Section I
Original German
393 Erster Abschnitt.
Übergang von der gemeinen sittlichen Vernunfterkenntniß zur philosophischen.
Es ist überall nichts in der Welt, ja überhaupt auch außer derselben zu denken möglich, was ohne Einschränkung für gut könnte gehalten werden, als allein ein guter Wille. Verstand, Witz, Urtheilskraft und wie die Talente des Geistes sonst heißen mögen, oder Muth, Entschlossenheit, Beharrlichkeit im Vorsatze als Eigenschaften des Temperaments sind ohne Zweifel in mancher Absicht gut und wünschenswerth; aber sie können auch äußerst böse und schädlich werden, wenn der Wille, der von diesen Naturgaben Gebrauch machen soll und dessen eigenthümliche Beschaffenheit darum Charakter heißt, nicht gut ist. Mit den Glücksgaben ist es eben so bewandt. Macht, Reichthum, Ehre, selbst Gesundheit und das ganze Wohlbefinden und Zufriedenheit mit seinem Zustande unter dem Namen der Glückseligkeit machen Muth und hiedurch öfters auch Übermuth, wo nicht ein guter Wille da ist, der den Einfluß derselben aufs Gemüth und hiemit auch das ganze Princip zu handeln berichtige und allgemein-zweckmäßig mache; ohne zu erwähnen, daß ein vernünftiger unparteiischer Zuschauer sogar am Anblicke eines ununterbrochenen Wohlergehens eines Wesens, das kein Zug eines reinen und guten Willens ziert, nimmermehr ein Wohlgefallen haben kann, und so der gute Wille die unerlaßliche Bedingung selbst der Würdigkeit glücklich zu sein auszumachen scheint.
Einige Eigenschaften sind sogar diesem guten Willen selbst beförderlich und können sein Werk sehr erleichtern, haben aber dem ungeachtet keinen
394 innern unbedingten Werth, sondern setzen immer noch einen guten Willen voraus, der die Hochschätzung, die man übrigens mit Recht für sie trägt, einschränkt und es nicht erlaubt, sie für schlechthin gut zu halten. Mäßigung in Affecten und Leidenschaften, Selbstbeherrschung und nüchterne Überlegung sind nicht allein in vielerlei Absicht gut, sondern scheinen sogar einen Theil vom innern Werthe der Person auszumachen; allein es fehlt viel daran, um sie ohne Einschränkung für gut zu erklären (so unbedingt sie auch von den Alten gepriesen worden). Denn ohne Grundsätze eines guten Willens können sie höchst böse werden, und das kalte Blut eines Bösewichts macht ihn nicht allein weit gefährlicher, sondern auch unmittelbar in unsern Augen noch verabscheuungswürdiger, als er ohne dieses dafür würde gehalten werden.
Der gute Wille ist nicht durch das, was er bewirkt oder ausrichtet, nicht durch seine Tauglichkeit zu Erreichung irgend eines vorgesetzten Zweckes, sondern allein durch das Wollen, d. i. an sich, gut und, für sich selbst betrachtet, ohne Vergleich weit höher zu schätzen als alles, was durch ihn zu Gunsten irgend einer Neigung, ja, wenn man will, der Summe aller Neigungen nur immer zu Stande gebracht werden könnte. Wenn gleich durch eine besondere Ungunst des Schicksals, oder durch kärgliche Ausstattung einer stiefmütterlichen Natur es diesem Willen gänzlich an Vermögen fehlte, seine Absicht durchzusetzen; wenn bei seiner größten Bestrebung dennoch nichts von ihm ausgerichtet würde, und nur der gute Wille (freilich nicht etwa als ein bloßer Wunsch, sondern als die Aufbietung aller Mittel, so weit sie in unserer Gewalt sind) übrig bliebe: so würde er wie ein Juwel doch für sich selbst glänzen, als etwas, das seinen vollen Werth in sich selbst hat. Die Nützlichkeit oder Fruchtlosigkeit kann diesem Werthe weder etwas zusetzen, noch abnehmen. Sie würde gleichsam nur die Einfassung sein, um ihn im gemeinen Verkehr besser handhaben zu können, oder die Aufmerksamkeit derer, die noch nicht genug Kenner sind, auf sich zu ziehen, nicht aber um ihn Kennern zu empfehlen und seinen Werth zu bestimmen.
Es liegt gleichwohl in dieser Idee von dem absoluten Werthe des bloßen Willens, ohne einigen Nutzen bei Schätzung desselben in Anschlag zu bringen, etwas so Befremdliches, daß unerachtet aller Einstimmung selbst der gemeinen Vernunft mit derselben dennoch ein Verdacht entspringen muß, daß vielleicht bloß hochfliegende Phantasterei insgeheim zum Grunde liege, und die Natur in ihrer Absicht, warum sie unserm Willen
395 Vernunft zur Regiererin beigelegt habe, falsch verstanden sein möge. Daher wollen wir diese Idee aus diesem Gesichtspunkte auf die Prüfung stellen.
In den Naturanlagen eines organisirten, d. i. zweckmäßig zum Leben eingerichteten, Wesens nehmen wir es als Grundsatz an, daß kein Werkzeug zu irgend einem Zwecke in demselben angetroffen werde, als was auch zu demselben das schicklichste und ihm am meisten angemessen ist. Wäre nun an einem Wesen, das Vernunft und einen Willen hat, seine Erhaltung, sein Wohlergehen, mit einem Worte seine Glückseligkeit, der eigentliche Zweck der Natur, so hätte sie ihre Veranstaltung dazu sehr schlecht getroffen, sich die Vernunft des Geschöpfs zur Ausrichterin dieser ihrer Absicht zu ersehen. Denn alle Handlungen, die es in dieser Absicht auszuüben hat, und die ganze Regel seines Verhaltens würden ihm weit genauer durch Instinct vorgezeichnet und jener Zweck weit sicherer dadurch haben erhalten werden können, als es jemals durch Vernunft geschehen kann, und sollte diese ja obenein dem begünstigten Geschöpf ertheilt worden sein, so würde sie ihm nur dazu haben dienen müssen, um über die glückliche Anlage seiner Natur Betrachtungen anzustellen, sie zu bewundern, sich ihrer zu erfreuen und der wohlthätigen Ursache dafür dankbar zu sein; nicht aber, um sein Begehrungsvermögen jener schwachen und trüglichen Leitung zu unterwerfen und in der Naturabsicht zu pfuschen; mit einem Worte, sie würde verhütet haben, daß Vernunft nicht in praktischen Gebrauch ausschlüge und die Vermessenheit hätte, mit ihren schwachen Einsichten ihr selbst den Entwurf der Glückseligkeit und der Mittel dazu zu gelangen auszudenken; die Natur würde nicht allein die Wahl der Zwecke, sondern auch der Mittel selbst übernommen und beide mit weiser Vorsorge lediglich dem Instincte anvertraut haben.
In der That finden wir auch, daß, je mehr eine cultivirte Vernunft sich mit der Absicht auf den Genuß des Lebens und der Glückseligkeit abgiebt, desto weiter der Mensch von der wahren Zufriedenheit abkomme, woraus bei vielen und zwar den Versuchtesten im Gebrauche derselben, wenn sie nur aufrichtig genug sind, es zu gestehen, ein gewisser Grad von Misologie, d. i. Haß der Vernunft, entspringt, weil sie nach dem Überschlage alles Vortheils, den sie, ich will nicht sagen von der Erfindung aller Künste des gemeinen Luxus, sondern sogar von den Wissenschaften (die ihnen am Ende auch ein Luxus des Verstandes zu sein scheinen) ziehen, dennoch finden, daß sie sich in der That nur mehr Mühseligkeit auf
396 den Hals gezogen, als an Glückseligkeit gewonnen haben und darüber endlich den gemeinern Schlag der Menschen, welcher der Leitung des bloßen Naturinstincts näher ist, und der seiner Vernunft nicht viel Einfluß auf sein Thun und Lassen verstattet, eher beneiden als geringschätzen. Und so weit muß man gestehen, daß das Urtheil derer, die die ruhmredige Hochpreisungen der Vortheile, die uns die Vernunft in Ansehung der Glückseligkeit und Zufriedenheit des Lebens verschaffen sollte, sehr mäßigen und sogar unter Null herabsetzen, keinesweges grämisch, oder gegen die Güte der Weltregierung undankbar sei, sondern daß diesen Urtheilen insgeheim die Idee von einer andern und viel würdigern Absicht ihrer Existenz zum Grunde liege, zu welcher und nicht der Glückseligkeit die Vernunft ganz eigentlich bestimmt sei, und welcher darum als oberster Bedingung die Privatabsicht des Menschen größtentheils nachstehen muß.
Denn da die Vernunft dazu nicht tauglich genug ist, um den Willen in Ansehung der Gegenstände desselben und der Befriedigung aller unserer Bedürfnisse (die sie zum Theil selbst vervielfältigt) sicher zu leiten, als zu welchem Zwecke ein eingepflanzter Naturinstinct viel gewisser geführt haben würde, gleichwohl aber uns Vernunft als praktisches Vermögen, d. i. als ein solches, das Einfluß auf den Willen haben soll, dennoch zugetheilt ist: so muß die wahre Bestimmung derselben sein, einen nicht etwa in anderer Absicht als Mittel, sondern an sich selbst guten Willen hervorzubringen, wozu schlechterdings Vernunft nöthig war, wo anders die Natur überall in Austheilung ihrer Anlagen zweckmäßig zu Werke gegangen ist. Dieser Wille darf also zwar nicht das einzige und das ganze, aber er muß doch das höchste Gut und zu allem übrigen, selbst allem Verlangen nach Glückseligkeit die Bedingung sein, in welchem Falle es sich mit der Weisheit der Natur gar wohl vereinigen läßt, wenn man wahrnimmt, daß die Cultur der Vernunft, die zur erstern und unbedingten Absicht erforderlich ist, die Erreichung der zweiten, die jederzeit bedingt ist, nämlich der Glückseligkeit, wenigstens in diesem Leben auf mancherlei Weise einschränke, ja sie selbst unter Nichts herabbringen könne, ohne daß die Natur darin unzweckmäßig verfahre, weil die Vernunft, die ihre höchste praktische Bestimmung in der Gründung eines guten Willens erkennt, bei Erreichung dieser Absicht nur einer Zufriedenheit nach ihrer eigenen Art, nämlich aus der Erfüllung eines Zwecks, den wiederum nur Vernunft bestimmt, fähig ist, sollte dieses auch mit manchem Abbruch, der den Zwecken der Neigung geschieht, verbunden sein.
