Section 9

Kant's doctrine of conscience.

The supposed practical reason, with its categorical imperative, is plainly most closely related to conscience, though it differs essentially from conscience, first, in this: the categorical imperative, as a command, necessarily speaks before the deed, whereas conscience properly speaks only afterward. Before the deed it can speak, at most, indirectly, through reflection, which holds before it the memory of earlier cases in which similar deeds afterward met with conscience's disapproval. Even the etymology of the word "Gewissen" (conscience) seems to me to rest on this, since only what has already happened is "gewiß" (certain). For in every person, even the best, impure, base, malicious thoughts and wishes arise through some outward occasion, a passion aroused, or an inward ill humor. Yet he is not morally responsible for these, nor may they burden his conscience. They show only what a human being in general might be capable of doing, not what the person who thinks them could do. For in him other motives oppose them, though these do not enter consciousness at that very moment and together with them; thus they can never become deeds. They resemble, therefore, the outvoted minority of an assembly passing a resolution. Only through deeds does each person come to know himself empirically, as he does others, and only deeds burden the conscience. They alone are not problematic, as thoughts are, but, in contrast to them, certain: they stand unalterably, are not merely thought but known. It is the same with the Latin conscientia, "conscience": it is Horace's "to know oneself guilty, to pale with guilt." So too with the Greek συνείδησις, "conscience." It is a person's knowledge of what he has done. Second, conscience always draws its material from experience, which the supposed categorical imperative cannot do, since it is purely a priori.—Meanwhile, we may presume that Kant's doctrine of conscience will also cast light back upon that concept he newly introduced. His principal account of conscience appears in the "Metaphysical First Principles of the Doctrine of Virtue," §. 13; in the criticism that now follows, I assume that the reader has these few pages at hand.

This Kantian account of conscience makes an extraordinarily imposing impression, before which people stood in reverent awe, all the less daring to raise an objection because they had to fear that a theoretical objection would be mistaken for a practical one, and that anyone who denied the correctness of Kant's account would be thought to have no conscience. That cannot disconcert me, since the question here is one of theory, not practice, and our aim is not to preach morality but rigorously to examine the ultimate grounds of ethics.

To begin with, Kant continually employs Latin legal expressions, which seem ill suited to rendering the most secret stirrings of the human heart. Yet he retains this language and this judicial presentation from beginning to end: they therefore seem essential and peculiar to the matter. Within the mind we are shown a complete court of law, with trial, judge, prosecutor, defense counsel, and verdict. If the inward process really took place as Kant describes it, we would have to wonder that anyone could still be, I will not say so wicked, but so stupid as to act against conscience. For such a supernatural institution of a wholly singular kind within our self-consciousness, such a masked Vehmic tribunal in the mysterious darkness of our interior, would have to fill everyone with horror and superstitious dread. This would surely deter him from snatching brief, fleeting advantages against the prohibition and under the threats of fearful supernatural powers announcing themselves so plainly and so close at hand.—In reality, by contrast, we find the power of conscience generally considered so weak that all peoples have taken care to reinforce it through positive religion, or even to replace it altogether in this way. Nor, if conscience were constituted in this manner, could the Royal Society ever have conceived the present prize question.

On closer examination of Kant's account, however, we find that its imposing effect is achieved chiefly by Kant's assigning to moral self-judgment, as something peculiar and essential to it, a form that is nothing of the kind. This form can merely be fitted to it, just as to any other rumination, wholly foreign to morality proper, upon what we have done and might have done differently. For not only will an obviously spurious, artificial conscience founded on mere superstition—for instance, when a Hindu reproaches himself for having occasioned the murder of a cow, or a Jew remembers having smoked a pipe in his house on the Sabbath—occasionally assume the same form of accusation, defense, and judgment; even a self-examination proceeding from no ethical standpoint whatever, indeed, one of an immoral rather than a moral kind, will often appear in this form. Suppose, for example, that, good-naturedly but thoughtlessly, I have stood surety for a friend, and now, in the evening, I realize what a grave responsibility I have assumed and how easily it may bring me the great loss foretold by the ancient voice of wisdom: "Stand surety, and ruin is at hand!" Then the prosecutor likewise appears within me, and opposite him the advocate, who tries to put a favorable face on my rash undertaking by pleading the pressure of circumstances and obligations, the harmlessness of the matter, even by praising my good nature. Finally the judge appears too, and implacably pronounces the verdict "A stupid move!" beneath which I collapse.

