Section 4
Original German
Von der imperativen Form der Kantischen Ethik.
Kants πρῶτον ψεῦδος liegt in seinem Begriff von der Ethik selbst, den wir am deutlichsten ausgesprochen finden S. 62 (R., S. 54): „In einer praktischen Philosophie ist es nicht darum zu thun, Gründe anzugeben von dem was geschieht, sondern Gesetze von dem was geschehen soll, ob es gleich niemals geschieht.“ — Dies ist schon eine entschiedene Petitio principii. Wer sagt euch, daß es Gesetze giebt, denen unser Handeln sich unterwerfen soll? Wer sagt euch, daß geschehen soll, was nie geschieht? — Was berechtigt euch, dies vorweg anzunehmen und demnächst eine Ethik in legislatorisch-imperativer Form, als die allein mögliche uns sofort aufzudringen? Ich sage, im Gegensatz zu Kant, daß der Ethiker, wie der Philosoph überhaupt, sich begnügen muß mit der Erklärung und Deutung des Gegebenen, also des wirklich Seienden oder Geschehenden, um zu einem Verständniß desselben zu gelangen, und daß er hieran vollauf zu thun hat, viel mehr, als bis heute, nach abgelaufenen Jahrtausenden, gethan ist. Obiger Kantischen petitio principii gemäß wird gleich in der, durchaus zur Sache gehörenden, Vorrede, vor aller Untersuchung angenommen, daß es rein moralische Gesetze gebe; welche Annahme nachher stehen bleibt und die tiefste Grundlage des ganzen Systems ist. Wir wollen aber doch zuvor den Begriff eines Gesetzes untersuchen. Die eigentliche und ursprüngliche Bedeutung desselben beschränkt sich auf das bürgerliche Gesetz, lex, νόμος, eine menschliche Einrichtung, auf menschlicher Willkühr beruhend. Eine zweite, abgeleitete, tropische, metaphorische Bedeutung hat der Begriff Gesetz in seiner Anwendung auf die Natur, deren theils a priori erkannte, theils ihr empirisch abgemerkte, sich stets gleichbleibende Verfahrungsweisen wir, metaphorisch, Naturgesetze nennen. Nur ein sehr kleiner Theil dieser Naturgesetze ist es, der sich a priori einsehen läßt und Das ausmacht, was Kant scharfsinnig und vortrefflich ausgesondert und unter dem Namen Metaphysik der Natur zusammengestellt hat. Für den menschlichen Willen giebt es allerdings auch ein Gesetz, sofern der Mensch zur Natur gehört, und zwar ein streng nachweisbares, ein unverbrüchliches, ausnahmsloses, felsenfeststehendes, welches nicht, wie der kategorische Imperativ, vel quasi, sondern wirklich Nothwendigkeit mit sich führt: es ist das Gesetz der Motivation, eine Form des Kausalitätsgesetzes, nämlich die durch das Erkennen vermittelte Kausalität. Dies ist das einzige nachweisbare Gesetz für den menschlichen Willen, dem dieser als solcher unterworfen ist. Es besagt, daß jede Handlung nur in Folge eines zureichenden Motivs eintreten kann. Es ist, wie das Gesetz der Kausalität überhaupt, ein Naturgesetz. Hingegen moralische Gesetze, unabhängig von menschlicher Satzung, Staatseinrichtung, oder Religionslehre, dürfen ohne Beweis nicht als vorhanden angenommen werden: Kant begeht also durch diese Vorausnahme eine Petitio principii. Sie erscheint um so dreister, als er sogleich, S. VI der Vorrede, hinzufügt, daß ein moralisches Gesetz „absolute Nothwendigkeit“ bei sich führen soll. Eine solche aber hat überall zum Merkmal die Unausbleiblichkeit des Erfolgs: wie kann nun von absoluter Nothwendigkeit die Rede seyn bei diesen angeblichen moralischen Gesetzen; als ein Beispiel, von welchen er „du sollt (sic) nicht lügen“ anführt; da sie bekanntlich und wie er selbst eingesteht, meistens, ja, in der Regel, erfolglos bleiben? Um in der wissenschaftlichen Ethik, außer dem Gesetze der Motivation, noch andere, ursprüngliche und von aller Menschensatzung unabhängige Gesetze für den Willen anzunehmen, hat man sie ihrer ganzen Existenz nach zu beweisen und abzuleiten; wenn man darauf bedacht ist, in der Ethik die Redlichkeit nicht bloß anzuempfehlen, sondern auch zu üben. Bis jener Beweis geführt worden, erkenne ich für die Einführung des Begriffes Gesetz, Vorschrift, Soll in die Ethik keinen andern Ursprung an, als einen der Philosophie fremden, den Mosaischen Dekalog. Diesen Ursprung verräth sogar naiv, auch im obigen, dem ersten von Kant aufgestellten Beispiel eines moralischen Gesetzes, die Orthographie „du sollt“. Ein Begriff, der keinen andern, als solchen Ursprung aufzuweisen hat, darf aber nicht so ohne Weiteres sich in die philosophische Ethik drängen, sondern wird hinausgewiesen, bis er durch rechtmäßigen Beweis beglaubigt und eingeführt ist. Bei Kant haben wir an ihm die erste Petitio principii, und sie ist groß.