397 Um aber den Begriff eines an sich selbst hochzuschätzenden und ohne weitere Absicht guten Willens, so wie er schon dem natürlichen gesunden Verstande beiwohnt und nicht sowohl gelehrt als vielmehr nur aufgeklärt zu werden bedarf, diesen Begriff, der in der Schätzung des ganzen Werths unserer Handlungen immer obenan steht und die Bedingung alles übrigen ausmacht, zu entwickeln: wollen wir den Begriff der Pflicht vor uns nehmen, der den eines guten Willens, obzwar unter gewissen subjectiven Einschränkungen und Hindernissen, enthält, die aber doch, weit gefehlt daß sie ihn verstecken und unkenntlich machen sollten, ihn vielmehr durch Abstechung heben und desto heller hervorscheinen lassen.
Ich übergehe hier alle Handlungen, die schon als pflichtwidrig erkannt werden, ob sie gleich in dieser oder jener Absicht nützlich sein mögen; denn bei denen ist gar nicht einmal die Frage, ob sie aus Pflicht geschehen sein mögen, da sie dieser sogar widerstreiten. Ich setze auch die Handlungen bei Seite, die wirklich pflichtmäßig sind, zu denen aber Menschen unmittelbar keine Neigung haben, sie aber dennoch ausüben, weil sie durch eine andere Neigung dazu getrieben werden. Denn da läßt sich leicht unterscheiden, ob die pflichtmäßige Handlung aus Pflicht oder aus selbstsüchtiger Absicht geschehen sei. Weit schwerer ist dieser Unterschied zu bemerken, wo die Handlung pflichtmäßig ist und das Subject noch überdem unmittelbare Neigung zu ihr hat. Z. B. es ist allerdings pflichtmäßig, daß der Krämer seinen unerfahrnen Käufer nicht übertheure, und, wo viel Verkehr ist, thut dieses auch der kluge Kaufmann nicht, sondern hält einen festgesetzten allgemeinen Preis für jedermann, so daß ein Kind eben so gut bei ihm kauft, als jeder andere. Man wird also ehrlich bedient; allein das ist lange nicht genug, um deswegen zu glauben, der Kaufmann habe aus Pflicht und Grundsätzen der Ehrlichkeit so verfahren; sein Vortheil erforderte es; daß er aber überdem noch eine unmittelbare Neigung zu den Käufern haben sollte, um gleichsam aus Liebe keinem vor dem andern im Preise den Vorzug zu geben, läßt sich hier nicht annehmen. Also war die Handlung weder aus Pflicht, noch aus unmittelbarer Neigung, sondern bloß in eigennütziger Absicht geschehen.
Dagegen sein Leben zu erhalten, ist Pflicht, und überdem hat jedermann dazu noch eine unmittelbare Neigung. Aber um deswillen hat die oft ängstliche Sorgfalt, die der größte Theil der Menschen dafür trägt, doch keinen innern Werth und die Maxime derselben keinen moralischen
398 Gehalt. Sie bewahren ihr Leben zwar pflichtmäßig, aber nicht aus Pflicht. Dagegen wenn Widerwärtigkeiten und hoffnungsloser Gram den Geschmack am Leben gänzlich weggenommen haben; wenn der Unglückliche, stark an Seele, über sein Schicksal mehr entrüstet als kleinmüthig oder niedergeschlagen, den Tod wünscht und sein Leben doch erhält, ohne es zu lieben, nicht aus Neigung oder Furcht, sondern aus Pflicht: alsdann hat seine Maxime einen moralischen Gehalt.
Wohlthätig sein, wo man kann, ist Pflicht, und überdem giebt es manche so theilnehmend gestimmte Seelen, daß sie auch ohne einen andern Bewegungsgrund der Eitelkeit oder des Eigennutzes ein inneres Vergnügen daran finden, Freude um sich zu verbreiten, und die sich an der Zufriedenheit anderer, so fern sie ihr Werk ist, ergötzen können. Aber ich behaupte, daß in solchem Falle dergleichen Handlung, so pflichtmäßig, so liebenswürdig sie auch ist, dennoch keinen wahren sittlichen Werth habe, sondern mit andern Neigungen zu gleichen Paaren gehe, z. E. der Neigung nach Ehre, die, wenn sie glücklicherweise auf das trifft, was in der That gemeinnützig und pflichtmäßig, mithin ehrenwerth ist, Lob und Aufmunterung, aber nicht Hochschätzung verdient; denn der Maxime fehlt der sittliche Gehalt, nämlich solche Handlungen nicht aus Neigung, sondern aus Pflicht zu thun. Gesetzt also, das Gemüth jenes Menschenfreundes wäre vom eigenen Gram umwölkt, der alle Theilnehmung an anderer Schicksal auslöscht, er hätte immer noch Vermögen, andern Nothleidenden wohlzuthun, aber fremde Noth rührte ihn nicht, weil er mit seiner eigenen gnug beschäftigt ist, und nun, da keine Neigung ihn mehr dazu anreizt, risse er sich doch aus dieser tödtlichen Unempfindlichkeit heraus und thäte die Handlung ohne alle Neigung, lediglich aus Pflicht, alsdann hat sie allererst ihren ächten moralischen Werth. Noch mehr: wenn die Natur diesem oder jenem überhaupt wenig Sympathie ins Herz gelegt hätte, wenn er (übrigens ein ehrlicher Mann) von Temperament kalt und gleichgültig gegen die Leiden anderer wäre, vielleicht weil er, selbst gegen seine eigene mit der besondern Gabe der Geduld und aushaltenden Stärke versehen, dergleichen bei jedem andern auch voraussetzt, oder gar fordert; wenn die Natur einen solchen Mann (welcher wahrlich nicht ihr schlechtestes Product sein würde) nicht eigentlich zum Menschenfreunde gebildet hätte, würde er denn nicht noch in sich einen Quell finden, sich selbst einen weit höhern Werth zu geben, als der eines gutartigen Temperaments sein mag? Allerdings! gerade da hebt der Werth des Charakters an, der moralisch
399 und ohne alle Vergleichung der höchste ist, nämlich daß er wohlthue, nicht aus Neigung, sondern aus Pflicht.
Seine eigene Glückseligkeit sichern, ist Pflicht (wenigstens indirect), denn der Mangel der Zufriedenheit mit seinem Zustande in einem Gedränge von vielen Sorgen und mitten unter unbefriedigten Bedürfnissen könnte leicht eine große Versuchung zu Übertretung der Pflichten werden. Aber auch ohne hier auf Pflicht zu sehen, haben alle Menschen schon von selbst die mächtigste und innigste Neigung zur Glückseligkeit, weil sich gerade in dieser Idee alle Neigungen zu einer Summe vereinigen. Nur ist die Vorschrift der Glückseligkeit mehrentheils so beschaffen, daß sie einigen Neigungen großen Abbruch thut und doch der Mensch sich von der Summe der Befriedigung aller unter dem Namen der Glückseligkeit keinen bestimmten und sichern Begriff machen kann; daher nicht zu verwundern ist, wie eine einzige in Ansehung dessen, was sie verheißt, und der Zeit, worin ihre Befriedigung erhalten werden kann, bestimmte Neigung eine schwankende Idee überwiegen könne, und der Mensch, z. B. ein Podagrist, wählen könne, zu genießen, was ihm schmeckt, und zu leiden, was er kann, weil er nach seinem Überschlage hier wenigstens sich nicht durch vielleicht grundlose Erwartungen eines Glücks, das in der Gesundheit stecken soll, um den Genuß des gegenwärtigen Augenblicks gebracht hat. Aber auch in diesem Falle, wenn die allgemeine Neigung zur Glückseligkeit seinen Willen nicht bestimmte, wenn Gesundheit für ihn wenigstens nicht so nothwendig in diesen Überschlag gehörte, so bleibt noch hier wie in allen andern Fällen ein Gesetz übrig, nämlich seine Glückseligkeit zu befördern, nicht aus Neigung, sondern aus Pflicht, und da hat sein Verhalten allererst den eigentlichen moralischen Werth.
So sind ohne Zweifel auch die Schriftstellen zu verstehen, darin geboten wird, seinen Nächsten, selbst unsern Feind zu lieben. Denn Liebe als Neigung kann nicht geboten werden, aber Wohlthun aus Pflicht selbst, wenn dazu gleich gar keine Neigung treibt, ja gar natürliche und unbezwingliche Abneigung widersteht, ist praktische und nicht pathologische Liebe, die im Willen liegt und nicht im Hange der Empfindung, in Grundsätzen der Handlung und nicht schmelzender Theilnehmung; jene aber allein kann geboten werden.
Der zweite Satz ist: eine Handlung aus Pflicht hat ihren moralischen Werth nicht in der Absicht, welche dadurch erreicht werden soll, sondern in der Maxime, nach der sie beschlossen wird, hängt also nicht von
400 der Wirklichkeit des Gegenstandes der Handlung ab, sondern bloß von dem Princip des Wollens, nach welchem die Handlung unangesehen aller Gegenstände des Begehrungsvermögens geschehen ist. Daß die Absichten, die wir bei Handlungen haben mögen, und ihre Wirkungen, als Zwecke und Triebfedern des Willens, den Handlungen keinen unbedingten und moralischen Werth ertheilen können, ist aus dem vorigen klar. Worin kann also dieser Werth liegen, wenn er nicht im Willen in Beziehung auf deren verhoffte Wirkung bestehen soll? Er kann nirgend anders liegen, als im Princip des Willens unangesehen der Zwecke, die durch solche Handlung bewirkt werden können; denn der Wille ist mitten inne zwischen seinem Princip a priori, welches formell ist, und zwischen seiner Triebfeder a posteriori, welche materiell ist, gleichsam auf einem Scheidewege, und da er doch irgend wodurch muß bestimmt werden, so wird er durch das formelle Princip des Wollens überhaupt bestimmt werden müssen, wenn eine Handlung aus Pflicht geschieht, da ihm alles materielle Princip entzogen worden.
