Part II, Section III, Chapter I

Section III: On the influence of fortune upon human judgments of the merit or demerit of actions. Introduction. Any praise or blame due to an action must belong either, first, to the intention or feeling of the heart from which it springs; second, to the outward act or bodily movement prompted by that feeling; or, finally, to all the good or bad consequences that actually follow from it. These three things make up the entire nature and circumstances of an action, and must ground whatever quality we attribute to it. It is abundantly clear that the last two cannot ground praise or blame; indeed, nobody has ever maintained the contrary. The outward act or bodily movement is often identical in the most innocent and the most blameworthy actions. The person who shoots a bird and the person who shoots a man perform the same outward movement: each pulls the trigger of a gun. The consequences that actually follow an action are, if anything, still less relevant to praise or blame than the body's outward movement. They depend not on the agent but on fortune, and therefore cannot properly ground a judgment concerning his character and conduct. The only consequences for which he can be answerable, or through which he can deserve approval or disapproval of any kind, are those he intended in some way, or those that at least reveal something agreeable or disagreeable about the intention of the heart from which he acted. Thus all praise or blame, all approval or disapproval that can justly be given to an action, must ultimately belong to the heart's intention or feeling: to the propriety or impropriety, the beneficence or harmfulness, of the design. Stated in these abstract and general terms, this principle wins everyone's agreement. Its evident justice is universally acknowledged, without a dissenting voice. Everyone grants that however different the accidental, unintended, and unforeseen consequences of two actions may be, if the intentions or feelings behind them were equally proper and beneficent, or equally improper and malevolent, the actions retain the same merit or demerit; their agents remain equally fit objects of gratitude or resentment. Yet however convinced we seem of this fair principle in the abstract, in particular cases the actual consequences of an action powerfully influence our judgment of its merit or demerit, almost always increasing or diminishing our sense of both. Perhaps hardly a single judgment, on examination, will prove entirely governed by the rule we all admit ought to govern it entirely. I shall now explain this irregularity of feeling, which everyone experiences, hardly anyone sufficiently notices, and no one is willing to acknowledge. I shall consider first its cause, or the mechanism by which nature produces it; second, the extent of its influence; and last, the end it serves, or the purpose the Author of nature seems to have intended for it.

On the causes of fortune's influence.

Whatever causes pain or pleasure, and however it acts, seems in all animals to be what immediately arouses gratitude and resentment. Inanimate things excite these passions as well as living ones. For a moment we are angry even at the stone that hurts us. A child beats it, a dog barks at it, and a hot-tempered man is apt to curse it. The slightest reflection corrects this feeling, and we soon recognize that a thing without feeling is a very unsuitable object of revenge. But when the injury is very great, its cause remains hateful to us afterward, and we take pleasure in burning or destroying it. We would treat in this way the instrument that accidentally caused a friend's death, and often feel guilty of a kind of inhumanity if we failed to vent this absurd vengeance upon it.

In the same way we feel a sort of gratitude toward inanimate things that have given us great or repeated pleasure. A sailor who, immediately on reaching shore, fed his fire with the plank that had just saved him from a shipwreck would seem to act unnaturally. We would expect him instead to preserve it with care and affection, as a memorial dear to him in some measure. A person becomes attached to a snuffbox, a pocketknife, or a staff used over many years, and develops something like genuine love for it. If it is broken or lost, the distress is out of all proportion to its value. We regard a house in which we have lived long, or a tree whose greenery and shade we have long enjoyed, with something of the respect due to benefactors. The decay of one or destruction of the other fills us with melancholy, even when we suffer no loss. The Dryads and Lares of the ancients, spirits of trees and houses, probably arose from the affection their inventors felt for such things: an affection that seemed unreasonable unless something living inhabited them.

But before anything can properly receive gratitude or resentment, it must not only cause pleasure or pain; it must also be capable of feeling these things. Without that further quality, we cannot find satisfaction in directing either passion toward it. For just as these passions are aroused by causes of pleasure and pain, their fulfillment lies in returning those sensations to whatever occasioned them; and it is useless to try this upon a thing without feeling. Animals, therefore, are less unsuitable objects of gratitude and resentment than inanimate things. The dog that bites and the ox that gores are both punished. If either causes a death, neither the public nor the dead person's relatives are satisfied unless the animal is killed in turn; this is done not merely to protect the living but, in some measure, to avenge the dead. Animals that have been exceptionally useful to their masters, by contrast, inspire a very lively gratitude. We are shocked by the brutality of the officer mentioned in the Turkish Spy who stabbed the horse that had carried him across an arm of the sea, for fear that it might later distinguish someone else by the same exploit.