Wie nun, mittelst derselben, Kant, in der Vorrede, den Begriff des Moralgesetzes ohne Weiteres als gegeben und unbezweifelt vorhanden genommen hatte; ebenso macht er es S. 8 (R., S. 16) mit dem jenem eng verwandten Begriff der Pflicht, welcher, ohne weitere Prüfung zu bestehen, als in die Ethik gehörig hineingelassen wird. Allein ich bin genöthigt, hier abermals Protest einzulegen. Dieser Begriff, sammt seinen Anverwandten, also dem des Gesetzes, Gebotes, Sollens u. dergl. hat, in diesem unbedingten Sinn genommen, seinen Ursprung in der theologischen Moral, und bleibt in der philosophischen so lange ein Fremdling, bis er eine gültige Beglaubigung aus dem Wesen der menschlichen Natur, oder dem der objektiven Welt beigebracht hat. Bis dahin erkenne ich für ihn und seine Anverwandten keinen andern Ursprung als den Dekalog. Ueberhaupt hat, in den christlichen Jahrhunderten, die philosophische Ethik ihre Form unbewußt von der theologischen genommen: da nun diese wesentlich eine gebietende ist; so ist auch die philosophische in der Form von Vorschrift und Pflichtenlehre aufgetreten, in aller Unschuld und ohne zu ahnden, daß hiezu erst eine anderweitige Befugniß nöthig sei; vielmehr vermeinend, dies sei eben ihre eigene und natürliche Gestalt. So unleugbar und von allen Völkern, Zeiten und Glaubenslehren, auch von allen Philosophen (mit Ausnahme der eigentlichen Materialisten) anerkannt, die metaphysische d. h. über dieses erscheinende Daseyn hinaus sich erstreckende und die Ewigkeit berührende ethische Bedeutsamkeit des menschlichen Handelns ist; so wenig ist es dieser wesentlich, in der Form des Gebietens und Gehorchens, des Gesetzes und der Pflicht aufgefaßt zu werden. Getrennt von den theologischen Voraussetzungen, aus denen sie hervorgegangen, verlieren überdem diese Begriffe eigentlich alle Bedeutung, und wenn man, wie Kant, jene dadurch zu ersetzen vermeint, daß man von absolutem Sollen und unbedingter Pflicht redet; so speist man den Leser mit Worten ab, ja, giebt ihm eigentlich eine Contradictio in adjecto zu verdauen. Jedes Soll hat allen Sinn und Bedeutung schlechterdings nur in Beziehung auf angedrohte Strafe, oder verheißene Belohnung. Daher sagt auch, lange ehe an Kant gedacht wurde, schon Locke: For since it would be utterly in vain, to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will; we must, where-ever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law. (On Understanding, Bk. II, c. 33, §. 6.)4 Jedes Sollen ist also nothwendig durch Strafe, oder Belohnung bedingt, mithin, in Kants Sprache zu reden, wesentlich und unausweichbar hypothetisch und niemals, wie er behauptet, kategorisch. Werden aber jene Bedingungen weggedacht, so bleibt der Begriff des Sollens sinnleer: daher absolutes Sollen allerdings eine Contradictio in adjecto ist. Eine gebietende Stimme, sie mag nun von Innen, oder von Außen kommen, ist es schlechterdings