Den dritten Satz als Folgerung aus beiden vorigen würde ich so ausdrücken: Pflicht ist die Nothwendigkeit einer Handlung aus Achtung fürs Gesetz. Zum Objecte als Wirkung meiner vorhabenden Handlung kann ich zwar Neigung haben, aber niemals Achtung, eben darum weil sie bloß eine Wirkung und nicht Thätigkeit eines Willens ist. Eben so kann ich für Neigung überhaupt, sie mag nun meine oder eines andern seine sein, nicht Achtung haben, ich kann sie höchstens im ersten Falle billigen, im zweiten bisweilen selbst lieben, d. i. sie als meinem eigenen Vortheile günstig ansehen. Nur das, was bloß als Grund, niemals aber als Wirkung mit meinem Willen verknüpft ist, was nicht meiner Neigung dient, sondern sie überwiegt, wenigstens diese von deren Überschlage bei der Wahl ganz ausschließt, mithin das bloße Gesetz für sich kann ein Gegenstand der Achtung und hiemit ein Gebot sein. Nun soll eine Handlung aus Pflicht den Einfluß der Neigung und mit ihr jeden Gegenstand des Willens ganz absondern, also bleibt nichts für den Willen übrig, was ihn bestimmen könne, als objectiv das Gesetz und subjectiv reine Achtung für dieses praktische Gesetz, mithin die Maxime*), einem
*) Maxime ist das subjective Princip des Wollens; das objective Princip (d. i. dasjenige, was allen vernünftigen Wesen auch subjectiv zum praktischen Princip dienen würde, wenn Vernunft volle Gewalt über das Begehrungsvermögen hätte) ist das praktische Gesetz.
401 solchen Gesetze selbst mit Abbruch aller meiner Neigungen Folge zu leisten.
Es liegt also der moralische Werth der Handlung nicht in der Wirkung, die daraus erwartet wird, also auch nicht in irgend einem Princip der Handlung, welches seinen Bewegungsgrund von dieser erwarteten Wirkung zu entlehnen bedarf. Denn alle diese Wirkungen (Annehmlichkeit seines Zustandes, ja gar Beförderung fremder Glückseligkeit) konnten auch durch andere Ursachen zu Stande gebracht werden, und es brauchte also dazu nicht des Willens eines vernünftigen Wesens, worin gleichwohl das höchste und unbedingte Gute allein angetroffen werden kann. Es kann daher nichts anderes als die Vorstellung des Gesetzes an sich selbst, die freilich nur im vernünftigen Wesen stattfindet, so fern sie, nicht aber die verhoffte Wirkung der Bestimmungsgrund des Willens ist, das so vorzügliche Gute, welches wir sittlich nennen, ausmachen, welches in der Person selbst schon gegenwärtig ist, die darnach handelt, nicht aber allererst aus der Wirkung erwartet werden darf*).
*) Man könnte mir vorwerfen, als suchte ich hinter dem Worte Achtung nur Zuflucht in einem dunkelen Gefühle, anstatt durch einen Begriff der Vernunft in der Frage deutliche Auskunft zu geben. Allein wenn Achtung gleich ein Gefühl ist, so ist es doch kein durch Einfluß empfangenes, sondern durch einen Vernunftbegriff selbstgewirktes Gefühl und daher von allen Gefühlen der ersteren Art, die sich auf Neigung oder Furcht bringen lassen, specifisch unterschieden. Was ich unmittelbar als Gesetz für mich erkenne, erkenne ich mit Achtung, welche bloß das Bewußtsein der Unterordnung meines Willens unter einem Gesetze ohne Vermittelung anderer Einflüsse auf meinen Sinn bedeutet. Die unmittelbare Bestimmung des Willens durchs Gesetz und das Bewußtsein derselben heißt Achtung, so daß diese als Wirkung des Gesetzes aufs Subject und nicht als Ursache desselben angesehen wird. Eigentlich ist Achtung die Vorstellung von einem Werthe, der meiner Selbstliebe Abbruch thut. Also ist es etwas, was weder als Gegenstand der Neigung, noch der Furcht, betrachtet wird, obgleich es mit beiden zugleich etwas Analogisches hat. Der Gegenstand der Achtung ist also lediglich das Gesetz und zwar dasjenige, das wir uns selbst und doch als an sich nothwendig auferlegen. Als Gesetz sind wir ihm unterworfen, ohne die Selbstliebe zu befragen; als uns von uns selbst auferlegt, ist es doch eine Folge unsers Willens und hat in der ersten Rücksicht Analogie mit Furcht, in der zweiten mit Neigung. Alle Achtung für eine Person ist eigentlich nur Achtung fürs Gesetz (der Rechtschaffenheit etc.), wovon jene uns das Beispiel giebt. Weil wir Erweiterung unserer Talente auch als Pflicht ansehen, so stellen wir uns an einer Person von Talenten auch gleichsam das Beispiel eines Gesetzes vor (ihr durch Übung hierin ähnlich zu werden), und das macht unsere Achtung aus. Alles moralische so genannte Interesse besteht lediglich in der Achtung fürs Gesetz.
402 Was kann das aber wohl für ein Gesetz sein, dessen Vorstellung, auch ohne auf die daraus erwartete Wirkung Rücksicht zu nehmen, den Willen bestimmen muß, damit dieser schlechterdings und ohne Einschränkung gut heißen könne? Da ich den Willen aller Antriebe beraubet habe, die ihm aus der Befolgung irgend eines Gesetzes entspringen könnten, so bleibt nichts als die allgemeine Gesetzmäßigkeit der Handlungen überhaupt übrig, welche allein dem Willen zum Princip dienen soll, d. i. ich soll niemals anders verfahren als so, daß ich auch wollen könne, meine Maxime solle ein allgemeines Gesetz werden. Hier ist nun die bloße Gesetzmäßigkeit überhaupt (ohne irgend ein auf gewisse Handlungen bestimmtes Gesetz zum Grunde zu legen) das, was dem Willen zum Princip dient und ihm auch dazu dienen muß, wenn Pflicht nicht überall ein leerer Wahn und chimärischer Begriff sein soll; hiemit stimmt die gemeine Menschenvernunft in ihrer praktischen Beurtheilung auch vollkommen überein und hat das gedachte Princip jederzeit vor Augen.
Die Frage sei z. B.: darf ich, wenn ich im Gedränge bin, nicht ein Versprechen thun, in der Absicht, es nicht zu halten? Ich mache hier leicht den Unterschied, den die Bedeutung der Frage haben kann, ob es klüglich, oder ob es pflichtmäßig sei, ein falsches Versprechen zu thun. Das erstere kann ohne Zweifel öfters stattfinden. Zwar sehe ich wohl, daß es nicht gnug sei, mich vermittelst dieser Ausflucht aus einer gegenwärtigen Verlegenheit zu ziehen, sondern wohl überlegt werden müsse, ob mir aus dieser Lüge nicht hinterher viel größere Ungelegenheit entspringen könne, als die sind, von denen ich mich jetzt befreie, und da die Folgen bei aller meiner vermeinten Schlauigkeit nicht so leicht vorauszusehen sind, daß nicht ein einmal verlornes Zutrauen mir weit nachtheiliger werden könnte als alles Übel, das ich jetzt zu vermeiden gedenke, ob es nicht klüglicher gehandelt sei, hiebei nach einer allgemeinen Maxime zu verfahren und es sich zur Gewohnheit zu machen, nichts zu versprechen als in der Absicht, es zu halten. Allein es leuchtet mir hier bald ein, daß eine solche Maxime doch immer nur die besorglichen Folgen zum Grunde habe. Nun ist es doch etwas ganz anderes, aus Pflicht wahrhaft zu sein, als aus Besorgniß der nachtheiligen Folgen: indem im ersten Falle der Begriff der Handlung an sich selbst schon ein Gesetz für mich enthält, im zweiten ich mich allererst anderwärtsher umsehen muß, welche Wirkungen für mich nicht wohl damit verbunden sein möchten. Denn wenn ich von dem Princip der Pflicht abweiche, so ist es ganz gewiß böse; werde ich aber meiner Maxime der
403 Klugheit abtrünnig, so kann das mir doch manchmal sehr vortheilhaft sein, wiewohl es freilich sicherer ist, bei ihr zu bleiben. Um indessen mich in Ansehung der Beantwortung dieser Aufgabe, ob ein lügenhaftes Versprechen pflichtmäßig sei, auf die allerkürzeste und doch untrügliche Art zu belehren, so frage ich mich selbst: würde ich wohl damit zufrieden sein, daß meine Maxime (mich durch ein unwahres Versprechen aus Verlegenheit zu ziehen) als ein allgemeines Gesetz (sowohl für mich als andere) gelten solle, und würde ich wohl zu mir sagen können: es mag jedermann ein unwahres Versprechen thun, wenn er sich in Verlegenheit befindet, daraus er sich auf andere Art nicht ziehen kann? So werde ich bald inne, daß ich zwar die Lüge, aber ein allgemeines Gesetz zu lügen gar nicht wollen könne; denn nach einem solchen würde es eigentlich gar kein Versprechen geben, weil es vergeblich wäre, meinen Willen in Ansehung meiner künftigen Handlungen andern vorzugeben, die diesem Vorgeben doch nicht glauben, oder, wenn sie es übereilter Weise thäten, mich doch mit gleicher Münze bezahlen würden, mithin meine Maxime, so bald sie zum allgemeinen Gesetze gemacht würde, sich selbst zerstören müsse.
