whom the occasions of a long life have not been able to move to crimes will not easily run into motives for them later either. So the true ground of the respect paid to old age seems to me to lie in this: an old person has passed the test of a long life and has kept a spotless name. For that is the condition of this respect.—In keeping with this view, people in real life have never let those promises of the moralists confuse them. They have never again trusted someone who once proved himself bad. And they have always looked with confidence to the nobility of someone who once gave proof of it, whatever else may have changed. “Acting follows being” is a fruitful principle of Scholasticism. Every thing in the world acts according to its unchangeable nature, which makes up its being, its essence. So does the human being. As someone is, so he will act, so he must act. The free choice of indifference is an invention from the childhood of philosophy, long since exploded. Some old women in doctors' hats may by all means still drag it around with them.\n\nThe three basic ethical motives of the human being are egoism, malice and compassion. They are present in everyone in a different and incredibly varied proportion. Depending on that proportion, motives will work on the person and actions will turn out. Over an egoistic character only egoistic motives will have power. Those that speak to compassion, and those that speak to malice, will not prevail against them. Such a person will give up his interest as little to take revenge on his enemy as to help his friend. Another person is strongly receptive to malicious motives. He will often not shrink from great harm to himself in order to harm others. For there are characters who find so much enjoyment in causing another's suffering that it outweighs their own suffering, even when that is just as great: “heedless of himself, so long as he harms another” (Sen., De ira, I, 1). These people go into a fight with passionate delight. In that fight they expect to receive as great injuries as they hand out. Indeed, they will deliberately murder someone who has done them harm, and right afterward kill themselves to escape punishment. Experience has shown this very often. *Goodness of heart*, by contrast, consists in a deeply felt, universal compassion with everything that lives, but first of all with human beings. This is because sensitivity to suffering keeps pace with the growth of intelligence. So the countless mental and bodily sufferings of humans make a much stronger claim on compassion than the animal's pain, which is only bodily and even then duller. Goodness of character will therefore first hold a person back from injuring another in any respect whatever. Then it will also call him to help wherever someone else's suffering presents itself. And here too it can go just as far as malice does in the opposite direction. Characters of rare goodness take another's suffering more to heart than their own. So they make sacrifices for others by which they themselves suffer more than the person they helped had suffered before. Where several, or even many, can be helped at the same time by it, they will if necessary sacrifice themselves completely. Arnold von Winkelried did so. Johannes von Müller (Universal History, Book 10, chapter 10) tells this about *Paulinus*, bishop of Nola, in the 5th century, during the invasion of Italy by the Vandals from Africa: “After he had given up, as ransom money for prisoners, all the treasures of the church and his own and his friends' property, he saw the misery of a widow whose only son was being carried off. For this son he offered himself into servitude. For whoever was of a fit age and did not fall by the sword was taken prisoner to Carthage.”\n\nBecause of this incredibly great, inborn and original difference, in each person the motives that mainly stir him will be only those for which he has predominant receptivity. In the same way *one* body reacts only to acids and another only to alkalis. As with the one, so with the other: neither can be changed. Motives of kindness to people are such powerful drives for a good character. As such, they can do nothing over someone who is receptive only to egoistic motives. Suppose one still wants to bring such a person to kind actions. That can be done only by holding up the illusion that easing other people's suffering will, indirectly and in some way, work out to *his own advantage*. (Most moral teachings are in fact various kinds of attempts in just this direction.) But this only misleads his will. It does not improve it. Real improvement would require changing the whole manner of his receptivity to motives. For example, one would have to bring it about that another's suffering, as such, was no longer a matter of indifference to the first person; that causing it was no longer a pleasure to the second; or that, for a third, every increase of his own well-being, even the smallest, no longer far outweighed all motives of any other kind and made them ineffective. But this is far more certainly impossible than turning lead into gold. For it would require turning a person's heart around inside his body, so to speak, and recreating his deepest inner being. All one is able to do, in contrast, is to brighten the *head*, correct the *insight*, and bring the person to a more correct grasp of what objectively exists, of the true conditions of life. But this achieves nothing more than that the nature of his will shows itself more consistently, more clearly and more decisively, and expresses itself without falsification. For some good actions are at bottom based on false motives, on well-meant illusions of an advantage of one's own to be gained thereby in this world or in another. In the same way, some misdeeds are based merely on false knowledge of the conditions of human life. The American penitentiary system is built on this. It does not aim to improve the criminal's *heart*. It aims only to set his *head* straight, so that he comes to see that work and honesty are a surer, indeed easier, road to his own welfare than roguery.