unmöglich, sich anders, als drohend, oder versprechend zu denken: dann aber wird der Gehorsam gegen sie zwar, nach Umständen, klug oder dumm, jedoch stets eigennützig, mithin ohne moralischen Werth seyn. Die völlige Undenkbarkeit und Widersinnigkeit dieses der Ethik Kants zum Grunde liegenden Begriffs eines unbedingten Sollens tritt in seinem System selbst später, nämlich in der Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, hervor; wie ein verlarvtes Gift im Organismus nicht bleiben kann, sondern endlich hervorbrechen und sich Luft machen muß. Nämlich jenes so unbedingte Soll postulirt sich hinterher doch eine Bedingung, und sogar mehr als eine, nämlich eine Belohnung, dazu die Unsterblichkeit des zu Belohnenden und einen Belohner. Das ist freilich nothwendig, wenn man einmal Pflicht und Soll zum Grundbegriff der Ethik gemacht hat; da diese Begriffe wesentlich relativ sind und alle Bedeutung nur haben durch angedrohte Strafe, oder verheißene Belohnung. Dieser Lohn, der für die Tugend, welche also nur scheinbar unentgeltlich arbeitete, hinterdrein postulirt wird, tritt aber anständig verschleiert auf, unter dem Namen des höchsten Guts, welches die Vereinigung der Tugend und Glücksäligkeit ist. Dieses ist aber im Grunde nichts Anderes, als die auf Glücksäligkeit ausgehende, folglich auf Eigennutz gestützte Moral, oder Eudämonismus, welche Kant als heteronomisch feierlich zur Hauptthüre seines Systems hinausgeworfen hatte, und die sich nun unter dem Namen höchstes Gut zur Hinterthüre wieder hereinschleicht. So rächt sich die einen Widerspruch verbergende Annahme des unbedingten, absoluten Sollens. Das bedingte Sollen andererseits kann freilich kein ethischer Grundbegriff seyn, weil Alles, was mit Hinsicht auf Lohn oder Strafe geschieht, nothwendig egoistisches Thun und als solches ohne rein moralischen Werth ist. — Aus allem Diesem wird ersichtlich, daß es einer großartigern und unbefangenern Auffassung der Ethik bedarf, wenn es Ernst damit ist, die sich über die Erscheinung hinaus erstreckende, ewige Bedeutsamkeit des menschlichen Handelns wirklich ergründen zu wollen.
Wie alles Sollen schlechterdings an eine Bedingung gebunden ist, so auch alle Pflicht. Denn beide Begriffe sind sich sehr nahe verwandt und beinahe identisch. Der einzige Unterschied zwischen ihnen möchte seyn, daß Sollen überhaupt auch auf bloßem Zwange beruhen kann, Pflicht hingegen Verpflichtung, d. h. Uebernahme der Pflicht, voraussetzt: eine solche hat Statt zwischen Herrn und Diener, Vorgesetztem und Untergebenen, Regierung und Unterthanen. Eben weil Keiner eine Pflicht unentgeltlich übernimmt, giebt jede Pflicht auch ein Recht. Der Sklave hat keine Pflicht, weil er kein Recht hat; aber es giebt ein Soll für ihn, welches auf bloßem Zwange beruht. Im folgenden Theile werde ich die alleinige Bedeutung, welche der Begriff Pflicht in der Ethik hat, aufstellen.
