Section 16
Original German
Aufstellung und Beweis der allein ächten moralischen Triebfeder.
Nach den bisherigen, unumgänglich nöthigen Vorbereitungen komme ich zur Nachweisung der wahren, allen Handlungen von ächtem moralischen Werth zum Grunde liegenden Triebfeder, und als diese wird sich uns eine solche ergeben, welche durch ihren Ernst und durch ihre unzweifelbare Realität gar weit absteht von allen den Spitzfindigkeiten, Klügeleien, Sophismen, aus der Luft gegriffenen Behauptungen und apriorischen Seifenblasen, welche die bisherigen Systeme zur Quelle des moralischen Handelns und zur Grundlage der Ethik haben machen wollen. Da ich diese moralische Triebfeder nicht etwan zur beliebigen Annahme vorschlagen, sondern als die allein mögliche wirklich beweisen will, dieser Beweis aber die Zusammenfassung vieler Gedanken erfordert; so stelle ich einige Prämissen voran, welche die Voraussetzungen der Beweisführung sind und gar wohl als Axiomata gelten können, bis auf die zwei letzten, die sich auf oben gegebene Auseinandersetzungen berufen.
1) Keine Handlung kann ohne zureichendes Motiv geschehen; so wenig, als ein Stein ohne zureichenden Stoß, oder Zug, sich bewegen kann.
2) Eben so wenig kann eine Handlung, zu welcher ein für den Charakter des Handelnden zureichendes Motiv vorhanden ist, unterbleiben, wenn nicht ein stärkeres Gegenmotiv ihre Unterlassung nothwendig macht.
3) Was den Willen bewegt, ist allein Wohl und Wehe überhaupt und im weitesten Sinne des Worts genommen; wie auch umgekehrt Wohl und Wehe bedeutet „einem Willen gemäß, oder entgegen“. Also muß jedes Motiv eine Beziehung auf Wohl und Wehe haben.
4) Folglich bezieht jede Handlung sich auf ein für Wohl und Wehe empfängliches Wesen, als ihren letzten Zweck.
5) Dieses Wesen ist entweder der Handelnde selbst, oder ein Anderer, welcher alsdann bei der Handlung passive betheiligt ist, indem sie zu seinem Schaden, oder zu seinem Nutz und Frommen geschieht.
6) Jede Handlung, deren letzter Zweck das Wohl und Wehe des Handelnden selbst ist, ist eine egoistische.
7) Alles hier von Handlungen Gesagte gilt eben so wohl von Unterlassung solcher Handlungen, zu welchen Motiv und Gegenmotiv vorliegt.
8) In Folge der im vorhergehenden Paragraphen gegebenen Auseinandersetzung schließen Egoismus und moralischer Werth einer Handlung einander schlechthin aus. Hat eine Handlung einen egoistischen Zweck zum Motiv; so kann sie keinen moralischen Werth haben: soll eine Handlung moralischen Werth haben; so darf kein egoistischer Zweck, unmittelbar oder mittelbar, nahe oder fern, ihr Motiv seyn.
9) In Folge der §. 5 vollzogenen Elimination der vorgeblichen Pflichten gegen uns selbst, kann die moralische Bedeutsamkeit einer Handlung nur liegen in ihrer Beziehung auf Andere: nur in Hinsicht auf diese kann sie moralischen Werth, oder Verwerflichkeit haben und demnach eine Handlung der Gerechtigkeit, oder Menschenliebe, wie auch das Gegentheil beider seyn.
Aus diesen Prämissen ist Folgendes evident: Das Wohl und Wehe, welches (laut Prämisse 3) jeder Handlung, oder Unterlassung, als letzter Zweck zum Grunde liegen muß, ist entweder das des Handelnden selbst, oder das irgend eines Andern, bei der Handlung passive Betheiligten. Im ersten Falle ist die Handlung nothwendig egoistisch; weil ihr ein interessirtes Motiv zum Grunde liegt. Dies ist nicht bloß der Fall bei Handlungen, die man offenbar zu seinem eigenen Nutzen und Vortheil unternimmt, dergleichen die allermeisten sind; sondern es tritt eben so wohl ein, sobald man von einer Handlung irgend einen entfernten Erfolg, sei es in dieser, oder einer andern Welt, für sich erwartet; oder wenn man dabei seine Ehre, seinen Ruf bei den Leuten, die Hochachtung irgend Jemandes, die Sympathie der Zuschauer u. dgl. m. im Auge hat; nicht weniger, wenn man durch diese Handlung eine Maxime aufrecht zu erhalten beabsichtigt, von deren allgemeiner Befolgung man eventualiter einen Vortheil für sich selbst erwartet, wie etwan die der Gerechtigkeit, des allgemeinen hülfreichen Beistandes u. s. w. — ebenfalls, wenn man irgend einem absoluten Gebot, welches von einer zwar unbekannten, aber doch offenbar überlegenen Macht ausgienge, Folge zu leisten für gerathen hielte; da alsdann nichts Anderes, als