\n\nMotives can force *legality*, not *morality*. One can reshape *acting*, but not the actual *willing*, which alone has moral worth. One cannot change the goal the will strives toward, only the path it takes to get there. Instruction can change the choice of means, but not the choice of the final, general ends. Every will sets those for itself, in keeping with its original nature. One can show the egoist that by giving up small advantages he will gain larger ones. One can show the malicious person that causing others' suffering will bring greater suffering on himself. But nobody can talk anyone out of egoism itself or malice itself, any more than a cat out of its inclination to catch mice. Even goodness of character can be brought to a more consistent and more complete expression of its nature by increasing insight, by instruction about the conditions of life, that is, by brightening the head. One example is pointing out the more remote consequences that our actions have for others. These include, for instance, the sufferings that grow out of this or that action for them, indirectly and only in the course of time, when we had not thought it so bad. Another example is instruction about the harmful consequences of many a kind-hearted action, such as sparing a criminal. Especially there is instruction about the priority that “Harm no one” always has over “Help everyone,” and so on. In this respect there is indeed a moral education and an improving ethics. But it goes no further than this, and the limit is easy to see. The head is brightened. The heart stays unimproved. What is basic and decisive, in the moral as in the intellectual and the physical, is *what is inborn*. Human skill can only help things along. Everyone is what he is, so to speak “by the grace of God,” by divine right, by divine fate.\n\n“In the end you are—*what you are*.\nPut on wigs of millions of curls,\nPut your foot on platform shoes a yard high:\n*You still remain always what you are*.”\n\nBut for a long time now I have heard the reader raise the question: what becomes of guilt and merit?—In answer I refer to section 10. There, what would otherwise have to be presented here has already found its place, because it stands in close connection with *Kant's* doctrine of how freedom and necessity exist together. So I ask the reader to read again here what was said there. According to it, acting is entirely necessary once motives arise. So *freedom*, which announces itself only through *responsibility*, can lie only in being. The reproaches of conscience concern, first and apparently, *what we have done*. Really and at bottom, though, they concern what we *are*. Our deeds are the only fully valid evidence about that, since they stand to our character as symptoms stand to a disease. So in this being, in what we *are*, guilt and merit must lie as well. What we either esteem and love or despise and hate in others is not something fickle and changeable. It is something lasting, something that exists once and for all: what they *are*. If we ever go back on our opinion of them, we do not say that they have changed. We say that we were mistaken about them. In the same way, the object of our satisfaction and dissatisfaction with ourselves is *what we are*, what we irrevocably are and remain. This extends even to our intellectual qualities, and even to the traits of our faces. How could guilt and merit not lie, then, in *what we are*?—The ever more complete acquaintance with ourselves, the ever fuller *record of our deeds*, is *conscience*. The subject matter of conscience is first of all our actions. It is those actions in which we either gave no hearing to compassion, which called on us at least not to hurt others, or even to give them help and support, because egoism or even malice led us; or else, rejecting both of these, we followed that call. Both cases show how great the *difference* is that we make *between ourselves and others*. In the end the degrees of morality or immorality rest on *this difference*. That is, the degrees of justice and love of humanity, as well as of their opposite. The ever richer memory of the actions that matter in this respect completes more and more the picture of our character, the true acquaintance with ourselves. From this acquaintance grows satisfaction or dissatisfaction with ourselves, with *what we are*. Which one it is depends on whether egoism, malice or compassion has prevailed. That is, it depends on whether the difference we have made between our own person and the rest has been greater or smaller. By the same standard we also judge others. We get to know their character empirically, just like our own, only less perfectly. Here what appears as praise, approval and esteem, or as blame, indignation and contempt, is what showed itself in self-judgment as satisfaction or dissatisfaction, which can go as far as the anguish of conscience. Many very common sayings show that the reproaches we make to others, too, are aimed only *first* at the deeds, but *really* at their unchangeable character, and that virtue or vice is seen as an inherent, lasting quality. Examples: “Now I see what you are like!”—“I was wrong about you.”—Now I see what You are!—“So that is how you are!”—“That is not how I am!”—“I am not the man who would be capable of deceiving you,” and the like. Also: “well-born souls”; in Spanish too, “well-born”; the Greek words for “well-born” and “good birth” used to mean virtuous and virtue; “a friend of a more noble mind,” and so on.