Was ich also zu thun habe, damit mein Wollen sittlich gut sei, dazu brauche ich gar keine weit ausholende Scharfsinnigkeit. Unerfahren in Ansehung des Weltlaufs, unfähig auf alle sich eräugnende Vorfälle desselben gefaßt zu sein, frage ich mich nur: Kannst du auch wollen, daß deine Maxime ein allgemeines Gesetz werde? Wo nicht, so ist sie verwerflich und das zwar nicht um eines dir oder auch anderen daraus bevorstehenden Nachtheils willen, sondern weil sie nicht als Princip in eine mögliche allgemeine Gesetzgebung passen kann; für diese aber zwingt mir die Vernunft unmittelbare Achtung ab, von der ich zwar jetzt noch nicht einsehe, worauf sie sich gründe (welches der Philosoph untersuchen mag), wenigstens aber doch so viel verstehe: daß es eine Schätzung des Werthes sei, welcher allen Werth dessen, was durch Neigung angepriesen wird, weit überwiegt, und daß die Nothwendigkeit meiner Handlungen aus reiner Achtung fürs praktische Gesetz dasjenige sei, was die Pflicht ausmacht, der jeder andere Bewegungsgrund weichen muß, weil sie die Bedingung eines an sich guten Willens ist, dessen Werth über alles geht.
So sind wir denn in der moralischen Erkenntniß der gemeinen Menschenvernunft bis zu ihrem Princip gelangt, welches sie sich zwar freilich nicht so in einer allgemeinen Form abgesondert denkt, aber doch jederzeit wirklich vor Augen hat und zum Richtmaße ihrer Beurtheilung braucht.
404 Es wäre hier leicht zu zeigen, wie sie mit diesem Compasse in der Hand in allen vorkommenden Fällen sehr gut Bescheid wisse, zu unterscheiden, was gut, was böse, pflichtmäßig, oder pflichtwidrig sei, wenn man, ohne sie im mindesten etwas Neues zu lehren, sie nur, wie Sokrates that, auf ihr eigenes Princip aufmerksam macht, und daß es also keiner Wissenschaft und Philosophie bedürfe, um zu wissen, was man zu thun habe, um ehrlich und gut, ja sogar um weise und tugendhaft zu sein. Das ließe sich auch wohl schon zum voraus vermuthen, daß die Kenntniß dessen, was zu thun, mithin auch zu wissen jedem Menschen obliegt, auch jedes, selbst des gemeinsten Menschen Sache sein werde. Hier kann man es doch nicht ohne Bewunderung ansehen, wie das praktische Beurtheilungsvermögen vor dem theoretischen im gemeinen Menschenverstande so gar viel voraus habe. In dem letztern, wenn die gemeine Vernunft es wagt, von den Erfahrungsgesetzen und den Wahrnehmungen der Sinne abzugehen, geräth sie in lauter Unbegreiflichkeiten und Widersprüche mit sich selbst, wenigstens in ein Chaos von Ungewißheit, Dunkelheit und Unbestand. Im praktischen aber fängt die Beurtheilungskraft dann eben allererst an, sich recht vortheilhaft zu zeigen, wenn der gemeine Verstand alle sinnliche Triebfedern von praktischen Gesetzen ausschließt. Er wird alsdann sogar subtil, es mag sein, daß er mit seinem Gewissen oder anderen Ansprüchen in Beziehung auf das, was recht heißen soll, chicaniren, oder auch den Werth der Handlungen zu seiner eigenen Belehrung aufrichtig bestimmen will, und, was das meiste ist, er kann im letzteren Falle sich eben so gut Hoffnung machen, es recht zu treffen, als es sich immer ein Philosoph versprechen mag, ja ist beinahe noch sicherer hierin, als selbst der letztere, weil dieser doch kein anderes Princip als jener haben, sein Urtheil aber durch eine Menge fremder, nicht zur Sache gehöriger Erwägungen leicht verwirren und von der geraden Richtung abweichend machen kann. Wäre es demnach nicht rathsamer, es in moralischen Dingen bei dem gemeinen Vernunfturtheil bewenden zu lassen und höchstens nur Philosophie anzubringen, um das System der Sitten desto vollständiger und faßlicher, imgleichen die Regeln derselben zum Gebrauche (noch mehr aber zum Disputiren) bequemer darzustellen, nicht aber um selbst in praktischer Absicht den gemeinen Menschenverstand von seiner glücklichen Einfalt abzubringen und ihn durch Philosophie auf einen neuen Weg der Untersuchung und Belehrung zu bringen?
Es ist eine herrliche Sache um die Unschuld, nur es ist auch wiederum
405 sehr schlimm, daß sie sich nicht wohl bewahren läßt und leicht verführt wird. Deswegen bedarf selbst die Weisheit—die sonst wohl mehr im Thun und Lassen, als im Wissen besteht—doch auch der Wissenschaft, nicht um von ihr zu lernen, sondern ihrer Vorschrift Eingang und Dauerhaftigkeit zu verschaffen. Der Mensch fühlt in sich selbst ein mächtiges Gegengewicht gegen alle Gebote der Pflicht, die ihm die Vernunft so hochachtungswürdig vorstellt, an seinen Bedürfnissen und Neigungen, deren ganze Befriedigung er unter dem Namen der Glückseligkeit zusammenfaßt. Nun gebietet die Vernunft, ohne doch dabei den Neigungen etwas zu verheißen, unnachlaßlich, mithin gleichsam mit Zurücksetzung und Nichtachtung jener so ungestümen und dabei so billig scheinenden Ansprüche (die sich durch kein Gebot wollen aufheben lassen) ihre Vorschriften. Hieraus entspringt aber eine natürliche Dialektik, d. i. ein Hang, wider jene strenge Gesetze der Pflicht zu vernünfteln und ihre Gültigkeit, wenigstens ihre Reinigkeit und Strenge in Zweifel zu ziehen und sie wo möglich unsern Wünschen und Neigungen angemessener zu machen, d. i. sie im Grunde zu verderben und um ihre ganze Würde zu bringen, welches denn doch selbst die gemeine praktische Vernunft am Ende nicht gut heißen kann.
So wird also die gemeine Menschenvernunft nicht durch irgend ein Bedürfniß der Speculation (welches ihr, so lange sie sich genügt, bloße gesunde Vernunft zu sein, niemals anwandelt), sondern selbst aus praktischen Gründen angetrieben, aus ihrem Kreise zu gehen und einen Schritt ins Feld einer praktischen Philosophie zu thun, um daselbst wegen der Quelle ihres Princips und richtigen Bestimmung desselben in Gegenhaltung mit den Maximen, die sich auf Bedürfniß und Neigung fußen, Erkundigung und deutliche Anweisung zu bekommen, damit sie aus der Verlegenheit wegen beiderseitiger Ansprüche herauskomme und nicht Gefahr laufe, durch die Zweideutigkeit, in die sie leicht geräth, um alle ächte sittliche Grundsätze gebracht zu werden. Also entspinnt sich eben sowohl in der praktischen gemeinen Vernunft, wenn sie sich cultivirt, unvermerkt eine Dialektik, welche sie nöthigt, in der Philosophie Hülfe zu suchen, als es ihr im theoretischen Gebrauche widerfährt, und die erstere wird daher wohl eben so wenig als die andere irgendwo sonst, als in einer vollständigen Kritik unserer Vernunft Ruhe finden.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the German of Akademie-Ausgabe IV 385–463, with Kant’s preface, three sections, page references and author’s notes. The German transcription was corrected against the 1911 page images.
393 First Section.
Transition from ordinary moral rational cognition to philosophical cognition.
Nothing anywhere in the world, or indeed beyond it, can possibly be conceived that could be held good without qualification except a good will. Understanding, wit, judgment, and whatever else the talents of the mind may be called, or courage, resolution, and perseverance in one's purpose as qualities of temperament, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many respects. Yet they can also become extremely evil and harmful if the will that is to make use of these natural gifts, and whose distinctive constitution is therefore called character, is not good. It is the same with the gifts of fortune. Power, wealth, honor, even health and that whole condition of well-being and contentment with one's state called happiness, give courage and often thereby arrogance as well, unless a good will is present to correct their influence on the mind and, with it, the entire principle of action, making it serve a universal purpose. Not to mention that a rational, impartial spectator can never take pleasure even in the sight of the uninterrupted prosperity of a being whom no trace of a pure and good will adorns. Thus a good will appears to be the indispensable condition even of worthiness to be happy.
Some qualities even favor this good will itself and can greatly ease its work, but nevertheless have no
394 inner, unconditional worth. They still presuppose a good will, which limits the high esteem we otherwise rightly hold for them and forbids us to regard them as good absolutely. Moderation in emotions and passions, self-control, and sober reflection are not only good in many respects, but even seem to constitute part of a person's inner worth. Yet they fall far short of being declared good without qualification, however unconditionally the ancients praised them. For without the principles of a good will they can become supremely evil, and a villain's cold blood makes him not only far more dangerous but also immediately more loathsome in our eyes than he would have been without it.
A good will is good not through what it effects or accomplishes, nor through its fitness to attain some proposed end, but through willing alone—that is, in itself. Considered in itself, it must be esteemed incomparably higher than everything it could ever bring about to satisfy any inclination, or even, if you will, the sum of all inclinations. Even if, through some particular disfavor of fate or the meager provision of a stepmotherly nature, this will wholly lacked the power to carry out its purpose; if, despite its utmost exertion, it accomplished nothing and only the good will remained—not, of course, as a mere wish, but as the mustering of every means within our power—it would still shine by itself like a jewel, as something that has its full worth within itself. Usefulness or fruitlessness can neither add to nor diminish this worth. Usefulness would be merely the setting, as it were, enabling us to handle the jewel better in ordinary dealings or to draw the attention of those who are not yet sufficiently discerning, but not to recommend it to connoisseurs or determine its worth.