die Furcht vor den nachtheiligen Folgen des Ungehorsams, wenn sie auch bloß allgemein und unbestimmt gedacht werden, dazu bewegen kann; — desgleichen, wenn man seine eigene hohe Meinung von sich selbst, seinem Werthe oder Würde, deutlich oder undeutlich begriffen, die man außerdem aufgeben müßte und dadurch seinen Stolz gekränkt sähe, durch irgend eine Handlung, oder Unterlassung, zu behaupten trachtet; — endlich auch, wenn man, nach Wolffischen Principien, dadurch an seiner eigenen Vervollkommnung arbeiten will. Kurzum, man setze zum letzten Beweggrund einer Handlung, was man wolle; immer wird sich ergeben, daß, auf irgend einem Umwege, zuletzt das eigene Wohl und Wehe des Handelnden die eigentliche Triebfeder, mithin die Handlung egoistisch, folglich ohne moralischen Werth ist. Nur einen einzigen Fall giebt es, in welchem dies nicht Statt hat: nämlich wenn der letzte Beweggrund zu einer Handlung, oder Unterlassung, geradezu und ausschließlich im Wohl und Wehe irgend eines dabei passive betheiligten Andern liegt, also der aktive Theil bei seinem Handeln, oder Unterlassen, ganz allein das Wohl und Wehe eines Andern im Auge hat und durchaus nichts bezweckt, als daß jener Andere unverletzt bleibe, oder gar Hülfe, Beistand und Erleichterung erhalte. Dieser Zweck allein drückt einer Handlung, oder Unterlassung, den Stämpel des moralischen Werthes auf; welcher demnach ausschließlich darauf beruht, daß die Handlung bloß zu Nutz und Frommen eines Andern geschehe, oder unterbleibe. Sobald nämlich dies nicht der Fall ist; so kann das Wohl und Wehe, welches zu jeder Handlung treibt, oder von ihr abhält, nur das des Handelnden selbst seyn: dann aber ist die Handlung, oder Unterlassung, allemal egoistisch, mithin ohne moralischen Werth.
Wenn nun aber meine Handlung ganz allein des Andern wegen geschehen soll; so muß sein Wohl und Wehe unmittelbar mein Motiv seyn: so wie bei allen andern Handlungen das meinige es ist. Dies bringt unser Problem auf einen engern Ausdruck, nämlich diesen; wie ist es irgend möglich, daß das Wohl und Wehe eines Andern, unmittelbar, d. h. ganz so wie sonst nur mein eigenes, meinen Willen bewege, also direkt mein Motiv werde, und sogar es bisweilen in dem Grade werde, daß ich demselben mein eigenes Wohl und Wehe, diese sonst alleinige Quelle meiner Motive, mehr oder weniger nachsetze? — Offenbar nur dadurch, daß jener Andere der letzte Zweck meines Willens wird, ganz so wie sonst ich selbst es bin: also dadurch, daß ich ganz unmittelbar sein Wohl will und sein Wehe nicht will, so unmittelbar, wie sonst nur das meinige. Dies aber setzt nothwendig voraus, daß ich bei seinem Wehe als solchem geradezu mitleide, sein Wehe fühle, wie sonst nur meines, und deshalb sein Wohl unmittelbar will, wie sonst nur meines. Dies erfordert aber, daß ich auf irgend eine Weise mit ihm identificirt sei, d. h. daß jener gänzliche Unterschied zwischen mir und jedem Andern, auf welchem gerade mein Egoismus beruht, wenigstens in einem gewissen Grade aufgehoben sei. Da ich nun aber doch nicht in der Haut des Andern stecke, so kann allein vermittelst der Erkenntniß, die ich von ihm habe, d. h. der Vorstellung von ihm in meinem Kopf, ich mich so weit mit ihm identificiren, daß meine That jenen Unterschied als aufgehoben ankündigt. Der hier analysirte Vorgang aber ist kein erträumter, oder aus der Luft gegriffener, sondern ein ganz wirklicher, ja, keineswegs seltener: es ist das alltägliche Phänomen des Mitleids, d. h. der ganz unmittelbaren, von allen anderweitigen Rücksichten unabhängigen Theilnahme zunächst am Leiden eines Andern und dadurch an der Verhinderung oder Aufhebung dieses Leidens, als worin zuletzt alle Befriedigung und alles Wohlseyn und Glück besteht. Dieses Mitleid ganz allein ist die wirkliche Basis aller freien Gerechtigkeit und aller ächten Menschenliebe. Nur sofern eine Handlung aus ihm entsprungen ist, hat sie moralischen Werth: und jede aus irgend welchen andern Motiven hervorgehende hat keinen. Sobald dieses Mitleid rege wird, liegt mir das Wohl und Wehe des Andern unmittelbar am Herzen, ganz in der selben Art, wenn auch nicht stets in dem selben Grade, wie sonst allein das meinige: also ist jetzt der Unterschied zwischen ihm und mir kein absoluter mehr.