\n\nConscience depends on reason only because a clear and connected recollection is possible only by means of reason. It lies in the nature of the matter that conscience speaks only *afterward*. That is why it is also called the *judging* conscience. It can speak *beforehand* only in an improper sense, namely indirectly: reflection concludes, from the memory of similar cases, that a deed that is only planned will be disapproved of in the future.—So far goes the ethical fact of consciousness. It itself remains as a metaphysical problem. That problem does not belong directly to our task, but it will be touched on in the last section.—The insight that conscience is only the acquaintance, arising through deeds, with one's own unchangeable character fits perfectly with the following fact. In different people the *receptivity* to the motives of self-interest, of malice and of compassion is extremely different. On it the whole moral worth of a person rests. This receptivity is not something explainable from something else. Nor is it something to be gained by instruction, and so arising in time and changeable, or dependent on chance. It is inborn, unchangeable and not explainable any further. Accordingly the course of life itself, with all its many-sided activity, is nothing more than the outer dial of that inner, original clockwork, or the mirror in which alone the nature of one's own will, which is one's core, can become evident to each person's intellect.\n\nWhoever takes the trouble to think through properly what was said here and in the mentioned section 10 will discover in my foundation of ethics a consistency and rounded wholeness that all the others lack. On the other side, he will discover an agreement with the facts of experience, which those others have even less. For only truth can agree throughout with itself and with nature. All false basic views, by contrast, are in conflict inwardly with themselves and outwardly with experience, which files its silent protest at every step.\n\nI am well aware, though without regret or remorse, that the truths set out here at the end in particular clash head-on with many deeply rooted prejudices and errors. They especially offend a certain current infant-school morality. For first, I am not speaking here to children, nor to the common people, but to an enlightened academy. Its purely theoretical question is directed to the ultimate basic truths of ethics, and to a most serious question it also expects a serious answer. Second, I hold that there can be no privileged errors, no useful ones, and not even harmless ones. Every error does infinitely more harm than good.—If, on the other hand, one wanted to make existing prejudices the measure of truth, or a boundary stone that its presentation must not cross, it would be more honest to let philosophical faculties and academies die out altogether. For what is not should not seem to be either.\n\n### Section 21\n\nIV.\n\nToward a metaphysical explanation of the basic ethical phenomenon.\n\nAn understanding about this addition.\n\nSo far, I have established the moral motive as a fact. I have shown that it alone can produce unselfish justice and genuine love for other people, the two cardinal virtues on which all the others rest. This is enough to establish ethics, since ethics must necessarily rest on something that actually and demonstrably exists, whether in the outside world or in consciousness. The alternative would be to follow some of my predecessors and simply choose an abstract proposition at will, then derive moral rules from it—or to follow *Kant* and do the same with a mere concept, that of *law*. It seems to me that this meets the Royal Society’s question, since the question asks for the foundation of ethics, not for a metaphysics to establish that foundation in turn. Still, I see very well that the human mind does not yet find its final satisfaction and peace here. As at the end of every inquiry and every science of actual things, it stands before a basic phenomenon. This explains everything that falls under it and follows from it, but remains unexplained itself, confronting us as a riddle. So here too the demand for a *metaphysics* arises: that is, for an ultimate explanation of the basic phenomena as such and, taken together, of the world. Here too this demand raises the question of why what exists and has been understood is this way rather than another, and how the character of appearance that we have described emerges from the inner nature of things as they are in themselves. Indeed, ethics has an especially urgent need for a metaphysical foundation. Philosophical and religious systems agree that the ethical significance of actions must also be metaphysical. It must extend beyond the mere appearance of things, and therefore beyond every possibility of experience, and so be closely connected with the whole existence of the world and with human destiny. For the ultimate point at which the meaning of existence as a whole culminates must surely be ethical. This last point is also confirmed by an undeniable fact. As death approaches, everyone’s thoughts, whether or not they have accepted religious dogmas, take a *moral* direction. They try to settle the account of their completed life entirely from a *moral* standpoint. The testimony of the ancients carries particular weight here, because it is not under Christian influence. I therefore point out that this fact is already stated in a passage attributed to the very ancient lawgiver Zaleucus, though Bentley and Heyne consider it the work of a Pythagorean. Stobaeus has preserved it for us (Floril., Tit. 44, §. 