Yet there is something so strange in this idea of the absolute worth of mere willing, with no account taken of usefulness in appraising it, that even though ordinary reason itself agrees with the idea, a suspicion must arise that perhaps some high-flown fantasy secretly lies beneath it, and that we may have misunderstood nature's purpose in assigning our will
395 reason as its governor. Let us therefore examine this idea from that point of view.
In the natural capacities of an organized being—that is, one arranged purposively for life—we take it as a principle that no instrument for any end is to be found in it unless that instrument is also the one best suited and most appropriate to that end. Now if, in a being endowed with reason and a will, its preservation, its well-being, in a word its happiness, were nature's true purpose, nature would have made a very poor arrangement in choosing the creature's reason to carry out that purpose. For all the actions it has to perform with this aim, and the whole rule of its conduct, would have been prescribed to it far more exactly by instinct, and that end could have been secured far more surely in that way than it ever can through reason. And if reason had nonetheless been granted to this favored creature, it would have had to serve only to contemplate the fortunate constitution of its nature, to admire it, to rejoice in it, and to give thanks for it to its beneficent cause—not to subject its faculty of desire to that weak and deceptive guidance and to bungle nature's purpose. In a word, nature would have prevented reason from venturing into practical use and presuming, with its weak insights, to devise for itself the plan of happiness and the means of reaching it. Nature would herself have undertaken the choice not only of ends but also of means, and with wise foresight would have entrusted both solely to instinct.
In fact, we also find that the more a cultivated reason concerns itself with the enjoyment of life and happiness, the further a human being departs from true contentment. From this there arises in many people, indeed in those most experienced in reason's use, if only they are candid enough to admit it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred of reason. For after reckoning all the advantage they derive—I will not say from the invention of all the arts of common luxury, but even from the sciences, which in the end also seem to them a luxury of the understanding—they nevertheless find that they have actually only brought more hardship upon
396 themselves than they have gained in happiness. They finally come to envy rather than despise the more ordinary sort of people, who remain closer to the guidance of mere natural instinct and allow their reason little influence over what they do or leave undone. To this extent we must concede that the judgment of those who greatly temper, and even reduce below zero, the boastful praises of the advantages reason was supposed to confer on us in happiness and contentment with life is by no means peevish or ungrateful to the goodness of the world's governance. Rather, these judgments secretly rest on the idea of another and far worthier purpose of their existence, for which, and not for happiness, reason is properly intended. The individual's private aim must therefore largely yield to this purpose as the supreme condition.
For reason is not sufficiently competent to guide the will securely concerning its objects and the satisfaction of all our needs, some of which it even multiplies itself. An implanted natural instinct would have led us far more surely toward that end. Yet reason has nonetheless been allotted to us as a practical faculty—that is, one that is to influence the will. Its true vocation must therefore be to produce a will that is good not as a means to some other purpose, but good in itself. For this, reason was absolutely necessary, if nature has everywhere proceeded purposively in distributing her capacities. This will need not, then, be the sole and complete good, but it must be the highest good and the condition of everything else, even of every desire for happiness. In that case it is entirely consistent with nature's wisdom to observe that the cultivation of reason required for the first and unconditional purpose restricts the attainment of the second, always conditional purpose—happiness—in many ways, at least in this life, and may even reduce it below nothing, without nature thereby acting inexpediently. For reason, which recognizes its highest practical vocation in establishing a good will, is capable, on attaining this purpose, only of a contentment of its own kind: contentment from fulfilling an end that reason alone determines, even if this should involve considerable harm to the ends of inclination.
397 To develop the concept of a will that is to be highly esteemed in itself and is good without any further purpose—a concept already present in natural, sound understanding, needing not so much to be taught as merely clarified, and always standing foremost in our appraisal of the whole worth of our actions as the condition of everything else—let us consider the concept of duty. It contains that of a good will, though under certain subjective limitations and hindrances. Far from concealing the good will and making it unrecognizable, these bring it out by contrast and let it shine all the more brightly.
I pass over all actions already recognized as contrary to duty, however useful they may be for one purpose or another. With these the question cannot even arise whether they might have been done from duty, since they actually conflict with it. I also set aside actions that really accord with duty but toward which people have immediately no inclination, performing them nonetheless because some other inclination drives them to do so. For here it is easy to distinguish whether the action in accordance with duty was done from duty or from a self-seeking purpose. The distinction is far harder to notice when the action accords with duty and the subject also has an immediate inclination toward it. For example, it certainly accords with duty that a shopkeeper should not overcharge an inexperienced customer. Where there is much trade, a prudent merchant does not do so either, but keeps a fixed general price for everyone, so that a child buys from him as well as anyone else. One is therefore served honestly. But this is far from sufficient to justify believing that the merchant acted in this way from duty and principles of honesty. His advantage required it. We cannot here assume that, besides this, he has an immediate inclination toward his customers, so as to favor none over another in price out of love, as it were. Thus the action was done neither from duty nor from immediate inclination, but solely from self-interest.
To preserve one's life, by contrast, is a duty, and everyone also has an immediate inclination to do so. Yet because of this, the often anxious care most people take of their lives has no inner worth, and its maxim no moral
398 content. They preserve their lives in accordance with duty, but not from duty. If, by contrast, adversity and hopeless grief have entirely taken away the taste for life; if the unfortunate person, strong in soul, more outraged by his fate than fainthearted or dejected, wishes for death yet preserves his life without loving it, not from inclination or fear but from duty, then his maxim has moral content.
To be beneficent where one can is a duty. Besides this, there are many souls so disposed to sympathy that, without any further motive of vanity or self-interest, they take an inner pleasure in spreading joy around them and can delight in the contentment of others insofar as it is their work. But I maintain that in such a case an action of this kind, however much it accords with duty and however lovable it may be, still has no true moral worth. It stands on the same footing as other inclinations, such as the inclination toward honor, which, when it fortunately lights on what is in fact beneficial to all and in accordance with duty, and therefore honorable, deserves praise and encouragement, but not high esteem. For the maxim lacks moral content: namely, to do such actions not from inclination but from duty. Suppose, then, that the mind of this philanthropist were clouded by his own grief, extinguishing all sympathy for the fate of others. He would still have the means to benefit others in distress, but their distress would not move him, because he is sufficiently occupied with his own. And now, when no inclination any longer prompts him, suppose he nevertheless tore himself out of this deathly insensibility and performed the action without any inclination, solely from duty: only then does it first have its genuine moral worth. More still: if nature had put little sympathy into the heart of one person or another; if, though otherwise an honest man, he were cold in temperament and indifferent to the sufferings of others, perhaps because, himself endowed with the particular gift of patience and enduring strength against his own sufferings, he presupposes or even demands the same in everyone else; if nature had not properly formed such a man, who would certainly not be her worst product, to be a philanthropist, would he not still find within himself a source from which to give himself a far higher worth than that of a good-natured temperament? Certainly! It is precisely here that the worth of character begins, which is moral
399 and incomparably the highest: namely, that he does good not from inclination, but from duty.
To secure one's own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly. For discontent with one's condition, amid a press of cares and unsatisfied needs, could easily become a great temptation to transgress one's duties. Yet even without regard to duty, all human beings already have of themselves the strongest and most intimate inclination toward happiness, because in this very idea all inclinations unite into a sum. But the prescription of happiness is usually such that it greatly impairs some inclinations, while a human being can form no definite and secure concept of the sum of the satisfaction of them all under the name of happiness. It is therefore no wonder that a single inclination, definite as to what it promises and the time when it can be satisfied, may outweigh a wavering idea. A person with gout, for instance, may choose to enjoy what tastes good to him and suffer what he can, because by his reckoning he has at least not deprived himself of the enjoyment of the present moment through perhaps groundless expectations of a happiness supposed to lie in health. But even in this case, if the general inclination toward happiness did not determine his will, if health at least did not enter so necessarily into his reckoning, a law would still remain, here as in every other case: to promote his happiness not from inclination but from duty. Only then does his conduct first have its proper moral worth.
This is undoubtedly also how we must understand the passages of Scripture that command us to love our neighbor, even our enemy. For love as an inclination cannot be commanded. But beneficence from duty, even when no inclination whatsoever prompts it, indeed when a natural and unconquerable aversion resists it, is practical rather than pathological love. It lies in the will, not in the tendency of feeling; in principles of action, not in melting sympathy. This alone can be commanded.
The second proposition is this: an action from duty has its moral worth not in the purpose to be attained through it, but in the maxim by which it is resolved upon. Its worth therefore depends not on
400 the actual existence of the action's object, but solely on the principle of willing according to which the action was performed, regardless of every object of the faculty of desire. It is clear from what has gone before that the purposes we may have in acting, and their effects as ends and incentives of the will, cannot confer unconditional and moral worth on actions. Where, then, can this worth lie, if it is not to consist in the will's relation to the expected effect? It can lie nowhere else than in the principle of the will, regardless of the ends that such an action can bring about. For the will stands, as it were, at a crossroads between its a priori principle, which is formal, and its a posteriori incentive, which is material. Since it must nevertheless be determined by something, when an action is done from duty it must be determined by the formal principle of willing as such, since every material principle has been taken away from it.
The third proposition, as a consequence of the two preceding ones, I would express as follows: duty is the necessity of an action from respect for the law. I can indeed have an inclination toward an object as the effect of my intended action, but never respect for it, precisely because it is merely an effect and not the activity of a will. Likewise I can have no respect for inclination as such, whether my own or another person's. At most I can approve it in the first case and sometimes even love it in the second—that is, regard it as favorable to my own advantage. Only what is connected with my will solely as a ground, never as an effect; what does not serve my inclination but outweighs it, or at least wholly excludes it from consideration in making a choice—that is, the law by itself—can be an object of respect and therefore a command. Now an action from duty must wholly set aside the influence of inclination and, with it, every object of the will. Nothing therefore remains that could determine the will except, objectively, the law and, subjectively, pure respect for this practical law: thus the maxim *) of obeying
*) A maxim is the subjective principle of willing. The objective principle—that is, what would also serve all rational beings subjectively as a practical principle if reason had complete authority over the faculty of desire—is the practical law.