Allerdings ist dieser Vorgang erstaunenswürdig, ja, mysteriös. Er ist, in Wahrheit, das große Mysterium der Ethik, ihr Urphänomen und der Gränzstein, über welchen hinaus nur noch die metaphysische Spekulation einen Schritt wagen kann. Wir sehen, in jenem Vorgang, die Scheidewand, welche nach dem Lichte der Natur (wie alte Theologen die Vernunft nennen), Wesen von Wesen durchaus trennt, aufgehoben und das Nicht-Ich gewissermaaßen zum Ich geworden. Uebrigens wollen wir die metaphysische Auslegung des Phänomens für jetzt unberührt lassen und fürs Erste sehen, ob alle Handlungen der freien Gerechtigkeit und der ächten Menschenliebe wirklich aus diesem Vorgange fließen. Dann wird unser Problem gelöst seyn, indem wir das letzte Fundament der Moralität in der menschlichen Natur selbst werden nachgewiesen haben, welches Fundament nicht selbst wieder ein Problem der Ethik seyn kann, wohl aber, wie alles Bestehende als solches, der Metaphysik. Allein die metaphysische Auslegung des ethischen Urphänomens liegt schon über die von der Königlichen Societät gestellte Frage, als welche auf die Grundlage der Ethik gerichtet ist, hinaus, und kann allenfalls nur als eine beliebig zu gebende und beliebig zu nehmende Zugabe beigefügt werden. — Bevor ich nun aber zur Ableitung der Kardinaltugenden aus der aufgestellten Grundtriebfeder schreite, habe ich noch zwei wesentliche Bemerkungen nachträglich beizubringen.
1) Zum Behuf leichterer Faßlichkeit habe ich die obige Ableitung des Mitleids, als alleiniger Quelle der Handlungen von moralischem Werth, dadurch vereinfacht, daß ich die Triebfeder der Bosheit, als welche, uneigennützig wie das Mitleid, den fremden Schmerz, zu ihrem letzten Zwecke macht, absichtlich außer Acht gelassen habe. Jetzt aber können wir, mit Hinzuziehung derselben, den oben gegebenen Beweis vollständiger und stringenter so resumiren:
Es giebt überhaupt nur drei Grund-Triebfedern der menschlichen Handlungen: und allein durch Erregung derselben wirken alle irgend möglichen Motive. Sie sind:
a) Egoismus; der das eigene Wohl will (ist gränzenlos).
b) Bosheit; die das fremde Wehe will (geht bis zur äußersten Grausamkeit).
c) Mitleid; welches das fremde Wohl will (geht bis zum Edelmuth und zur Großmuth).
Jede menschliche Handlung muß auf eine dieser Triebfedern zurückzuführen seyn; wiewohl auch zwei derselben vereint wirken können. Da wir nun Handlungen von moralischem Werth als faktisch gegeben angenommen haben; so müssen auch sie aus einer dieser Grund-Triebfedern hervorgehen. Sie können aber, vermöge Prämisse 8, nicht aus der ersten Triebfeder entspringen, noch weniger aus der zweiten; da alle aus dieser hervorgehenden Handlungen moralisch verwerflich sind, während die erste zum Theil moralisch indifferente liefert. Also müssen sie von der dritten Triebfeder ausgehen: und dies wird seine Bestätigung a posteriori im Folgenden erhalten.
2) Die unmittelbare Theilnahme am Andern ist auf sein Leiden beschränkt und wird nicht, wenigstens nicht direkt, auch durch sein Wohlseyn erregt: sondern dieses an und für sich läßt uns gleichgültig. Dies sagt ebenfalls J. J. Rousseau im Emile (liv. IV): „Première maxime: Il n'est pas dans la coeur humain, de se mettre à la place des gens, qui sont plus heureux que nous, mais seulement de ceux, qui sont plus à plaindre.“ etc.
Der Grund hievon ist, daß der Schmerz, das Leiden, wozu aller Mangel, Entbehrung, Bedürfniß, ja jeder Wunsch gehört, das Positive, das unmittelbar Empfundene ist. Hingegen besteht die Natur der Befriedigung, des Genusses, des Glücks, nur darin, daß eine Entbehrung aufgehoben, ein Schmerz gestillt ist. Diese wirken also negativ. Daher eben ist Bedürfniß und Wunsch die Bedingung jedes Genusses. Dies erkannte schon Platon, und nahm nur die Wohlgerüche und die Geistesfreuden aus. (De Rep., IX, p. 264 sq. Bip.) Auch Voltaire sagt: Il n'est de vrais plaisirs, qu’avec de vrais besoins. Also das Positive, das sich durch sich selbst kund Gebende ist der Schmerz: Befriedigung und Genüsse sind das Negative, die bloße Aufhebung jenes Erstern. Hierauf zunächst beruht es, daß nur das Leiden, der Mangel, die Gefahr, die Hülflosigkeit des Andern direkt und als solche unsere Theilnahme erwecken. Der Glückliche, Zufriedene als solcher läßt uns gleichgültig: eigentlich weil sein Zustand ein negativer ist: die Abwesenheit des Schmerzes, des Mangels und der Noth. Wir können zwar über das Glück, das Wohlseyn, den Genuß Anderer uns freuen: dies ist dann aber sekundär und dadurch vermittelt, daß vorher ihr Leiden und Entbehren uns betrübt hatte; oder aber auch wir nehmen Theil an dem Beglückten und Genießenden, nicht als solchem, sondern sofern er unser Kind, Vater, Freund, Verwandter, Diener, Unterthan u. dgl. ist. Aber nicht der Beglückte und Genießende rein als solcher erregt unsere unmittelbare Theilnahme, wie es der Leidende, Entbehrende, Unglückliche rein als solcher thut. Erregt doch sogar auch für uns selbst, eigentlich nur unser Leiden, wohin auch jeder Mangel, Bedürfniß, Wunsch, ja, die Langeweile zu zählen ist, unsere Thätigkeit; während ein Zustand der Zufriedenheit und Beglückung uns unthätig und in träger Ruhe läßt: wie sollte es in Hinsicht auf Andere nicht eben so seyn? da ja unsere Theilnahme auf einer Identifikation mit ihnen beruht. Sogar kann der Anblick des Glücklichen und Genießenden rein als solchen sehr leicht unsern Neid erregen, zu welchem die Anlage in jedem Menschen liegt und welcher seine Stelle oben unter den antimoralischen Potenzen gefunden hat.