20): “We must keep before our eyes the moment when each of us reaches the end and leaves life. For everyone about to die is seized by regret, remembering the wrongs they have done, and by the urge to wish that everything they had done had been just.” (We must set before our eyes that moment when each of us must depart from life: for remorse seizes all who are dying, as they remember what they have done unjustly, and they long deeply to have done everything justly.) Likewise, to recall a historical example, we see Pericles on his deathbed refusing to hear about all his great deeds, and wanting to hear only that he had never put a citizen into mourning (Plut. in Pericl.). To set a very different case beside this, I remember reading a report of testimony before an English jury about a rough, fifteen-year-old Black boy aboard a ship. About to die from an injury he had just received in a fight, he hurriedly had all his shipmates brought to him to ask whether he had ever hurt or insulted any of them. Their answer that he had not gave him great peace. Experience consistently teaches that dying people wish to make peace with everyone before they leave. Another kind of evidence for our claim comes from a familiar experience. People very willingly accept payment for intellectual achievements, even the world’s greatest masterpieces, if they can get it. But almost everyone who has done something morally outstanding refuses any reward for it. This is especially true of great moral deeds, as when someone has saved another person’s life, or even many lives, at the risk of their own. In such cases they generally refuse any reward at all, even if they are poor, because they feel that accepting it would harm the metaphysical value of their action. *Bürger* gives us a poetic account of this at the end of his Song of the Brave Man. But it usually happens this way in real life too, and I have come across it several times in English newspapers.—These facts are universal and occur regardless of religion. Because life has this undeniable ethical and metaphysical tendency, no religion could gain a foothold in the world without interpreting life in this sense. Every religion gains its hold on people’s hearts through its ethical side. Each makes its dogma the foundation of the moral motive that everyone feels but does not therefore understand, and joins the two so closely that they appear inseparable. Indeed, priests try to present unbelief and immorality as one and the same thing. This is why believers regard an unbeliever as identical with a morally bad person. We can already see this in the use of words such as godless, atheistic, unchristian, heretic, and the like as synonyms for morally bad. Religions have an easy task here. Starting from *faith*, they may demand it unconditionally for their dogma, even with threats. Philosophical systems do not have things so easy. Thus, if we examine all the systems, we will find that both their foundation of ethics and the point where ethics connects with their stated metaphysics are in an extremely bad state everywhere. Yet the demand that ethics rest on metaphysics cannot be dismissed, as I have already confirmed in the introduction by citing the authority of *Wolff* and *Kant*.\n\nBut the problem of metaphysics is so much harder than any other problem that occupies the human mind that many thinkers consider it completely insoluble. In this particular case I face a further, quite special disadvantage caused by the form of a detached study: I cannot begin from a definite metaphysical system that I might accept. I would either have to explain it, which would take far too much space, or assume it as given and certain, which would be highly questionable. This in turn means that here, just as in what came before, I cannot use the synthetic method, but only the analytical one. I must go not from the ground to its consequences, but from the consequences to their ground. This hard necessity of proceeding without assumptions, and starting from no standpoint except the one common to everyone, has already made explaining the foundation of ethics so difficult for me that I now look back on it as a difficult feat I have accomplished. It is like doing something freehand that is normally done only with a firm support underneath. Now, with the question of a metaphysical explanation of the ethical foundation before us, the difficulty of proceeding without assumptions becomes so overwhelming that I see only one way out. I must limit myself to very general outlines, give suggestions rather than full explanations, show the path that leads to the goal here without following it to the end, and, in general, say only a very small part of what I would have to present under other circumstances. To justify this approach, besides the reasons just given, I appeal to the fact that the actual question has been answered in the preceding sections. Whatever else I offer here is therefore work beyond what is required, an *addition* that I am free to give and the reader free to take.\n\n### Section 22\n\nMetaphysical foundation.\n\nWe must now leave the firm ground of experience, which has supported every step we have taken so far. We are to find our final theoretical satisfaction in a region that no experience could possibly reach. We will be fortunate if we gain even a hint, a passing glimpse, that gives us some peace. But what must not leave us is the honesty of our approach so far. We will not follow the so-called post-Kantian philosophy by indulging in fantasies, serving up fairy tales, trying to impress through words, and throwing dust in the reader’s eyes. Our promise is a little, honestly offered.\n\nWhat has explained things up to this point now becomes our problem itself: that natural compassion which is inborn in every human being and cannot be erased, and which we have found to be the only source of *unselfish actions*. Only such actions have moral value. Many modern philosophers treat the concepts of *good* and *evil* as *simple* concepts, meaning ones that neither need nor allow explanation. They then usually speak very mysteriously and reverently about an “*idea of the good*,” which they make the support of their ethics, or at least a cover for its poverty.