And what holds for the judicial form Kant favors holds also for most of the rest of his description. For example, what he says at the very beginning of the paragraph about conscience, as something peculiar to it, applies equally to every scruple of an entirely different kind. It can be understood quite literally of a person living on investments who secretly knows that his expenses far exceed the interest, that he is drawing on his capital, and that it must gradually melt away: "It follows him like his shadow when he thinks of escaping; he can indeed numb himself or lull himself to sleep through pleasures and distractions, but he cannot avoid coming to himself or awakening now and then, when he at once hears its terrible voice," and so on.—Having now described that judicial form as essential to the matter, and therefore retained it from beginning to end, Kant uses it for the following cunningly contrived sophism. He says: "But to represent the person accused by his conscience as one and the same person as the judge is an absurd way of representing a court of law; for then the prosecutor would always lose." He elucidates this further in a very convoluted and obscure note. From this he concludes that, to avoid contradiction, we must think of the inward judge—in that courtroom drama of conscience—as distinct from ourselves, as someone else, and think of this other as a knower of hearts, all-knowing, binding everyone to duty, and, as the executive power, almighty. Thus, on an entirely smooth road, he now leads his reader from conscience to superstitious dread as its wholly necessary consequence, secretly trusting that the reader will follow him there all the more willingly because his earliest upbringing has made such concepts familiar, indeed second nature. Here, then, Kant has an easy game—one he should have scorned, taking care not merely to preach honesty here, but to practice it.—I flatly deny the proposition quoted above, on which all those conclusions rest; indeed, I declare it a subterfuge. It is not true that the prosecutor must always lose if the accused and the judge are one person—at least not in the inward court. Did the prosecutor lose in my example of standing surety?—Or, to avoid contradiction, did we have to introduce such a personification here too, necessarily imagining someone else, objectively, as the one whose verdict was that thunderous "A stupid move!"? Perhaps a Mercury in the flesh? Or a personification of the Metis ("cunning") recommended by Homer (Il., 23, 313 seq.), and thus take the road of superstitious dread here too, though of a pagan kind?

That Kant, in his account, takes care to disclaim any objective validity for his moral theology, already briefly indicated here in its essentials, and presents it only as a subjectively necessary form, does not absolve him of the arbitrariness with which he constructs it, even if only as subjectively necessary; for he does so by means of entirely groundless assumptions.

This much, then, is certain: the whole judicial and dramatic form in which Kant presents conscience, retaining it throughout and to the very end as one with the matter itself in order finally to draw conclusions from it, is wholly inessential to conscience and in no way peculiar to it. Rather, it is a much more general form, readily assumed by deliberation on any practical concern, and arising chiefly from the conflict of opposing motives that usually occurs in such cases, whose weight reflective reason successively examines. It makes no difference whether these motives are moral or egoistic, or whether the matter is a deliberation on what remains to be done or a rumination on what has already been accomplished. But strip Kant's account of this dramatic and judicial form, arbitrarily bestowed upon it, and the halo surrounding it disappears along with its imposing effect. All that remains is this: when reflecting on our actions, we are sometimes seized by a dissatisfaction with ourselves of a special kind. Its peculiarity is that it concerns not the outcome but the action itself, and does not rest, like every other dissatisfaction in which we regret the imprudence of our conduct, on egoistic grounds. For here we are dissatisfied precisely because we acted too egoistically, considered our own welfare too much and that of others too little, or even, without advantage to ourselves, made others' suffering an end for its own sake. That we can be dissatisfied with ourselves over this, and grieve over sufferings we have not undergone but caused, is the naked fact, and no one will deny it. Later we shall examine its connection with the only basis of ethics that stands the test. Kant, however, like a shrewd advocate, has sought, by embellishing and magnifying the original fact, to make as much of it as possible, so as to secure in advance a very broad basis for his morality and moral theology.