Die Fassung der Ethik in einer imperativen Form, als Pflichtenlehre, und das Denken des moralischen Werthes oder Unwerthes menschlicher Handlungen als Erfüllung oder Verletzung von Pflichten, stammt, mit sammt dem Sollen, unleugbar nur aus der theologischen Moral und demnächst aus dem Dekalog. Demgemäß beruht sie wesentlich auf der Voraussetzung der Abhängigkeit des Menschen von einem andern, ihm gebietenden und Belohnung oder Strafe ankündigenden Willen, und ist davon nicht zu trennen. So ausgemacht die Voraussetzung eines solchen in der Theologie ist; so wenig darf sie stillschweigend und ohne Weiteres in die philosophische Moral gezogen werden. Dann aber darf man auch nicht vorweg annehmen, daß in dieser die imperative Form, das Aufstellen von Geboten, Gesetzen und Pflichten, sich von selbst verstehe und ihr wesentlich sei; wobei es ein schlechter Nothbehelf ist, die solchen Begriffen, ihrer Natur nach, wesentlich anhängende äußere Bedingung durch das Wort „absolut“ oder „kategorisch“ zu ersetzen, als wodurch, wie gesagt, eine Contradictio in adjecto entsteht.
Nachdem nun aber Kant diese imperative Form der Ethik, stillschweigend und unbesehens, von der theologischen Moral entlehnt hatte, deren Voraussetzungen, also die Theologie, derselben eigentlich zum Grunde liegen und in der That als Das, wodurch allein sie Bedeutung und Sinn hat, unzertrennlich von ihr, ja, implicite darin enthalten sind; da hatte er nachher leichtes Spiel, am Ende seiner Darstellung, aus seiner Moral wieder eine Theologie zu entwickeln, die bekannte Moraltheologie. Denn da brauchte er nur die Begriffe, welche implicite durch das Soll gesetzt, seiner Moral versteckt zum Grunde lagen, ausdrücklich hervorzuholen und jetzt sie explicite als Postulate der praktischen Vernunft aufzustellen. So erschien denn, zur großen Erbauung der Welt, eine Theologie, die bloß auf Moral gestützt, ja, aus dieser hervorgegangen war. Das kam aber daher, daß diese Moral selbst auf versteckten theologischen Voraussetzungen beruht. Ich beabsichtige kein spöttisches Gleichniß: aber in der Form hat die Sache Analogie mit der Ueberraschung, die ein Künstler in der natürlichen Magie uns bereitet, indem er eine Sache uns da finden läßt, wohin er sie zuvor weislich prakticirt hatte. — In abstracto ausgesprochen ist Kants Verfahren dieses, daß er zum Resultat machte, was das Princip oder die Voraussetzung hätte seyn müssen (die Theologie), und zur Voraussetzung nahm, was als Resultat hätte abgeleitet werden sollen (das Gebot). Nachdem er nun aber so das Ding auf den Kopf gestellt hatte, erkannte es Niemand, ja er selbst nicht, für Das was es war, nämlich die alte, wohlbekannte theologische Moral. Die Ausführung dieses Kunststücks werden wir in dem sechsten und siebenten Paragraphen betrachten.
Allerdings war schon vor Kant die Fassung der Moral in der imperativen Form und als Pflichtenlehre auch in der Philosophie in häufigem Gebrauch: nur gründete man dann auch die Moral selbst auf den Willen eines schon anderweitig bewiesenen Gottes, und blieb konsequent. Sobald man aber, wie Kant, eine hievon unabhängige Begründung unternahm und die Ethik ohne metaphysische Voraussetzungen feststellen wollte, war man auch nicht mehr berechtigt, jene imperative Form, jenes „du sollst“ und „es ist deine Pflicht“ ohne anderweitige Ableitung zum Grunde zu legen.
4 „Denn da es durchaus vergeblich seyn würde, eine den freien Handlungen des Menschen gezogene Richtschnur anzunehmen, ohne derselben etwas anzuhängen, was ihr Nachdruck ertheilte, indem es mittelst Wohl und Wehe seinen Willen bestimmte; so müssen wir überall, wo wir ein Gesetz annehmen, auch irgend eine diesem Gesetz anhängende Belohnung, oder Strafe annehmen.“ (Ueber den Verstand, Bd. II, c. 33, §. 6.)
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.
On the Imperative Form of Kantian Ethics.