[25] Their approach forces me to explain here that these concepts are anything but simple, much less given a priori. They express a relationship and are drawn from the most everyday experience. Anything that agrees with the efforts of some individual will is called *good* in relation to it: good food, good roads, a good omen. The opposite is called *bad*, or, in living beings, *evil*. A person whose character makes them unwilling to obstruct other people’s efforts, and instead favorable and helpful to them as far as reasonably possible—someone who therefore does not hurt others, but helps and supports them wherever possible—is called a *good person* by those others for exactly the same reason. So the concept of good is applied to this person from the same relative, experience-based standpoint, located in the person on the receiving end. But if we examine such a person’s character not just in relation to others, but in itself, we know from the preceding discussion that their virtues of justice and love for other people arise from a wholly direct concern for others’ well-being and suffering, whose source we have identified as compassion. If we go back to what is essential in such a character, we undeniably find it in this: this person *makes less of a distinction between themselves and others than other people do*. In the eyes of a malicious character, this distinction is so great that another person’s suffering is a direct pleasure. They therefore seek it without any further advantage to themselves, and even against their own advantage. In the eyes of an egoist, the same *distinction* is still great enough for them to use great harm to others as a means of gaining a small advantage for themselves. For both, then, there is a wide gulf, a powerful *distinction*, between the I, confined to their own person, and the not-I, which includes the rest of the world. “Let the world perish, as long as I am safe” is their rule. For a good person, by contrast, this *distinction* is by no means so great. Indeed, in acts of generosity it seems to disappear: another person’s well-being is advanced at the cost of one’s own, so that the other person’s I is put on the same level as one’s own. And where *many* others must be saved, one’s own I is sacrificed to them completely, as one person gives their life for many.\n\nThe question now is whether this last way of understanding the relationship between one’s own I and another’s, which underlies the actions of a good character, is mistaken and based on a deception. Or is that true instead of the opposite understanding, on which egoism and malice rest?—\n\nThe understanding that underlies egoism is strictly justified *by experience*. In experience, the *distinction* between oneself and another person appears absolute. The difference in spatial location that separates me from the other person also separates me from their well-being and suffering.—Against this, however, the first thing to note is that our knowledge of our own selves is by no means exhaustive or clear down to its final ground. Through the perception that the brain produces from the data of the senses, and thus indirectly, we know our own body as an object in space. Through the inner sense, we know the ongoing series of our efforts and acts of will that arise in response to external motives. Finally, we also know the many weaker or stronger movements of our own will to which all our inner feelings can be traced. That is all: for knowing itself is not in turn known. What actually underlies this whole appearance, our inner *nature in itself*, the very thing that wills and knows, is not accessible to us. We look only outward; inside it is dark. So our knowledge of ourselves is by no means complete and exhaustive. Instead, it is very superficial. For the greater part—indeed, the main part—we are unknown to ourselves and a riddle. Or, as *Kant* says, the I knows itself only as appearance, not as what it may be in itself. In the other part, the one that enters our knowledge, each of us is certainly completely different from everyone else. But it does not yet follow that the same holds for the large and essential part that remains hidden and unknown to each of us. At least the possibility therefore remains that this part is one and the same in everyone.\n\nWhat is the basis of all multiplicity and numerical difference among beings?—Space and time. Only these make it possible, since we can think of and represent many things only as either side by side or one after another. Now, many things of the same kind are *individuals*. So I call space and time, insofar as they make *multiplicity* possible, the principle of individuation, without worrying whether this is exactly the sense in which the Scholastics used that expression.\n\nIf *anything* in the insights that *Kant’s* astonishing depth of thought gave the world is unquestionably true, it is the *transcendental aesthetic*: the doctrine that space and time are ideal. Its basis is so clear that no objection with any appearance of validity has been found against it. It is *Kant’s* triumph and one of the very few metaphysical doctrines that can be regarded as genuinely proved, as actual conquests in the field of metaphysics. According to it, then, space and time are the forms of our own faculty of perception. They belong to this faculty, not to the things known through it, and therefore can never be characteristics of things as they are in themselves. They belong only to the *appearance* of those things, as this alone is possible in our consciousness of the outside world, which is tied to physiological conditions. But if *time and space* do not belong to the thing in itself, that is, to the true nature of the world, then *multiplicity* necessarily does not belong to it either. Consequently, even in the countless appearances of this world of the senses, it can only be one. Only the one and identical being can manifest itself in them all. Conversely, what presents itself as *many*, and therefore in time and space, cannot be the thing in itself, but only *appearance*. As such, appearance exists only for our consciousness, which is restricted by many conditions and indeed rests on an organic function. It does not exist outside that consciousness.