Kant's account of conscience.

The supposed practical reason, with its categorical imperative, is clearly most closely related to conscience. Yet it differs from conscience in two essential ways. First, the categorical imperative gives commands, so it necessarily speaks before the act. Conscience, strictly speaking, speaks only afterward. Before the act, it can speak only indirectly, at most. It does this through reflection, which brings back memories of earlier cases when similar acts later met with the disapproval of conscience. I think even the origin of the word "Gewissen" ("conscience") rests on this, since only what has already happened is "gewiß" ("certain"). In everyone, even the best person, impure, base, malicious thoughts and wishes arise. An outside event, a stirred-up emotion, or an inner bad mood may cause them. But a person is not morally responsible for these, and they must not burden his conscience. They show only what human beings in general might be capable of doing, not what the person thinking them could do. Other motives oppose them in him, though these do not enter his awareness at that moment along with those thoughts. So the thoughts can never become acts. They resemble the outvoted minority in an assembly making a decision. Each person comes to know himself, like other people, through experience of his acts alone. Only these burden conscience. Unlike thoughts, acts are not merely possible. They are certain and stand there unchangeably. They are not merely thought but known. The same is true of the Latin "conscientia" ("conscience"). It is Horace's "conscire sibi, pallescere culpa"—"to be aware of one's guilt and grow pale at it." The same applies to "συνείδησις" ("conscience"). It is a person's knowledge of what he has done. Second, conscience always takes its material from experience. The supposed categorical imperative cannot do this, since it is purely independent of experience.—In the meantime, we may assume that Kant's account of conscience will also shed light on this concept he newly introduced. His main presentation of conscience is in the "Metaphysical Foundations of the Doctrine of Virtue," §. 13. In the criticism that follows, I assume the reader has those few pages at hand.

Kant's presentation of conscience makes a most imposing impression. People stood before it in respectful awe. They were all the less willing to object because they had to fear that a theoretical objection would be mistaken for a practical one. If they denied the correctness of Kant's account, they might be thought to have no conscience. This cannot deter me. Our concern here is theory, not practice. The aim is not to preach morality but to examine rigorously the ultimate grounds of ethics.

To begin with, Kant uses Latin legal expressions throughout. These hardly seem suited to describing the most secret movements of the human heart. Yet he keeps this language and this legal way of presenting things from beginning to end. So it seems essential and specific to the subject. He shows us a complete court of law inside the mind, with a trial, judge, prosecutor, defense lawyer, and verdict. If the inner process really worked as Kant describes it, we would have to wonder how anyone could be—I will not say so bad, but so stupid—as to act against conscience. Such a unique supernatural institution within our self-awareness, such a masked Vehmic secret tribunal in the mysterious darkness of our inner life, would fill everyone with horror and superstitious fear. It would surely stop people from grasping at brief, passing advantages against the prohibition and under the threats of terrifying supernatural powers that announce their presence so clearly and so close at hand.—In reality, we see the opposite. The influence of conscience is generally thought so weak that all peoples have tried to help it through positive religion, or even to replace it entirely with such religion. And if conscience were like this, the Royal Society could never have thought of the present prize question.

But when we look more closely at Kant's account, we find that its imposing effect is mainly achieved in this way. Kant gives moral self-judgment a form he treats as specific and essential to it. It is nothing of the kind. This form can be fitted to moral self-judgment just as it can to any other brooding over what we have done and could have done differently, even when that brooding has nothing to do with morality proper. An obviously false, artificial conscience, based on mere superstition, will also sometimes take this form of accusation, defense, and judgment. A Hindu may blame himself for having given occasion to the murder of a cow. A Jew may remember smoking a pipe in his house on the Sabbath. But even self-examination that starts from no ethical point of view at all, and is more immoral than moral, will often take the same form. For example, suppose that, out of kindness but without thinking, I have become guarantor for a friend. That evening I realize what a heavy responsibility I have taken on. I see how easily this could bring me serious losses, as the old voice of wisdom predicts: "Stand surety, and ruin is close!" Here too a prosecutor appears within me. Facing him is a defense lawyer who tries to make my hasty guarantee look better. He appeals to the pressure of circumstances, my obligations, the seeming harmlessness of the matter, and even praises my kindness. Finally the judge appears and delivers the merciless verdict, "A stupid move!" I collapse under it.