Kant's fundamental error lies in his very conception of ethics, which we find most clearly expressed on p. 62 (R., p. 54): "In practical philosophy, the task is not to give reasons for what happens, but laws for what ought to happen, even if it never does."—This already plainly begs the question. Who tells you that there are laws to which our conduct ought to submit? Who tells you that what never happens ought to happen?—What entitles you to assume this in advance, and then immediately impose on us an ethics in a legislative, imperative form as the only possible one? In opposition to Kant, I maintain that the moral philosopher, like the philosopher generally, must content himself with explaining and interpreting what is given—that is, what actually exists or happens—in order to reach an understanding of it; and that this gives him more than enough to do, far more than has been done to this day, after thousands of years. In keeping with this Kantian begging of the question, the preface, which is entirely relevant to the subject, assumes before any investigation that purely moral laws exist. This assumption then stands unchallenged as the deepest foundation of the entire system. But let us first examine the concept of a law. Its proper and original meaning is confined to civil law—law or statute, a human institution resting on human choice. The concept acquires a second, derivative sense, a figurative or metaphorical one, when applied to nature, whose unvarying modes of operation—some known independently of experience, others learned by empirical observation—we metaphorically call laws of nature. Only a very small portion of these natural laws can be discerned independently of experience; these constitute what Kant so acutely and admirably distinguished and brought together under the name Metaphysics of Nature. There is indeed also a law for the human will, insofar as the human being belongs to nature: a law that can be rigorously demonstrated, inviolable, without exception, rock-solid, and entailing necessity not merely in a manner of speaking, as the categorical imperative does, but in reality. It is the law of motivation, a form of the law of causality: namely, causality mediated by cognition. This is the only demonstrable law for the human will to which it is subject as such. It states that every action can occur only as the consequence of a sufficient motive. Like the law of causality generally, it is a law of nature. Moral laws, by contrast, independent of human enactment, political institutions, or religious doctrine, cannot be assumed to exist without proof. Kant therefore begs the question by assuming them in advance. The assumption appears all the bolder because he immediately adds, on p. VI of the preface, that a moral law must entail "absolute necessity." Yet the mark of such necessity is always that its effect cannot fail to occur. How, then, can there be any talk of absolute necessity in these alleged moral laws—of which he gives as an example "you shall not lie," with the wording "du sollt (sic)"—when, as everyone knows and he himself admits, they mostly, indeed as a rule, remain without effect? Before admitting into a scientific ethics any laws for the will besides the law of motivation—laws that are original and independent of all human enactment—we must prove and derive their very existence, if we intend not merely to recommend honesty in ethics but also to practice it. Until that proof has been supplied, I recognize no other source for the introduction into ethics of the concepts of law, precept, and ought than one foreign to philosophy: the Mosaic Decalogue. Even the spelling "du sollt"—"you shall"—naively betrays this origin in the example above, the first moral law Kant puts forward. But a concept that can point to no other origin than this cannot simply force its way into philosophical ethics; it must be turned away until legitimate proof has authenticated it and secured its admission. In Kant it constitutes the first instance of begging the question, and a large one.