\n\nThis doctrine—that all multiplicity is only apparent, that in all the individuals of this world, however infinitely many appear one after another and side by side, only one and the same truly existing being manifests itself, present and identical in them all—certainly existed long before *Kant*. Indeed, one might say it has always existed. First of all, it is the chief and fundamental teaching of the oldest book in the world, the sacred *Vedas*, whose doctrinal part, or rather esoteric teaching, we have in the *Upanishads*.[26] There we find this great teaching on almost every page. It is tirelessly repeated in countless turns of phrase and explained through many images and comparisons. Even from the scant reports of his philosophy that have reached us, there can be no doubt at all that it also lay at the foundation of the wisdom of *Pythagoras*. Everyone knows that almost the entire philosophy of the *Eleatic* school was contained in this doctrine alone. Later the *Neoplatonists* were steeped in it, teaching “that because all things are one, all souls are one” (that because of the unity of all things, all souls are one). In the 9th century we see it unexpectedly appear in Europe through *Scotus Eriugena*, who, inspired by it, tries to dress it in the forms and expressions of the Christian religion. Among the Muslims we find it again as the inspired mysticism of the *Sufis*. But in the West, *Giordano Bruno* had to pay with a disgraceful and agonizing death for being unable to resist the urge to state this truth. Nevertheless, we also see Christian mystics become entangled in it against their will and intention, whenever and wherever they appear. *Spinoza’s* name is identified with it. Finally, in our own day, after *Kant* had destroyed the old dogmatism and the world stood in alarm before its smoking ruins, this insight was revived by the eclectic philosophy of *Schelling*. He combined the teachings of Plotinus, Spinoza, Kant, and Jakob Böhme with the results of modern natural science. He hurriedly assembled a whole to satisfy his contemporaries’ urgent need for the time being, then played it through with variations. As a result, this insight has gained general acceptance among German scholars and has become almost universally known even among the merely educated.[27] The only exceptions are today’s university philosophers. They have the difficult task of working against so-called *pantheism*. This puts them in great distress and embarrassment, and in their anxiety they reach now for the most pitiful sophistries, now for the most bombastic phrases, to patch together some respectable costume in which to dress an approved and officially imposed spinning-wheel philosophy. In short, “the One and All” has always been the fools’ joke and the wise person’s endless subject of meditation. Yet a strict proof of it can be given only from *Kant’s* doctrine, as was done above. *Kant* himself did not do this, but, like a clever speaker, gave only the premises, leaving his listeners the pleasure of drawing the conclusion.\n\nIf multiplicity and separateness therefore belong only to mere *appearance*, and it is one and the same being that presents itself in everything alive, then the understanding that removes the distinction between I and not-I is not the mistaken one. Rather, the opposite understanding must be mistaken. We also find the Hindus calling this latter understanding Maya, meaning appearance, deception, illusion. We have found the former view to underlie the phenomenon of compassion, and indeed found compassion to be its actual expression. It would therefore be the metaphysical basis of ethics, and would consist in *one* individual directly recognizing in *another* themselves, their own true being. In that case, practical wisdom—acting justly and doing good—would agree exactly in its result with the deepest teaching of theoretical wisdom at its furthest reach. The practical philosopher, meaning the just, charitable, generous person, would express through action only the same insight that is the result of the theoretical philosopher’s deepest thought and most laborious research. Yet moral excellence stands higher than all theoretical wisdom. The latter always remains fragmentary and reaches by a slow chain of inferences the goal that moral excellence reaches at once. Through their actions, a morally noble person, however much they may lack intellectual excellence, displays the deepest insight and highest wisdom. They put the greatest genius and most learned scholar to shame if that person’s actions reveal that this great truth has remained foreign to their heart.\n\n“Individuation is real. The principle of individuation and the difference between individuals that rests on it are the order of things as they are in themselves. Each individual is a being fundamentally different from all others. Only in my own self do I have my true existence; everything else, by contrast, is not-I and foreign to me.”—This is the understanding whose truth flesh and bone bear witness to, which underlies all egoism, and whose actual expression is every unloving, unjust, or malicious action.—\n\n“Individuation is mere appearance, produced through space and time, which are nothing more than the forms of all the objects of my brain’s faculty of knowledge, forms conditioned by that faculty. Therefore the multiplicity and difference of individuals are also mere appearance: they exist only in my *representation*. My true inner being exists in every living thing just as directly as it reveals itself to me alone in my self-consciousness.”