In Folge der oben gegebenen Darstellung des Mitleids als eines unmittelbaren Motivirtwerdens durch die Leiden des Andern, muß ich noch den nachmals oft wiederholten Irrthum des Cassina (Saggio analitico sulla compassione, 1788; deutsch von Pockels, 1790) rügen, welcher meint, das Mitleid entstehe durch eine augenblickliche Täuschung der Phantasie, indem wir selbst uns an die Stelle des Leidenden versetzten und nun, in der Einbildung, seine Schmerzen an unserer Person zu leiden wähnten. So ist es keineswegs; sondern es bleibt uns gerade jeden Augenblick klar und gegenwärtig, daß Er der Leidende ist, nicht wir: und geradezu in seiner Person, nicht in unserer, fühlen wir das Leiden, zu unserer Betrübniß. Wir leiden mit ihm, also in ihm: wir fühlen seinen Schmerz als den seinen und haben nicht die Einbildung, daß es der unserige sei: ja, je glücklicher unser eigener Zustand ist und je mehr also das Bewußtseyn desselben mit der Lage des Andern kontrastirt, desto empfänglicher sind wir für das Mitleid. Die Erklärung der Möglichkeit dieses höchst wichtigen Phänomens ist aber nicht so leicht, noch auf dem bloß psychologischen Wege zu erreichen, wie Cassina es versuchte. Sie kann nur metaphysisch ausfallen: und eine solche werde ich im letzten Abschnitt zu geben versuchen.
Jetzt aber gehe ich an die Ableitung der Handlungen von ächtem moralischen Werth aus der nachgewiesenen Quelle derselben. Als die allgemeine Maxime solcher Handlungen und folglich als den obersten Grundsatz der Ethik habe ich schon im vorigen Abschnitte die Regel aufgestellt: Neminem laede; imo omnes, quantum potes, juva. Da diese Maxime zwei Sätze enthält; so zerfallen die ihr entsprechenden Handlungen von selbst in zwei Klassen.
Musean translation
Machine-assisted Musean translation made directly from the complete 1860 German edition, including its quotations, author’s notes, prize question and judgment. Source-language reviewed.
Statement and proof of the only genuine moral incentive.
After these indispensable preparations, I come to demonstrating the true incentive underlying every action of genuine moral worth. We shall find it to be something that, in its seriousness and unquestionable reality, stands far apart from all the subtleties, overingenious reasonings, sophisms, groundless assertions, and a priori soap bubbles that earlier systems have sought to make the source of moral action and the foundation of ethics. I do not intend merely to propose this moral incentive for acceptance at will, but actually to prove that it is the only possible one. Since this proof requires many thoughts to be brought together, I will begin with several premises that state the assumptions of the argument. They may quite properly be regarded as axioms, except for the last two, which refer back to explanations already given.
1) No action can occur without a sufficient motive, any more than a stone can move without a sufficient push or pull.
2) Equally, an action for which a motive sufficient for the agent’s character is present cannot fail to occur unless a stronger countervailing motive makes its omission necessary.
3) What moves the will is solely well-being and suffering, taken in general and in the broadest sense of the words; conversely, well-being and suffering mean “in accordance with, or contrary to, a will.” Every motive must therefore bear some relation to well-being and suffering.
4) Consequently, every action has as its ultimate end a being capable of well-being and suffering.
5) This being is either the agent himself or someone else, who then has a passive part in the action, since it is done to his harm or for his benefit and welfare.
6) Every action whose ultimate end is the agent’s own well-being and suffering is egoistic.
7) Everything said here about actions holds equally for the omission of actions for which both a motive and a countervailing motive are present.
8) As explained in the preceding section, egoism and an action’s moral worth are absolutely incompatible. If an action has an egoistic end as its motive, it can have no moral worth; if an action is to have moral worth, no egoistic end, direct or indirect, near or distant, may be its motive.