401 such a law even at the cost of all my inclinations.
Thus the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect expected from it, nor therefore in any principle of action that needs to borrow its motive from this expected effect. For all these effects—comfort in one's condition, even the promotion of others' happiness—could also have been brought about by other causes, without requiring the will of a rational being, in which alone the highest and unconditional good can nevertheless be found. Therefore nothing other than the representation of the law in itself, which of course occurs only in a rational being, insofar as it rather than the expected effect determines the will, can constitute that preeminent good we call moral. This good is already present in the person who acts according to that representation; it must not first be awaited from the effect. *)
*) I might be accused of merely taking refuge, behind the word respect, in an obscure feeling, instead of giving a clear answer to the question through a concept of reason. But although respect is a feeling, it is not one received through influence, but a feeling self-produced through a concept of reason. It is therefore specifically distinct from all feelings of the first kind, which can be reduced to inclination or fear. What I recognize immediately as a law for myself I recognize with respect, which signifies merely the consciousness of the subordination of my will to a law, without the mediation of other influences on my sense. The immediate determination of the will by the law and the consciousness of this determination is called respect, so that respect is regarded as the effect of the law on the subject, not as its cause. Strictly speaking, respect is the representation of a worth that impairs my self-love. Thus it is something regarded as an object neither of inclination nor of fear, although it has something analogous to both. The object of respect is therefore solely the law, specifically the law that we impose on ourselves, yet as necessary in itself. As a law we are subject to it without consulting self-love; as imposed on us by ourselves, it is nevertheless a consequence of our will and has an analogy with fear in the first respect, with inclination in the second. All respect for a person is properly only respect for the law—of integrity, and so forth—of which that person gives us an example. Because we also regard the development of our talents as a duty, in a talented person we likewise represent to ourselves, as it were, the example of a law: to become like that person in this respect through practice. This constitutes our respect. All so-called moral interest consists solely in respect for the law.
402 But what kind of law can this be, whose representation must determine the will, even without regard to the effect expected from it, if that will is to be called good absolutely and without qualification? Since I have deprived the will of every incentive that might arise for it from obeying any law, nothing remains except the universal conformity of actions to law as such, which alone is to serve the will as its principle. That is, I ought never to act except so that I could also will my maxim to become a universal law. Here it is mere conformity to law as such, without grounding it on any particular law directed at certain actions, that serves the will as its principle, and must do so if duty is not to be everywhere an empty delusion and a chimerical concept. Ordinary human reason agrees entirely with this in its practical judgment and always keeps this principle in view.
Let the question be, for example: when I am in difficulty, may I not make a promise with the intention of not keeping it? Here I readily distinguish the two meanings the question may have: whether it is prudent, or whether it accords with duty, to make a false promise. The former can undoubtedly often be the case. I do indeed see that it is not enough to extricate myself from a present embarrassment by this evasion. I must consider carefully whether this lie may later give rise to far greater trouble than the difficulties from which I now escape. And since, with all my supposed shrewdness, the consequences are not so easy to foresee that a trust once lost could not prove far more harmful to me than all the evil I now intend to avoid, would it not be more prudent to act here on a universal maxim and make it my habit to promise nothing except with the intention of keeping it? But I soon see that such a maxim would still rest only on the consequences to be feared. Now to be truthful from duty is quite a different thing from being truthful out of concern for harmful consequences. In the first case the concept of the action already contains in itself a law for me; in the second, I must first look elsewhere for the effects that might be connected with it for me. For if I depart from the principle of duty, it is quite certainly evil. But if I abandon my maxim of
403 prudence, that may sometimes be very advantageous to me, although it is of course safer to remain with it. Yet to learn, in the shortest and still unerring way, the answer to the question whether a lying promise accords with duty, I ask myself: would I be content that my maxim—to extricate myself from difficulty through an untrue promise—should hold as a universal law, for others as well as myself? And could I say to myself: everyone may make an untrue promise when he finds himself in a difficulty from which he cannot extricate himself in any other way? I soon become aware that I can indeed will the lie, but cannot possibly will a universal law of lying. For under such a law there would properly be no promising at all, since it would be futile to profess to others my will regarding my future actions. They would not believe this profession, or, if they rashly did, would repay me in the same coin. Thus my maxim, as soon as it was made a universal law, would necessarily destroy itself.
To know what I must do so that my willing may be morally good, I therefore need no far-reaching acuteness. Inexperienced in the course of the world, unable to be prepared for every event that may arise in it, I ask myself only: can you also will that your maxim become a universal law? If not, it must be rejected, not because of any disadvantage that may result to you or to others, but because it cannot fit as a principle into a possible universal legislation. For such legislation, however, reason compels immediate respect from me. Although I do not yet see on what that respect rests—the philosopher may investigate that—I at least understand this much: it is the appraisal of a worth that far outweighs all the worth of whatever inclination recommends. And the necessity of my actions from pure respect for the practical law is what constitutes duty, before which every other motive must yield, because it is the condition of a will good in itself, whose worth surpasses everything.
We have thus reached the principle of ordinary human reason's moral cognition. Ordinary reason admittedly does not think of this principle separately in such a universal form, yet always actually has it before its eyes and uses it as the standard of its judgment.
404 It would be easy to show here how, with this compass in hand, ordinary reason knows very well in every case how to distinguish what is good and what is evil, what accords with duty and what opposes it, if, without teaching it anything new, we merely draw its attention to its own principle, as Socrates did, and how it follows that no science or philosophy is needed to know what one must do to be honest and good, or even wise and virtuous. We might well have presumed beforehand that knowledge of what everyone is obliged to do, and therefore also to know, would fall within the reach of everyone, even the most ordinary person. Yet here we cannot help admiring how greatly the practical faculty of judgment surpasses the theoretical in ordinary human understanding. In the latter, when ordinary reason ventures to depart from the laws of experience and the perceptions of the senses, it falls into sheer incomprehensibility and contradiction with itself, or at least into a chaos of uncertainty, obscurity, and instability. But in practical matters the faculty of judgment first begins to show its true advantage when ordinary understanding excludes all incentives of sense from practical laws. It then even becomes subtle, whether it wishes to quibble with its conscience or with other claims about what is to be called right, or sincerely to determine the worth of actions for its own instruction. Most importantly, in this last case it may hope to arrive at the right result as confidently as any philosopher, indeed almost more securely than the philosopher himself. For the philosopher can have no other principle than ordinary understanding, but can easily confuse his judgment with a host of foreign considerations irrelevant to the subject, and make it deviate from its straight course. Would it not therefore be wiser, in moral matters, to leave things to the judgment of ordinary reason, and at most introduce philosophy only to present the system of morals more completely and intelligibly, and its rules more conveniently for use, though still more for disputation, rather than to draw ordinary human understanding away from its fortunate simplicity even for practical purposes, and through philosophy set it on a new path of inquiry and instruction?
Innocence is a splendid thing, but it is also
405 very unfortunate that it cannot readily be preserved and is easily led astray. Thus even wisdom—which otherwise consists more in doing and refraining than in knowing—also needs science, not to learn from it, but to give its prescription entrance and durability. In his needs and inclinations, whose complete satisfaction he gathers together under the name of happiness, a human being feels within himself a powerful counterweight to all the commands of duty that reason presents to him as so worthy of respect. Now reason issues its prescriptions relentlessly, without promising anything to the inclinations, thus as it were setting aside and disregarding those impetuous claims that seem so reasonable, and that no command will make disappear. From this, however, there arises a natural dialectic: a tendency to quibble sophistically against those strict laws of duty and cast doubt on their validity, or at least their purity and rigor, and if possible make them more suited to our wishes and inclinations—that is, to corrupt them in effect and rob them of their entire dignity, which in the end even ordinary practical reason cannot approve.
Thus ordinary human reason is driven, not by any speculative need—which never occurs to it so long as it is content to be merely sound reason—but on practical grounds themselves, to leave its own circle and take a step into the field of practical philosophy. There it seeks information and clear instruction about the source of its principle and the correct determination of that principle in comparison with maxims grounded in need and inclination. In this way it may escape its predicament over the claims on both sides, and avoid the danger of losing every genuine moral principle through the ambiguity into which it so easily falls. Thus, as ordinary practical reason cultivates itself, a dialectic also develops in it unnoticed, just as happens in its theoretical use, forcing it to seek help in philosophy. The former, therefore, will probably find rest nowhere except in a complete critique of our reason, any more than the latter will.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation, made independently and directly from the same German, with every section, page reference and author’s note.
393 First Section
Transition from ordinary moral cognition by reason to philosophical cognition
Nothing anywhere in the world, or even beyond it, can be thought of as good without qualification except a good will. Understanding, wit, judgment, and whatever else the mind's talents may be called, or courage, determination, and persistence in a purpose as qualities of temperament, are certainly good and desirable in many ways. But they can also become extremely bad and harmful if the will that is to use these natural gifts is not good. The distinctive makeup of this will is therefore called character. The same holds for the gifts of fortune. Power, wealth, honor, even health and the whole sense of well-being and satisfaction with one's condition that goes by the name of happiness, give us courage, and often arrogance as well, where no good will is present to correct their influence on the mind, and with it the whole principle of acting, and to make that principle fit for purposes in general. There is also this to consider: a reasonable, impartial observer can never take pleasure even in the sight of the uninterrupted prosperity of someone who shows no sign of a pure and good will. So a good will seems to be the indispensable condition even of being worthy of happiness.