—This understanding, for which the formula tat-twam asi, that is, “this is you,” is the standard expression in Sanskrit, is what breaks through as *compassion*. All genuine, that is, unselfish virtue therefore rests on it, and every good deed is its actual expression. Ultimately it is to this understanding that every appeal for kindness, for love of others, for mercy instead of strict justice is directed. Such an appeal reminds us of the respect in which we are all one and the same being. Egoism, envy, hatred, persecution, harshness, revenge, pleasure in others’ suffering, and cruelty, by contrast, appeal to the first understanding and find reassurance in it. We feel moved and delighted when we hear about a noble action, still more when we see one, and most of all when we do one ourselves. At the deepest level, this feeling rests on the action’s giving us certainty that beyond all the multiplicity and difference of individuals that the principle of individuation sets before us, there is a unity among them. This unity truly exists and is even accessible to us, since it has just appeared in actual fact.\n\nDepending on which of these two ways of understanding we hold to, either the love or the strife of Empedocles appears between one being and another. But if someone filled with strife were to attack their most hated enemy and penetrate to that enemy’s deepest inner core, they would be surprised to discover themselves there. For just as we ourselves are present in all the people who appear to us in dreams, the same is true when we are awake, though it is not so easy to see. But tat-twam asi.\n\nThe predominance of one or the other of these two ways of understanding shows itself not only in individual actions, but in the whole character of a person’s consciousness and mood. These are therefore essentially different in a *good* character from what they are in a *bad* one. The latter everywhere feels a strong dividing wall between themselves and everything outside them. To them the world is an *absolute not-I*, and their relation to it is hostile from the start. As a result, the basic tone of their mood is spite, suspicion, envy, and pleasure in others’ suffering.—A good character, by contrast, lives in an outside world of the same nature as their own being. Other people are not a not-I to them, but “I once again.” So their original relation to everyone is friendly. They feel inwardly related to all beings, take a direct interest in their well-being and suffering, and confidently assume the same interest on their part. This produces the deep peace within them and that confident, calm, contented mood which makes everyone feel comfortable in their company.—A bad character does not trust in help from others when in need. If they ask for it, they do so without confidence. If they receive it, they do so without real gratitude, because they can hardly understand it as anything but the effect of others’ foolishness. They are still unable to recognize their own being in another, even after it has made itself known from that other person through unmistakable signs. This is really what makes all ingratitude so outrageous. This moral isolation, in which they essentially and inescapably find themselves, also makes them easily fall into despair.—A good character will ask for help from others with as much confidence as they are aware of their own readiness to help them. For, as I said, to one person the human world is not-I; to the other, “I once again.”—The generous person who forgives an enemy and returns good for evil is sublime and receives the highest praise, because they recognized their very own being even where it decisively denied itself.\n\nEvery wholly pure act of kindness, every completely and truly unselfish act of help, which as such has the other person’s need as its only motive, is really, if we investigate down to its ultimate ground, a mysterious action, a practical mysticism. Ultimately it comes from the same understanding that constitutes the essence of all genuine mysticism, and it cannot truthfully be explained in any other way. For someone to give even alms without aiming, in the remotest way, at anything other than relieving the hardship that weighs on the other person is possible only insofar as they recognize that it is they themselves who now appear before them in that sad form. They recognize their own being in itself in the other person’s appearance. This is why, in the preceding part, I called compassion the great mystery of ethics.\n\nSomeone who dies for their country has freed themselves from the illusion that confines existence to their own person. They extend their own being to their fellow citizens, in whom they live on, and even to future generations of those citizens, for whom they act. They regard death as the blinking of the eyes, which does not interrupt sight.\n\nConsider the person to whom all others have always been not-I, who at bottom considered only their own person truly real. They saw others, strictly speaking, only as phantoms, granting them merely a relative existence insofar as they could serve or oppose their purposes. Thus an immeasurable difference, a deep gulf, remained between their person and all that not-I. Since they existed exclusively in their own person, they see all reality and the whole world perish with their self in death. By contrast, consider someone who saw their own being, themselves, in all others, indeed in everything alive, so that their existence merged with that of all living things. Through death this person loses only a small part of their existence. They continue in all the others, in whom they have always recognized and loved their being and their self. The illusion that separated their consciousness from everyone else’s disappears. This may explain, if not entirely, at least a large part of the difference between the way especially good people and predominantly evil people face the hour of death.