What is true of the courtroom form Kant favors is also true of most of the rest of his description. For example, what he says at the very beginning of the paragraph, as though it were specific to conscience, applies to every scruple of an entirely different kind. It can be understood quite literally of the secret awareness of someone living on investment income who knows that his expenses far exceed the interest, that he is using up his capital, and that it must gradually melt away: "It follows him like his shadow when he thinks of escaping. He can indeed numb himself with pleasures and distractions, or put himself to sleep, but he cannot avoid coming to himself or waking up now and then, when he immediately hears its terrifying voice," and so on.—Having described that courtroom form as essential to the subject, and therefore kept it from beginning to end, Kant uses it for the following carefully planned piece of false reasoning. He says: "But to represent the person accused by his conscience as one and the same person as the judge is an absurd way of representing a court of law. For then the prosecutor would always lose." He adds a very strained and unclear note to explain this. From it he concludes that, to avoid a contradiction, we must think of the inner judge in that courtroom drama of conscience as distinct from ourselves, as someone else. We must think of this judge as one who knows our hearts, knows everything, obligates everyone, and, as the power that enforces the verdict, is all-powerful. The path is now entirely smooth. He leads his reader from conscience to superstitious fear as a wholly necessary consequence of it. He secretly relies on the reader being all the more willing to follow him because early education has made such concepts familiar, indeed second nature. So Kant has an easy task here. But he should have rejected it and taken care not only to preach honesty here but also to practice it.—I completely deny the statement quoted above, on which all these conclusions rest. Indeed, I call it an evasive trick. It is not true that the prosecutor must always lose if the accused and the judge are one person—at least not in the inner court. Did the prosecutor lose in my example of the guarantee?—Or, to avoid a contradiction, did we have to personify something here too? Did we have to think of someone else, existing objectively, as the one whose verdict was that thunderous "A stupid move!"? Perhaps a Mercury in the flesh? Or a personification of the practical cleverness (Metis) recommended by Homer (Il., 23, 313 seq.)? Would we then have to take the path of superstitious fear here too, though a pagan one?

Kant guards against giving objective validity to his moral theology, which is already outlined here briefly but in its essentials. He presents it only as a subjectively necessary form. But that does not clear him of the arbitrary way he constructs it, even if only as subjectively necessary. He does so by means of wholly groundless assumptions.

This much, then, is certain. The whole legal and dramatic form in which Kant presents conscience is entirely inessential to it and in no way specific to it. He maintains this form throughout, right to the end, as though it were one with the thing itself, and finally draws conclusions from it. In fact, it is a much more general form that reflection on any practical matter can easily take. It arises mainly from the conflict of opposing motives that usually occurs in such reflection. Reflecting reason weighs these motives one after another. It makes no difference whether they are moral or egoistic motives, or whether we are deciding what to do or brooding over what we have already done. Now remove this arbitrarily imposed dramatic and legal form from Kant's account. The halo around it and its imposing effect disappear too. Only this remains: when we think about our actions, we sometimes feel a special kind of dissatisfaction with ourselves. Its distinctive feature is that it concerns not the outcome but the act itself. Unlike every other dissatisfaction in which we regret the foolishness of what we did, it does not rest on egoistic grounds. For here we are dissatisfied precisely because we acted too egoistically. We cared too much about our own well-being and too little about the well-being of others. Or we even made others' suffering an end in itself, without gaining anything for ourselves. We can be dissatisfied with ourselves over this and grieve over sufferings we have not endured but caused. That is the bare fact, and no one will deny it. Later we will examine how it connects with the only basis of ethics that stands up to scrutiny. But Kant, like a clever advocate, tried to get as much as possible out of the original fact by dressing it up and enlarging it. He wanted to secure in advance as broad a basis as possible for his morality and moral theology.