Some qualities even help this good will itself and can make its work much easier. But despite that,
394 they have no intrinsic, unconditional worth. They still presuppose a good will, which limits the high regard we otherwise rightly have for them and does not let us count them as good without qualification. Moderation in emotions and passions, self-control, and sober reflection are not only good in many ways. They even seem to form part of a person's intrinsic worth. Yet they are far from being good without qualification, however unconditionally the ancient thinkers praised them. Without the principles of a good will, they can become extremely bad. A villain's coolness makes him not only far more dangerous but also, in our eyes, directly more detestable than we would have thought him without it.
A good will is not good because of what it achieves or accomplishes, or because it is fit to achieve some proposed purpose. It is good only because of its willing—that is, good in itself. Considered on its own, it deserves to be valued incomparably more highly than anything it could ever bring about to satisfy some inclination, or even, if you like, the sum of all inclinations. Suppose that unusually bad luck, or the meager resources supplied by a nature acting like a neglectful stepmother, left this will completely unable to carry out its intention. Suppose that despite its greatest efforts it accomplished nothing, and only the good will remained—not, of course, as a mere wish, but as the use of every means within our power. It would still shine like a jewel, on its own, as something that has its full worth in itself. Usefulness or failure to produce results can neither add to nor subtract from that worth. Usefulness would be only the setting, so to speak, making the jewel easier to handle in everyday dealings or drawing the attention of those who are not yet knowledgeable enough. It would not recommend it to those who know its worth or determine that worth.
Still, there is something so strange in this idea of the absolute worth of a will alone, with no account taken of its usefulness, that a suspicion must arise, even though ordinary reason itself fully agrees with the idea. Perhaps nothing but high-flown fantasy secretly underlies it, and perhaps we have misunderstood nature's purpose in giving our will
395 reason as its governor. So let us examine this idea from that point of view.
When we consider the natural makeup of an organized being—that is, one arranged to serve the purposes of life—we take this as a principle: no instrument for any purpose is found in it unless that instrument is also the best suited and most appropriate to that purpose. Now suppose that, for a being with reason and a will, nature's real purpose were its preservation, its well-being, in a word, its happiness. Then nature would have made a very poor choice in selecting the creature's reason to carry out this intention. Instinct would have laid out all the actions it needed to perform for this purpose, and the whole rule of its conduct, far more precisely. Instinct could have achieved that purpose far more reliably than reason ever can. And if reason had been given to this favored creature as an added gift, it would have had to serve only to reflect on the fortunate arrangement of its nature, to admire and enjoy it, and to be grateful for it to the beneficent cause. It would not have served to subject its ability to desire to that weak and misleading guidance and to tamper with nature's purpose. In short, nature would have prevented reason from breaking out into practical use and having the presumption to devise, with its limited insight, its own plan for happiness and the means of reaching it. Nature would have taken on the choice not only of purposes but also of means, and with wise foresight would have entrusted both to instinct alone.
In fact, we also find that the more a cultivated reason concerns itself with enjoying life and achieving happiness, the further a person gets from true contentment. In many people, especially those most experienced in using reason, this produces a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred of reason—if only they are honest enough to admit it. They add up all the advantages they gain—I will not say merely from the invention of all the arts of ordinary luxury, but even from the sciences, which in the end also seem to them to be a luxury of the understanding. Yet they find that they have actually burdened themselves with more hardship
396 than they have gained in happiness. In the end they are more likely to envy than to look down on the more ordinary sort of people, who stay closer to the guidance of natural instinct alone and allow their reason little influence on what they do or leave undone. We must at least admit this much: the judgment of those who greatly reduce, or even reduce below zero, the boastful estimates of the advantages reason was supposed to bring us in happiness and contentment with life is by no means sour or ungrateful toward the goodness of the world's governance. Rather, these judgments rest on a hidden idea of another, much worthier purpose for their existence. Reason is properly meant for that purpose, not for happiness. As the highest condition, that purpose must therefore take precedence over people's private aims for the most part.
For reason is not capable enough to guide the will reliably in dealing with its objects and in satisfying all our needs—some of which reason itself multiplies—while an inborn natural instinct would have led far more reliably to that goal. Yet reason has still been given to us as a practical ability, that is, as one meant to influence the will. So its true role must be to produce not a will that is good merely as a means to some other purpose, but a will that is good in itself. For that, reason was absolutely necessary, if nature has indeed acted purposefully throughout in distributing its capacities. So this will need not be the only and the complete good. But it must be the highest good, and the condition of everything else, even of every desire for happiness. In that case, the following observation fits quite well with nature's wisdom. The cultivation of reason needed for the first, unconditional purpose can limit the achievement of the second, always conditional purpose—happiness—in many ways, at least in this life. It can even reduce happiness below zero, without nature acting against its purpose in doing so. For reason recognizes that its highest practical role is to establish a good will. In reaching this goal it is capable only of a contentment of its own kind: contentment from fulfilling a purpose that, again, only reason determines. This holds even if doing so involves many setbacks to the purposes of inclination.
397 Let us now develop the concept of a will that deserves high regard in itself and is good without any further purpose. This concept is already present in natural, sound understanding and needs not so much to be taught as simply to be made clear. It always comes first in assessing the whole worth of our actions and is the condition of everything else. To develop it, we will consider the concept of duty. Duty contains the concept of a good will, though under certain subjective limits and obstacles. Far from hiding that good will and making it unrecognizable, these limits and obstacles bring it out by contrast and let it shine all the more brightly.
I pass over here all actions already recognized as contrary to duty, even if they may be useful for one purpose or another. With these, there is no question whether they might have been done from duty, since they actually conflict with it. I also set aside actions that really do accord with duty but toward which people have immediately no inclination, although they still perform them because another inclination drives them to do so. Here it is easy to tell whether the action that accords with duty was done from duty or for a selfish purpose. This distinction is much harder to notice when the action accords with duty and the person also has an immediate inclination toward it. For example, a shopkeeper certainly acts in accordance with duty by not overcharging an inexperienced buyer. Where there is a lot of trade, a sensible merchant does not overcharge either. Instead, he keeps a fixed general price for everyone, so that a child buys from him on the same terms as anyone else. People are therefore served honestly. But that is far from enough to make us believe that the merchant acted from duty and principles of honesty. His own advantage required it. We cannot assume here that he also had an immediate inclination toward his customers, so that, out of love as it were, he would give no one a better price than anyone else. So the action was done neither from duty nor from immediate inclination, but simply for personal gain.
By contrast, preserving one's life is a duty, and everyone also has an immediate inclination to do so. But the care, often full of anxiety, that most people take to preserve it still has no intrinsic worth, and the maxim behind it has no moral
398 content. They preserve their lives in accordance with duty, but not from duty. But suppose misfortunes and hopeless grief have completely taken away someone's taste for life. This unhappy person, strong in spirit and more outraged at his fate than fainthearted or dejected, wishes for death. Yet he preserves his life without loving it, not from inclination or fear but from duty. Then his maxim has moral content.
To help others when one can is a duty. Besides this, some people are so sympathetic by disposition that, even without any further motive of vanity or self-interest, they take an inner pleasure in spreading joy around them. They can delight in other people's contentment insofar as they have brought it about. But I maintain that in such a case an action of this kind, however much it accords with duty and however lovable it is, still has no true moral worth. It ranks alongside other inclinations, such as the inclination toward honor. When that inclination fortunately happens to aim at what really benefits everyone and accords with duty, and is therefore honorable, it deserves praise and encouragement, but not high regard. For the maxim lacks moral content, namely that of doing such actions not from inclination but from duty. Suppose, then, that the mind of this friend of humanity was clouded by his own grief, extinguishing all sympathy for the fate of others. He still had the means to help others in distress, but their distress did not move him because he was sufficiently occupied with his own. Now, when no inclination any longer prompted him to do it, suppose he nevertheless tore himself out of this deadly numbness and performed the action without any inclination, solely from duty. Only then does it have its genuine moral worth. More than that: suppose nature had put little sympathy at all into someone's heart. Suppose he was an honest man in other respects, but by temperament cold and indifferent to others' suffering—perhaps because, specially gifted with patience and endurance in facing his own, he assumes or even demands the same in everyone else. If nature had not really made such a man a friend of humanity—and he would certainly not be its worst product—would he not still find within himself a source from which to give himself a far higher worth than a good-natured temperament could have? Certainly! It is precisely here that the worth of character begins. This worth is moral
399 and, beyond all comparison, the highest. It lies in his helping others not from inclination but from duty.
Securing one's own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly. For discontent with one's condition, under the pressure of many worries and amid unsatisfied needs, could easily become a great temptation to violate one's duties. But even without considering duty here, all people already have the strongest and deepest inclination toward happiness, because it is precisely in this idea that all inclinations join together into a sum. Yet the prescription for happiness is usually such that it greatly interferes with some inclinations. At the same time, people cannot form a definite, reliable concept of the combined satisfaction of all inclinations under the name of happiness. So it is no surprise that a single inclination, definite in what it promises and in when it can be satisfied, can outweigh an uncertain idea. A person with gout, for example, can choose to enjoy what tastes good to him and suffer what he can bear. By his reckoning, he has at least not deprived himself of the present moment's enjoyment because of possibly groundless expectations of a happiness supposedly found in health. But even in this case, if the general inclination toward happiness did not determine his will, and if health, at least for him, did not figure so necessarily in his reckoning, a law still remains, here as in every other case: to promote his happiness not from inclination but from duty. Only then does his conduct have genuine moral worth.
This is certainly also how we should understand the passages of scripture that command us to love our neighbor, even our enemy. Love as an inclination cannot be commanded. But helping others from duty, even when no inclination at all prompts it, and even when a natural, unconquerable aversion opposes it, is practical, not pathological, love. It lies in the will, not in a tendency of feeling; in principles of action, not in tender sympathy. Only the former can be commanded.