—\n\nIn every century, poor truth has had to blush because it was paradoxical, though this is not its fault. It cannot take on the shape of the prevailing error enthroned above all. So it sighs and looks up to its protecting god, Time, who beckons it toward victory and fame, but whose wingbeats are so vast and slow that the individual dies in the meantime. I too am therefore very well aware of how paradoxical this metaphysical explanation of the basic ethical phenomenon must seem to educated Westerners accustomed to entirely different foundations of ethics. But I cannot do violence to the truth. The most I can bring myself to do in this regard is to give a quotation showing how, thousands of years ago, this metaphysics of ethics was already the fundamental view of Indian wisdom. I point back to that wisdom as Copernicus pointed back to the Pythagoreans’ system of the universe, which Aristotle and Ptolemy had displaced. In the Bhagavad Gita, Lectio 13; 27, 28, according to A. W. von Schlegel’s translation, it says: “Whoever sees the same supreme lord present in all living things, not perishing when they perish, truly sees.—And seeing the same lord present everywhere, one does not harm oneself through one’s own fault: from there one proceeds to the highest path.”\n\nI must stop with these suggestions toward a metaphysics of ethics, although a further important step remains to be taken in it. But that step presupposes that we had gone a step further in ethics itself, which I was not allowed to do. In Europe, ethics is assigned its highest goal in the teaching of justice and virtue, and what goes beyond these is either unknown or at least not accepted. It is therefore because of this necessary omission that the outlines of a metaphysics of ethics given here do not yet let us glimpse, even from a distance, the keystone of the whole structure of metaphysics, or the actual coherence of the Divine Comedy. But this was neither part of the question nor of my plan. For one cannot say everything in a single day, and one should not answer more than one is asked.\n\nWhenever we try to advance human knowledge and understanding, we will always feel the resistance of the age. It is like a load we have to pull, pressing heavily on the ground and defying every effort. Then we must take comfort in the certainty that, though prejudice is against us, truth is on our side. As soon as its ally, time, has joined it, truth is completely certain of victory—if not today, then tomorrow.\n\n25. The concept of the *good*, in its purity, is a *basic concept*, “an *absolute idea*, whose content loses itself in infinity.”\n\n*Bouterweck*, Practical Aphorisms, p. 54.\n\nAs we can see, he would like nothing better than to turn the simple, indeed trivial concept *good* into something fallen from Zeus, so that he could set it up as an idol in the temple.\n\n26. The authenticity of the *Oupnekhat* had been challenged on the basis of a few marginal comments added by Muslim copyists that had found their way into the text. But it is fully vindicated by the Sanskrit scholar *F. H. H. Windischmann* (the son) in his Shankara, or On the Theological Doctrines of the Vedantists, 1833, p. XIX, and also by *Bochinger*, On the Contemplative Life among the Hindus, 1831, p. 12.—Even a reader who knows no Sanskrit can clearly establish the following by comparing the more recent translations of individual Upanishads by *Rammohun Roy*, *Poley*, and even *Colebrooke*, as well as the latest ones by *Röer*: the Persian translation by Sultan *Dara Shikoh*, the martyr of this doctrine, which *Anquetil* translated into Latin with strict literalness, was based on an exact and complete understanding of the words. The others, by contrast, largely made do with groping and guessing, and are therefore certainly much less accurate.—Further details can be found in the second volume of Supplementary Writings, ch. 16, §. 184.\n\n27. Among our species, we can for quite a long time\nKeep the door closed to reason.\nBut once it skillfully comes inside,\nIt stays in the house,\nAnd soon it is the one in charge.\n\n*Volt.*\n\n### Judgment\n\nJudgment\n\nof the Royal Danish Society of Sciences.\n\nOnly one author attempted to explain the question proposed in 1837: “Should the source and foundation of moral philosophy be sought in an explanation of the idea of morality immediately contained in the conscience, and of the other fundamental concepts that arise from it, or in some other principle of knowledge?” We could not judge his essay, written in German and bearing the motto “Preaching morality is easy; giving morality a foundation is[28] hard,” worthy of the prize. For, leaving out what was chiefly required, he thought the request was to establish some principle of ethics. He therefore treated the part of his essay in which he explains the connection between his proposed principle of ethics and his metaphysics as an appendix, in which he offered more than had been asked. Yet the question itself demanded a discussion in which the connection between metaphysics and ethics would receive particular attention. As for the author’s attempt to establish the foundation of ethics in compassion, neither did the manner of his argument satisfy us, nor did he actually prove that this foundation was sufficient. Indeed, he himself was forced to admit the opposite. Nor should we pass over in silence that he refers to several of the greatest philosophers of modern times in so indecent a manner as to cause justified and serious offense.\n\n28. The Academy added this second “is” out of its own resources, to provide evidence for Longinus’s teaching (de sublim., c. 39) that adding or removing *one* syllable can destroy the whole force of a sentence.","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/schopenhauer-basis-of-morality/translations/trn_schopenhauer_basis_of_morality_plain.txt"}],"retex_markdown_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/schopenhauer-basis-of-morality/retex.md"}}