Yet though animals both cause and feel pleasure and pain, they are far from being complete objects of either gratitude or resentment; we still sense that something is missing from the full satisfaction of these passions. Gratitude wishes not merely to give a benefactor pleasure in return, but to make him aware that this reward is for what he has done, to make him pleased with his own conduct, and to assure him that the recipient of his kindness was worthy of it. What delights us most in a benefactor is the harmony between his judgment and ours on a matter so close to us as our own worth and the esteem we deserve. We delight in finding someone who values us as we value ourselves and singles us out from the rest of humankind with an attention resembling our own. One chief aim of the return we wish to make is to sustain in him these pleasing, flattering feelings. A generous person often scorns the self-interested thought of extracting new favors from a benefactor through what might be called the demands of gratitude. But even the greatest mind does not consider it beneath him to preserve and increase his benefactor's esteem. This explains my earlier observation that our gratitude is distinctly weakened whenever we cannot sympathize with our benefactor's motives, whenever his conduct and character seem undeserving of our approval, however great his services. His preference flatters us less, and preserving the esteem of so weak or worthless a patron seems scarcely worth pursuing for its own sake.

Resentment, on the other hand, aims less to cause an enemy pain in return than to make him aware that he suffers because of his past conduct, to make him repent of it, and to make him see that the person he injured did not deserve such treatment. What most enrages us against someone who injures or insults us is how little he seems to value us: the unreasonable preference he gives himself, and the absurd self-love by which he seems to think other people can be sacrificed at any moment to his convenience or whim. The glaring impropriety of this conduct, its gross insolence and injustice, often shocks and exasperates us more than all the harm we have suffered. The principal aim of revenge is often to restore his just sense of what is due to others, to make him aware of what he owes us and of the wrong he has done us; revenge remains incomplete when it fails in this aim. If our enemy proves to have done us no wrong, if we recognize that he acted entirely properly, that we would have done the same in his position, and that we deserved all the harm we received from him, then, if we have even a spark of fairness or justice, we can feel no resentment.

Thus, before anything can be a complete and proper object of gratitude or resentment, it must have three qualifications. First, it must cause pleasure in one case or pain in the other. Second, it must be capable of feeling those sensations. Third, it must produce them deliberately, from a design we approve in the one case or disapprove in the other. The first qualification enables a thing to arouse these passions; the second enables it, in some degree, to satisfy them. The third is necessary for their full satisfaction and, by providing an intense and distinctive pleasure or pain, gives these passions a further cause of excitement.

Since what gives pleasure or pain, in one way or another, is the sole cause that arouses gratitude and resentment, the failure of even the most proper and beneficent intentions to do good, or the most improper and malevolent intentions to do harm, removes one cause of these passions in either case: less gratitude seems due in the first, and less resentment in the second. Conversely, even if someone's intentions show no praiseworthy benevolence or blameworthy malice, actions that produce great good or great harm supply one cause for these passions in either case: some gratitude arises toward the agent in the first, and some resentment in the second. A shadow of merit falls upon him in one case, a shadow of demerit in the other. And because the consequences of actions lie entirely within fortune's power, this is the source of her influence over human judgments of merit and demerit.

Section III: How fortune affects what people think about the merit or demerit of actions. Introduction.

Any praise or blame an action deserves must rest on one or more of three things. First, there is the intention or feeling behind it. Second, there is the outward act or bodily movement that follows from that feeling. Finally, there are the good or bad results that actually follow. Together these three things make up the whole action and its circumstances. Any quality we assign to an action must rest on them. It is clear that neither the outward movement nor the actual results can, on its own, be the basis for praise or blame. No one has ever claimed otherwise. The bodily movement is often identical in a harmless action and a very blameworthy one. Someone shooting a bird and someone shooting a person both pull the trigger of a gun. The results of an action are, if anything, even less suitable for praise or blame than the bodily movement. They depend on fortune, not on the person acting, so they cannot properly be the basis for judging that person's character and conduct. The only results for which a person can be held responsible, or for which that person deserves approval or disapproval, are results intended in some way, or results that at least reveal something good or bad about the intention behind the act. So all justified praise and blame must ultimately concern the intention or feeling behind an action: whether it was proper or improper, and whether its purpose was beneficent or harmful. Stated as a general rule, everyone agrees with this. Everyone recognizes its obvious fairness; no one disagrees. Everyone accepts that different acts may have very different accidental, unintended, and unforeseen results. Yet if the feelings and intentions behind them were equally proper and beneficent, or equally improper and malicious, their merit or demerit would be the same. Their authors would be equally fitting objects of gratitude or resentment. But although we agree with this fair rule in the abstract, particular cases affect us differently. Actual results strongly influence what we think of an action's merit or demerit, and almost always increase or decrease our sense of both. On examination, we may find hardly a single case in which our feelings are guided entirely by the rule we all say should guide them. I will now explain this inconsistency in feeling. Everyone experiences it, hardly anyone fully notices it, and no one wants to admit it. I will consider first what causes it, or how nature produces it; second, how far its influence extends; and finally, what purpose it serves, or what the Author of nature seems to have intended by it.

The causes of fortune's influence.