The second proposition is this: an action from duty has its moral worth not in the purpose it is meant to achieve, but in the maxim by which it is decided on. So it does not depend on
400 the actual existence of the action's object, but only on the principle of willing by which the action was done, without regard to any objects of the ability to desire. What came before makes this clear: the purposes we may have in acting, and the effects of our actions, as goals and incentives of the will, cannot give actions unconditional, moral worth. Where, then, can this worth lie, if it is not to consist in the will's relation to the hoped-for effect? It can lie nowhere else but in the principle of the will, without regard to the purposes such an action can bring about. For the will stands between its a priori principle, which concerns form, and its a posteriori incentive, which concerns content, as if at a crossroads. Since something must determine it, it must be determined by the formal principle of willing in general when an action is done from duty, because every principle based on content has been taken away from it.
I would express the third proposition, as a consequence of the first two, like this: Duty is the necessity of an action from respect for the law. I can certainly have an inclination toward an object as the effect of my intended action, but never respect, precisely because it is only an effect and not an activity of a will. Likewise, I cannot have respect for inclination in general, whether my own or someone else's. At most, I can approve of it in the first case and sometimes even love it in the second—that is, see it as favorable to my own advantage. Only something connected with my will solely as a ground, never as an effect, can be an object of respect and thus a command. It must not serve my inclination but outweigh it, or at least entirely exclude inclination from being counted when a choice is made. Thus only the law by itself can be such an object. Now, an action from duty must completely set aside the influence of inclination, and with it every object of the will. So nothing remains that can determine the will except, objectively, the law and, subjectively, pure respect for this practical law—and therefore the maxim*) of
*) A maxim is the subjective principle of willing. The objective principle—that is, the one that would also serve subjectively as a practical principle for all rational beings if reason had complete power over the ability to desire—is the practical law.
401 following such a law even at the expense of all my inclinations.
So an action's moral worth does not lie in the effect expected from it, nor, therefore, in any principle of action that needs to borrow its motive from this expected effect. For all these effects—a pleasant condition for oneself, even the promotion of other people's happiness—could also have been brought about by other causes. They would not have needed the will of a rational being, even though only in that will can the highest, unconditional good be found. Therefore nothing but the idea of the law in itself, which of course occurs only in a rational being, can make up that outstanding good we call moral, insofar as this idea, not the hoped-for effect, determines the will. This good is already present in the person who acts according to that idea. It must not be expected only from the effect.*)
*) Someone might object that, behind the word respect, I am only taking refuge in an obscure feeling instead of giving a clear answer to the question through a concept of reason. But although respect is a feeling, it is not one received through an influence. It is a feeling produced by oneself through a concept of reason. So it differs in kind from all feelings of the first sort, which can be reduced to inclination or fear. What I directly recognize as a law for myself, I recognize with respect. Respect means only the awareness that my will is subordinated to a law, without any other influences on my feelings intervening. The direct determination of the will by the law, and the awareness of it, is called respect. So respect is regarded as the effect of the law on the subject, not as its cause. Strictly speaking, respect is the idea of a worth that diminishes my self-love. It is therefore something regarded as an object neither of inclination nor of fear, though it has something analogous to both at once. The object of respect is thus only the law, specifically the law that we impose on ourselves, yet impose as necessary in itself. As a law, we are subject to it without consulting self-love. As imposed on us by ourselves, it is nevertheless a consequence of our will. In the first respect it is analogous to fear; in the second, to inclination. All respect for a person is really only respect for the law—of integrity, and so on—of which that person gives us an example. Because we also see the development of our talents as a duty, in a talented person we also picture, so to speak, the example of a law: to become like that person in this respect through practice. This is what makes up our respect. All so-called moral interest consists solely in respect for the law.
402 But what sort of law can this be, whose idea must determine the will, even without regard to the effect expected from it, if the will is to be called good absolutely and without qualification? I have taken away from the will every incentive that could come to it from following any law. So nothing remains but the universal conformity of actions to law as such, which alone is to serve as the will's principle. That is, I must never act except in such a way that I can also will that my maxim should become a universal law. Here, then, simply conforming to law as such—without taking as a basis any law directed at particular actions—is what serves, and must serve, as the will's principle, unless duty is to be nothing but an empty delusion and an imaginary concept. Ordinary human reason agrees completely with this in its practical judgments and always keeps this principle in view.
Suppose, for example, the question is this: when I am in a tight spot, may I make a promise with the intention of not keeping it? I can easily distinguish two possible meanings of the question: whether making a false promise is prudent, or whether it accords with duty. The first can certainly often be the case. I do see that it is not enough to get myself out of a present difficulty by this evasion. I must carefully consider whether this lie might later create much greater difficulties for me than those I am now escaping. Despite all my supposed cleverness, the consequences are not so easy to foresee that losing people's trust once could not harm me far more than all the trouble I now intend to avoid. So I must consider whether it would not be more prudent to follow a general maxim here and make a habit of promising nothing except with the intention of keeping it. But I soon see that such a maxim still rests only on the consequences I fear. Now, being truthful from duty is something quite different from being truthful out of fear of harmful consequences. In the first case, the concept of the action itself already contains a law for me. In the second, I must first look elsewhere to find what effects might be connected with it that would be unwelcome to me. For if I depart from the principle of duty, that is quite certainly bad. But if I abandon my maxim of
403 prudence, that may sometimes be very advantageous to me, although it is certainly safer to stay with it. Still, there is a very short and yet reliable way to answer the question whether a lying promise accords with duty. I ask myself: would I really be satisfied if my maxim—to get myself out of a difficulty through an untrue promise—were to hold as a universal law for me as well as for others? Could I really say to myself: everyone may make an untrue promise when they are in a difficulty they cannot escape in any other way? I soon realize that I can indeed will the lie, but I cannot will a universal law to lie. For under such a law there would really be no promises at all. It would be pointless to tell others what I claim to intend to do in the future. They would not believe the claim, or, if they rashly did, they would pay me back in the same coin. So my maxim would have to destroy itself as soon as it was made a universal law.
I therefore need no great sharpness of mind to know what I must do for my willing to be morally good. Inexperienced in the ways of the world, unable to be prepared for every event that happens in it, I ask myself only: can you also will that your maxim should become a universal law? If not, it must be rejected. This is not because of any harm it threatens to you or even to others, but because it cannot fit as a principle into a possible system of universal lawmaking. Reason compels me to have immediate respect for such lawmaking. I do not yet see what that respect rests on—the philosopher may investigate that—but I at least understand this much: it is an assessment of worth that far outweighs all the worth of anything recommended by inclination. And the necessity of my actions from pure respect for the practical law is what makes up duty. Every other motive must give way to duty, because it is the condition of a will good in itself, whose worth surpasses everything.
So in the moral knowledge of ordinary human reason we have reached its principle. Admittedly, ordinary reason does not think of it separately in this general form. Yet it always really has it in view and uses it as the standard for its judgments.
404 It would be easy to show how, with this compass in hand, ordinary reason knows very well how to distinguish in every case that arises what is good, what is bad, what accords with duty, and what is contrary to duty. We need only draw its attention to its own principle, as Socrates did without teaching it anything new at all, and how it follows that no science or philosophy is needed to know what one must do to be honest and good, or even wise and virtuous. We could well have expected this in advance: knowledge of what every person is obliged to do, and therefore also to know, will be within the reach of everyone, even the most ordinary person. Yet here we cannot help admiring how far the ability to judge in practical matters surpasses the ability to judge in theoretical matters in ordinary human understanding. In theoretical matters, when ordinary reason dares to leave the laws of experience and the perceptions of the senses behind, it falls into nothing but incomprehensible ideas and contradictions with itself, or at least into a chaos of uncertainty, obscurity, and instability. In practical matters, by contrast, the power of judgment only really begins to show itself to advantage when ordinary understanding excludes all incentives from the senses from practical laws. It then even becomes subtle. It may try to quibble with its conscience or with other claims about what should count as right; or it may sincerely try to determine the worth of actions for its own instruction. Most importantly, in the latter case it can hope to get things right just as much as any philosopher could. Indeed, it is almost more reliable in this than even the philosopher. For the philosopher can have no other principle than ordinary understanding does, but can easily confuse his judgment with a host of outside considerations that have nothing to do with the issue and lead it away from the straight path. Would it not, then, be wiser to leave moral matters to the judgment of ordinary reason? At most, we could bring in philosophy to present the system of morality more fully and clearly, and its rules in a form more convenient for use, and still more for debate. But we would not use philosophy, even for practical purposes, to lead ordinary human understanding away from its fortunate simplicity and onto a new path of inquiry and instruction.
Innocence is a splendid thing. But it is also
405 very unfortunate that it is hard to preserve and easily led astray. That is why even wisdom—which otherwise consists more in what we do and leave undone than in what we know—still needs science, not to learn from it, but to give its prescriptions acceptance and lasting force. In our needs and inclinations we feel a powerful counterweight to all the commands of duty that reason presents to us as so worthy of respect. We bring together the full satisfaction of these needs and inclinations under the name of happiness. Now reason issues its prescriptions without relenting, yet without promising anything to the inclinations. It thus seems to set aside and disregard their demands, which are so forceful and at the same time seem so reasonable, and which refuse to be canceled by any command. This gives rise to a natural dialectic: a tendency to reason sophistically against those strict laws of duty, to cast doubt on their validity, or at least their purity and strictness, and, if possible, to make them better suit our wishes and inclinations. That means, at bottom, corrupting them and robbing them of all their dignity—something that even ordinary practical reason cannot ultimately approve.
So ordinary human reason is driven to go beyond its own sphere and take a step into the field of practical philosophy. It is not driven by any need for speculation, which never comes over it as long as it is content to be simply sound reason. Rather, it is driven by practical grounds themselves. There it seeks information and clear guidance about the source of its principle and how to determine that principle correctly when set against maxims based on need and inclination. In this way it can escape its difficulty over the claims on both sides, without risking the loss of all genuine moral principles through the ambiguity into which it easily falls. Thus, as ordinary practical reason develops, a dialectic arises unnoticed within it, just as happens in its theoretical use, forcing it to seek help in philosophy. So practical reason, like theoretical reason, will probably find rest nowhere except in a complete critique of our reason.
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