9) Since the supposed duties to ourselves were eliminated in §. 5, an action’s moral significance can lie only in its relation to others. Only with respect to them can it have moral worth or be morally reprehensible, and thus be an act of justice or love of humanity, or the opposite of either.
The following is evident from these premises. The well-being and suffering that, according to premise 3, must underlie every action or omission as its ultimate end belong either to the agent himself or to someone else passively involved in the action. In the first case, the action is necessarily egoistic, because a self-interested motive underlies it. This applies not only to actions openly undertaken for one’s own benefit and advantage, as the vast majority are. It applies just as much whenever one expects any distant result for oneself from an action, whether in this world or another; or has in view one’s honor, one’s reputation among others, someone’s esteem, the sympathy of onlookers, and the like. It applies no less when an action is intended to uphold a maxim from whose general observance one expects some possible advantage for oneself—for example, the maxim of justice, of mutual assistance for all, and so on. It applies equally if one thinks it advisable to obey some absolute command issued by a power that, though unknown, is evidently superior: for then nothing but fear of the harmful consequences of disobedience can move one to obey, even if those consequences are conceived only generally and vaguely. The same holds if, through an action or omission, one seeks to uphold one’s own high opinion of oneself, of one’s worth or dignity, whether clearly or dimly conceived—an opinion one would otherwise have to surrender, thereby wounding one’s pride. Finally, it also holds if one wishes in this way to work toward one’s own perfection, on Wolffian principles. In short, whatever one posits as the ultimate moving cause of an action, it will always turn out that, by some roundabout path, the agent’s own well-being and suffering are ultimately the real incentive; the action is therefore egoistic and consequently without moral worth. There is only one case in which this does not hold: when the ultimate moving cause of an action or omission lies directly and exclusively in the well-being and suffering of someone else passively involved. The active party, in acting or refraining, then has in view solely the well-being and suffering of another, and aims at absolutely nothing but that the other should remain unharmed, or indeed receive help, support, and relief. This end alone stamps an action or omission with moral worth. That worth therefore rests exclusively on the action’s being performed or omitted solely for another’s benefit and welfare. For as soon as this is not the case, the well-being and suffering that impel every action or restrain us from it can only be the agent’s own. But then the action or omission is invariably egoistic, and thus without moral worth.
But if my action is to be done solely for the other person’s sake, then his well-being and suffering must be my immediate motive, just as my own are in all other actions. This gives our problem a narrower formulation: how is it possible for another’s well-being and suffering to move my will immediately—that is, just as ordinarily only my own do—and thus become my direct motive, sometimes even to such a degree that I more or less subordinate my own well-being and suffering, ordinarily the sole source of my motives, to his? Plainly, only by that other person’s becoming the ultimate end of my will, just as ordinarily I myself am: in other words, by my directly willing his well-being and not willing his suffering, as directly as I ordinarily will only my own. But this necessarily presupposes that I directly share in his suffering as such, feel his suffering as I ordinarily feel only my own, and therefore directly will his well-being as I ordinarily will only my own. This, however, requires that I should in some way be identified with him—that the complete distinction between me and everyone else, on which my egoism rests, should be abolished at least to a certain degree. Yet since I do not inhabit the other person’s skin, it is only through the knowledge I have of him—that is, the representation of him in my head—that I can identify myself with him so far that my deed declares that distinction abolished. The process analyzed here is not dreamed up or plucked out of the air. It is entirely real, and by no means rare: it is the everyday phenomenon of compassion—the wholly immediate participation, independent of every other consideration, first in another’s suffering, and thereby in the prevention or removal of that suffering, in which all satisfaction, well-being, and happiness ultimately consist. This compassion alone is the real basis of all freely chosen justice and all genuine love of humanity. Only insofar as an action springs from it does that action have moral worth; any action arising from any other motives has none. As soon as this compassion awakens, the other person’s well-being and suffering lie immediately at my heart, in just the same way, though not always to the same degree, as ordinarily only my own do. Thus the distinction between him and me is no longer absolute.
This process is certainly astonishing—indeed, mysterious. In truth it is the great mystery of ethics, its primal phenomenon and the boundary beyond which only metaphysical speculation may venture a step. In this process we see the partition that, by the light of nature—as the old theologians call reason—completely separates one being from another fall away, and the not-I become, in a certain sense, the I. For now, however, we will leave the metaphysical interpretation of the phenomenon untouched and first see whether all actions of freely chosen justice and genuine love of humanity really flow from this process. Our problem will then be solved, since we shall have demonstrated the ultimate foundation of morality in human nature itself. This foundation cannot in turn be a problem for ethics, though it may well be one for metaphysics, as is everything that exists, considered simply as existing. But the metaphysical interpretation of the primal ethical phenomenon already goes beyond the Royal Society’s question, which concerns the foundation of ethics. At most it can be appended as a supplement that one is free to offer and free to accept. Before I proceed to derive the cardinal virtues from the fundamental incentive established here, I must add two essential remarks.