Whatever causes pain or pleasure, and however it does so, seems immediately to arouse gratitude or resentment in animals. Even things without life can arouse these feelings. We are briefly angry at a stone that hurts us. A child hits it, a dog barks at it, and an irritable person may curse it. A moment's thought corrects the feeling. We soon realize that something unable to feel is an unsuitable target for revenge. But when the harm is very serious, we continue to dislike the thing that caused it and take pleasure in burning or destroying it. We would treat an object that accidentally killed a friend this way. We might even feel a little inhuman if we failed to take this absurd sort of revenge on it.

We also feel a sort of gratitude toward lifeless things that have given us great or repeated pleasure. Imagine a sailor who reaches shore after a shipwreck and immediately burns for fuel the plank that saved him. His action would seem unnatural. We would expect him to keep the plank carefully and fondly, as something precious that recalls his escape. A person grows attached to a snuffbox, a pocketknife, or a walking stick used for years, and feels something like real affection for it. If it breaks or gets lost, the distress is far greater than the value of the loss. We also feel a kind of respect for a house we have lived in for a long time or a tree whose greenery and shade we have enjoyed. They seem almost like benefactors. The decline of one or the destruction of the other makes us sad, even if it costs us nothing. This affection may have first suggested to the ancients the Dryads and Lares, spirits of trees and houses. Those who invented these beliefs perhaps found their attachment to such things hard to explain unless something living inhabited them.

But to be a proper object of gratitude or resentment, a thing must not only cause pleasure or pain. It must also be able to feel pleasure or pain itself. Otherwise we cannot satisfy these feelings by directing them at it. Gratitude and resentment arise from what gives us pleasure or pain. We satisfy them by giving the same experience back to its source, which is pointless if that source cannot feel. Animals, then, are less unsuitable objects of gratitude and resentment than lifeless things. We punish a dog that bites or an ox that gores. If it kills someone, neither the public nor the dead person's family is satisfied unless the animal is killed in turn. They want this partly for the safety of the living, but also partly to avenge the dead. Conversely, animals that have served their owners remarkably well inspire strong gratitude. We are shocked by the brutality of an officer mentioned in the Turkish Spy. He stabbed the horse that had carried him across an arm of the sea so that it could not later do the same remarkable service for anyone else.

Animals cause pleasure and pain and can feel both, yet they are still far from being fully suitable objects of gratitude or resentment. Something is still missing before those feelings can be completely satisfied. Gratitude chiefly wants more than to give a benefactor pleasure in return. We want the benefactor to know that the pleasure is a reward for what he did, to feel pleased with his conduct, and to know that the person he helped was worth helping. What delights us most about a benefactor is that he and we agree on something deeply important to us: the worth of our character and the esteem we deserve. We love to find someone who values us as much as we value ourselves and gives us special attention like the attention we give ourselves. One main reason we repay him is to preserve his pleasing, flattering opinion of us. A generous person often rejects the self-interested idea of using gratitude to press a benefactor for more favors. But even the noblest person cares about keeping and increasing that benefactor's esteem. This explains something I noted earlier. If we cannot sympathize with a benefactor's motives, and cannot approve of his character or conduct, even the greatest services produce much less gratitude in us. His special regard flatters us less. Keeping the esteem of a weak or worthless patron does not seem worth pursuing for its own sake.

Resentment, by contrast, is chiefly concerned with more than causing our enemy pain in return. We want him to know he suffers because of what he did, to regret it, and to understand that the person he hurt did not deserve such treatment. What angers us most about an insult or injury is how little the offender seems to value us. He unfairly puts himself above us, as though his convenience or passing mood justified sacrificing other people. The obvious impropriety of this conduct, its blatant arrogance and injustice, often upset and anger us more than the harm itself. Revenge often chiefly aims to bring him to a fairer view of what others deserve, to make him see what he owes us and how he wronged us. If revenge fails to do this, it never feels complete. But suppose an apparent enemy has not actually wronged us. We recognize that he acted properly, that we would have done the same in his place, and that we deserved the harm he caused. If we have any fairness or honesty, we cannot resent him.

To be a fully proper object of gratitude or resentment, then, something must meet three conditions. First, it must cause pleasure or pain, respectively. Second, it must be able to feel pleasure or pain. Third, it must cause the experience intentionally, with an intention we approve of in the case of gratitude and disapprove of in the case of resentment. The first condition arouses the feeling. The second makes it possible to satisfy the feeling to some degree. The third is needed to satisfy it completely. It also creates a special and intense pleasure or pain, giving us an additional reason to feel gratitude or resentment.

Since gratitude and resentment can be aroused only by something that causes pleasure or pain in some way, intentions alone do not produce their full force. A person's intention might be entirely proper and beneficent, or entirely improper and malicious. But if the intended good or evil never happens, one source of our feeling is absent. We feel less gratitude in the first case and less resentment in the second. Conversely, a person might act without any praiseworthy kindness or blameworthy malice. If the action nevertheless does great good or great harm, its effects provide one source of the feeling. We tend to feel some gratitude for the good and some resentment for the harm. The person seems to have a trace of merit in one case and a trace of demerit in the other. Since the results of actions are entirely subject to Fortune, this is how she affects people's judgments of merit and demerit.