1) To make the argument easier to grasp, I simplified the preceding derivation of compassion as the sole source of actions with moral worth by deliberately leaving aside the incentive of malice, which, like compassion, is unselfish, but makes another’s pain its ultimate end. By including it now, we can restate the proof more completely and rigorously as follows:
There are only three fundamental incentives of human action, and every possible motive works solely by arousing them. They are:
a) Egoism, which wills one’s own well-being (has no limits).
b) Malice, which wills another’s suffering (extends to the utmost cruelty).
c) Compassion, which wills another’s well-being (rises to nobility and magnanimity).
Every human action must be traceable to one of these incentives, though two of them may also work together. Since we have assumed that actions with moral worth are given as facts, they too must arise from one of these fundamental incentives. But according to premise 8, they cannot spring from the first incentive, still less from the second, since all actions arising from the second are morally reprehensible, while the first produces some that are morally indifferent. They must therefore proceed from the third incentive; and this will receive a posteriori confirmation in what follows.
2) Immediate participation in another’s condition is confined to his suffering. It is not also aroused, at least not directly, by his well-being; rather, his well-being in itself leaves us indifferent. J. J. Rousseau says the same in Emile (liv. IV): “First maxim: It is not in the human heart to put ourselves in the place of people happier than we are, but only of those who are more to be pitied.” etc.
The reason is that pain, suffering—which includes every lack, deprivation, need, indeed every wish—is what is positive, what is immediately felt. By contrast, the nature of satisfaction, enjoyment, and happiness consists solely in a deprivation’s being removed, a pain’s being stilled. Their effect is therefore negative. This is precisely why need and desire are the condition of every enjoyment. Plato already recognized this, making exceptions only for pleasant scents and the joys of the mind. (De Rep., IX, p. 264 sq. Bip.) Voltaire too says: There are no true pleasures without true needs. Thus what is positive, what makes itself known through itself, is pain; satisfaction and pleasures are what is negative, the mere removal of the former. This is the immediate basis for the fact that only another’s suffering, lack, danger, and helplessness arouse our sympathy directly and as such. The happy, contented person as such leaves us indifferent, precisely because his condition is a negative one: the absence of pain, lack, and distress. We can certainly rejoice in the happiness, well-being, and enjoyment of others. But this is then secondary, mediated by the fact that their suffering and deprivation had previously saddened us. Or we take an interest in someone happy and enjoying himself, not as such, but insofar as he is our child, father, friend, relative, servant, subject, and so on. But it is not the happy person enjoying himself purely as such who arouses our immediate sympathy, as the suffering, deprived, unhappy person does purely as such. Even in our own case, it is really only our suffering—which includes every lack, need, wish, and even boredom—that spurs us to activity, while a state of contentment and happiness leaves us inactive, in languid repose. How could it be otherwise with regard to others, since our participation in their condition rests on identification with them? The sight of someone happy and enjoying himself, purely as such, may even very easily arouse our envy, a disposition present in every human being, which found its place above among the antimoral powers.
In consequence of the account given above of compassion as being moved immediately by another’s suffering, I must also criticize Cassina’s error, so often repeated since (Analytical Essay on Compassion, 1788; German translation by Pockels, 1790). He thinks compassion arises through a momentary deception of the imagination: we put ourselves in the sufferer’s place and then fancy that we are undergoing his pains in our own person. It is not so at all. Rather, at every moment it remains clear and present to us that he is the sufferer, not we; and it is directly in his person, not in ours, that we feel the suffering, to our sorrow. We suffer with him, and thus in him: we feel his pain as his, and do not imagine it to be our own. Indeed, the happier our own condition, and thus the more our awareness of it contrasts with the other person’s situation, the more receptive we are to compassion. But explaining how this supremely important phenomenon is possible is not so easy, nor can it be achieved by the merely psychological route Cassina attempted. The explanation can only be metaphysical; I shall try to give such an explanation in the final part.
For now, however, I turn to deriving actions of genuine moral worth from the source we have demonstrated. In the preceding part I already established, as the general maxim of such actions and therefore the highest principle of ethics, the rule: Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can. Since this maxim contains two propositions, the actions corresponding to it naturally fall into two classes.
Plain English translation
Independent, machine-assisted Plain English translation made directly from the complete 1860 German edition and its embedded passages. Source-language reviewed.
Stating and proving the only genuine moral motive.
After these essential preparations, I come to showing what the true motive is behind every action with genuine moral worth. We will find that its seriousness and unquestionable reality set it far apart from all the hair-splitting, overly clever reasoning, fallacies, baseless claims, and soap bubbles of reasoning independent of experience that earlier systems have tried to make the source of moral action and the basis of ethics. I do not want merely to propose this moral motive for people to accept if they choose. I want actually to prove that it is the only possible one. The proof requires us to bring together many ideas. So I will first state some premises on which the argument depends. These can readily be accepted as axioms, except for the last two, which refer back to explanations already given.
1) No action can occur without a sufficient motive, any more than a stone can move without a sufficient push or pull.
2) Likewise, an action cannot fail to occur when there is a motive sufficient for the acting person's character, unless a stronger opposing motive makes it necessary not to act.
3) The only things that move the will are well-being and suffering, understood generally and in the widest sense of the words. Conversely, well-being and suffering mean "in agreement with a will, or against it." So every motive must have some connection with well-being and suffering.
4) It follows that every action has as its ultimate aim some being capable of well-being and suffering.
5) This being is either the person acting or someone else. In the latter case, that other person is involved as the recipient of the action, which is done either to harm that person or to benefit and help them.
6) Every action whose ultimate aim concerns the acting person's own well-being and suffering is self-interested.
7) Everything said here about actions applies equally to refraining from actions for which both a motive and an opposing motive are present.
8) As the explanation in the previous section shows, self-interest and an action's moral worth absolutely exclude each other. If an action is motivated by a selfish aim, it cannot have moral worth. If an action is to have moral worth, no selfish aim may motivate it, directly or indirectly, whether close at hand or far removed.
9) Since §. 5 ruled out supposed duties toward ourselves, an action's moral significance can lie only in its relation to others. Only in relation to others can it have moral worth or deserve moral condemnation, and so be an act of justice or love for others, or the opposite of either.
The following is clear from these premises. The well-being and suffering that, according to premise 3, must be the ultimate aim behind every action or decision not to act belong either to the acting person or to someone else who is affected by the action. In the first case the action is necessarily selfish, because it rests on a self-interested motive. This applies not only to actions we openly undertake for our own benefit and advantage, as we do in the great majority of cases. It applies equally whenever we expect an action to have some distant result for ourselves, whether in this world or another. It also applies when we have in mind our honor, our reputation among people, someone's high regard, the sympathy of spectators, or anything similar. The same is true if, by our action, we mean to uphold a rule from whose general observance we expect some eventual advantage for ourselves: for example, a rule of justice or of everyone helping one another, and so on.—It is also true if we think it advisable to obey some absolute command coming from a power that, though unknown, is clearly superior. Here, only fear of the harmful consequences of disobedience can motivate us, even if we think of those consequences only generally and vaguely.—The same applies when, by acting or refraining from action, we try to maintain our own high opinion of ourselves, our worth or dignity, whether our idea of these is clear or vague. Otherwise we would have to give up that opinion and see our pride hurt.—Finally, it also applies if, following Wolff's principles, we want to work toward our own perfection through the action. In short, whatever we make an action's ultimate motive, it will always turn out that, by some roundabout route, the real driving force is ultimately the acting person's own well-being and suffering. The action is therefore selfish and consequently has no moral worth. There is only one case where this does not hold: when the ultimate motive for acting or not acting lies directly and exclusively in the well-being and suffering of someone else who is affected. In that case, the person who acts or refrains from acting has only someone else's well-being and suffering in view. That person aims at nothing except that the other should remain unharmed, or even receive help, support, and relief. This aim alone gives an action or a decision not to act the stamp of moral worth. That worth therefore rests exclusively on acting or refraining from action solely for someone else's benefit. Whenever this is not the case, the well-being and suffering that drive someone to act or hold them back can only be their own. But then acting or not acting is always selfish and thus without moral worth.
But if I am to act solely for the other person's sake, then their well-being and suffering must be my immediate motive, just as my own are in every other action. This brings our problem into sharper focus. How is it possible for someone else's well-being and suffering to move my will immediately, that is, in just the way that normally only my own do? How can they become my direct motive, sometimes even so strongly that I give them more or less priority over my own well-being and suffering, which are otherwise the only source of my motives?—Clearly, this is possible only if the other person becomes the ultimate aim of my will, just as I myself normally am. I must want their well-being and not want their suffering just as directly as I normally want only my own well-being and not my own suffering. But this necessarily means that I directly share in their suffering simply as their suffering. I feel it as I otherwise feel only my own, and therefore want their well-being as directly as I otherwise want only my own. This requires me to be identified with them in some way. In other words, the complete difference between me and everyone else, on which my self-interest rests, must be removed at least to a certain extent. But I am not inside the other person's skin. So only through the knowledge I have of them, that is, the representation of them in my head, can I identify with them so far that my deed shows that difference to have been removed. The process analyzed here is not something dreamed up or invented out of nothing. It is entirely real and by no means rare. It is the everyday phenomenon of compassion: an entirely direct sharing, independent of all other considerations, first in someone else's suffering, and through this in preventing or ending that suffering. Ultimately, all satisfaction, well-being, and happiness consist in that prevention or ending of suffering. This compassion alone is the real basis of all freely chosen justice and all genuine love for others. An action has moral worth only to the extent that it comes from compassion. Every action arising from any other motives has none. As soon as this compassion is stirred, the other person's well-being and suffering matter directly to me, in just the same way, though not always to the same degree, as normally only my own do. So the difference between that person and me is no longer absolute.
This process is certainly astonishing, even mysterious. It is, in fact, the great mystery of ethics, its fundamental phenomenon, and the boundary beyond which only metaphysical speculation can venture a step. In this process we see the dividing wall removed that, by the light of nature—as the old theologians call reason—completely separates one being from another. What is not myself has, in a certain sense, become myself. For now, though, let us leave the metaphysical interpretation of this phenomenon alone. Let us first see whether all actions of freely chosen justice and genuine love for others really arise from this process. Our problem will then be solved. We will have shown that morality's ultimate foundation lies in human nature itself. This foundation cannot in turn be a problem for ethics, though, like everything that exists simply as such, it can be a problem for metaphysics. But the metaphysical interpretation of this fundamental ethical phenomenon already goes beyond the Royal Society's question, which asks about the basis of ethics. At most, it can be attached as a supplement that one is free to offer and free to accept.—Before I move on to deriving the cardinal virtues from the basic motive we have identified, I still need to add two essential remarks.
1) To make the argument easier to understand, I simplified the account above, which derives compassion as the only source of actions with moral worth. I deliberately left out the motive of malice. Like compassion, it is not self-interested, but it makes another person's pain its ultimate aim. By including it now, we can restate the proof above more completely and rigorously as follows:
There are only three basic motives for human actions. Every possible motivating consideration works only by stirring one of them. They are:
a) Self-interest, which wants one's own well-being (it has no limits).
b) Malice, which wants someone else's suffering (it goes as far as the most extreme cruelty).
c) Compassion, which wants someone else's well-being (it goes as far as nobility and generosity of spirit).
Every human action must be traceable to one of these motives, although two of them can also work together. We have accepted that actions with moral worth actually occur. So they too must arise from one of these basic motives. But according to premise 8, they cannot come from the first motive. Still less can they come from the second: every action arising from it deserves moral condemnation, whereas some actions produced by the first are morally neutral. So they must come from the third motive. What follows will confirm this through experience.
2) Our direct sharing in another person's condition is limited to their suffering. Their well-being does not stir it, at least not directly. In itself, their well-being leaves us indifferent. J. J. Rousseau says this too in Émile (liv. IV): "First maxim: The human heart is not inclined to put itself in the place of people who are happier than we are, but only in the place of those who are more to be pitied." etc.
The reason is that pain and suffering—which include every lack, deprivation, need, and indeed every wish—are what is positive, what we feel directly. By contrast, satisfaction, enjoyment, and happiness consist only in the removal of a deprivation or the relief of a pain. Their effect is therefore negative. That is precisely why need and desire are the condition of every enjoyment. Plato already recognized this, making exceptions only for pleasant smells and the pleasures of the mind. (De Rep., IX, p. 264 sq. Bip.) Voltaire also says, "There are no real pleasures without real needs." So pain is what is positive, what makes itself known through itself. Satisfaction and enjoyments are what is negative: merely the removal of that pain. This is the immediate reason why only another person's suffering, lack, danger, and helplessness stir our concern directly and in themselves. A happy, contented person, simply as such, leaves us indifferent. This is really because their condition is negative: an absence of pain, lack, and distress. We can, of course, be glad about other people's happiness, well-being, and enjoyment. But this is a secondary response, brought about because their earlier suffering and deprivation had saddened us. Or we may take an interest in a happy person enjoying life, not as such, but because that person is our child, father, friend, relative, servant, subject, or the like. But someone happy and enjoying life simply as such does not stir our direct concern in the way that someone suffering, deprived, or unhappy does simply as such. Even in our own case, it is really only our suffering that moves us to act. This includes every lack, need, wish, and even boredom. A state of contentment and happiness, by contrast, leaves us inactive and resting idly. Why should it not be the same with respect to others, since our sharing in their condition rests on identifying with them? In fact, the sight of a happy person enjoying life, simply as such, can very easily arouse our envy. Everyone has a tendency toward envy, which was listed above among the forces working against morality.
Following the account above of compassion as being motivated directly by someone else's suffering, I must also criticize an error made by Cassina (Analytical Essay on Compassion, 1788; translated into German by Pockels, 1790) and often repeated since. He thinks compassion arises from a momentary illusion of the imagination: we put ourselves in the suffering person's place and then imagine we are suffering their pain in our own person. This is not at all what happens. At every moment we remain clearly aware that the other person is suffering, not us. We feel the suffering directly in their person, not in our own, and it saddens us. We suffer with them, and therefore in them. We feel their pain as theirs and do not imagine it is our own. Indeed, the happier our own condition is, and so the greater the contrast between our awareness of it and the other person's situation, the more open we are to compassion. But explaining how this extremely important phenomenon is possible is not so easy, nor can it be done by a purely psychological approach, as Cassina tried to do. The explanation can only be metaphysical. I will try to give one in the final part.
Now I will turn to deriving actions with genuine moral worth from the source we have shown them to have. In the previous part I already set out the following rule as the general maxim of these actions, and therefore as the highest principle of ethics: "Harm no one; rather, help everyone as much as you can." Since this maxim contains two statements, the actions that correspond to it naturally fall into two classes.
About this section
Section 16 is part of On the Basis of Morality by Arthur Schopenhauer. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is section 17 of 24 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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