Just as Kant, by this means, had simply taken the concept of the moral law in the preface as given and indisputably real, so on p. 8 (R., p. 16) he treats the closely related concept of duty, admitting it into ethics without further examination of its credentials. But here I must once again enter a protest. This concept, together with its relatives—those of law, command, ought, and the like—when taken in this unconditional sense, originates in theological morality and remains a stranger to philosophical morality until it has produced valid credentials drawn from the essential nature of humanity or of the objective world. Until then, I recognize no other origin for it and its relatives than the Decalogue. Throughout the Christian centuries, philosophical ethics has, in general, unconsciously taken its form from theological ethics. Since the latter is essentially commanding, philosophical ethics too has appeared in the form of precepts and a doctrine of duties, in all innocence, without suspecting that it first needed an independent warrant for doing so; rather, it supposed this to be its own natural form. The metaphysical ethical significance of human conduct—its significance extending beyond this phenomenal existence and touching eternity—is undeniable, and is recognized by all peoples, ages, and religions, as well as by all philosophers except the thoroughgoing materialists. Yet it is by no means essential to this significance that it be conceived in terms of commanding and obeying, of law and duty. Moreover, detached from the theological premises from which they arose, these concepts really lose all meaning. If, like Kant, we think we can replace those premises by speaking of an absolute ought and unconditional duty, we are fobbing the reader off with words, indeed giving him a contradiction in terms to digest. Every ought derives all its sense and meaning solely from a threatened punishment or a promised reward. Hence, long before anyone thought of Kant, Locke had already said: "For since it would be utterly in vain, to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will; we must, where-ever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law." (On Understanding, Bk. II, c. 33, §. 6.)4 Every ought is therefore necessarily conditioned by punishment or reward and thus, in Kant's language, is essentially and inescapably hypothetical, never, as he claims, categorical. But if those conditions are thought away, the concept of ought is left devoid of meaning; an absolute ought is therefore indeed a contradiction in terms. It is quite impossible to conceive of a commanding voice, whether it comes from within or without, as anything but threatening or promising. Obedience to it will then, according to circumstances, be wise or foolish, but always self-interested and therefore without moral worth. The utter inconceivability and absurdity of this concept of an unconditional ought, on which Kant's ethics rests, later emerges within his system itself, in the Critique of Practical Reason, just as a concealed poison cannot remain within an organism but must finally break out and find an outlet. For this supposedly unconditional ought subsequently postulates a condition after all, indeed more than one: a reward, the immortality of the person to be rewarded, and someone to confer the reward. This is of course necessary once duty and ought have been made the fundamental concepts of ethics, since these concepts are essentially relative and acquire all their meaning through threatened punishment or promised reward. But this reward, postulated after the event for virtue, which had thus only appeared to labor without payment, makes its entrance respectably veiled under the name of the highest good: the union of virtue and happiness. At bottom, however, this is nothing other than a morality aimed at happiness and therefore founded on self-interest, or eudaimonism, which Kant had solemnly thrown out through his system's front door as heteronomous, and which now slips back in through the rear door under the name of the highest good. Thus the assumption of an unconditional, absolute ought, harboring a contradiction, takes its revenge. A conditional ought, on the other hand, can certainly be no fundamental ethical concept, because everything done with a view to reward or punishment is necessarily egoistic action and, as such, without purely moral worth.—All this makes clear that a more expansive and unprejudiced conception of ethics is needed if we are serious about truly fathoming the eternal significance of human conduct, which reaches beyond appearance.
Just as every ought is wholly bound to a condition, so is every duty. For the two concepts are very closely related and almost identical. The sole difference between them may be that an ought can also rest on mere coercion, whereas duty presupposes obligation, that is, the acceptance of a duty. Such an obligation exists between master and servant, superior and subordinate, government and subject. Precisely because no one accepts a duty for nothing, every duty also confers a right. The slave has no duty, because he has no right; but there is an ought for him, resting on mere coercion. In the following part I shall establish the only meaning the concept of duty has in ethics.
The conception of ethics in an imperative form, as a doctrine of duties, and the conception of the moral worth or unworthiness of human actions as the fulfillment or violation of duties, together with the ought, undeniably derive solely from theological morality and ultimately from the Decalogue. Accordingly, this conception rests essentially on the assumption that the human being depends on another will, which commands him and announces reward or punishment; it cannot be separated from that assumption. However firmly established the assumption of such a will may be in theology, it cannot simply and silently be imported into philosophical morality. Nor, then, may we assume in advance that the imperative form, the laying down of commandments, laws, and duties, is self-evident in philosophical morality and essential to it. It is a poor expedient to replace the external condition intrinsically attached to such concepts by the word "absolute" or "categorical," thereby producing, as I have said, a contradiction in terms.
But once Kant had silently and uncritically borrowed this imperative form of ethics from theological morality—whose premises, that is, theology, actually underlie that form and, as the sole source of its sense and meaning, are inseparable from it, indeed implicitly contained in it—he then had an easy task at the end of his exposition in developing a theology out of his morality in turn: the familiar moral theology. He needed only to bring expressly to light the concepts which the ought implicitly posited, and which lay concealed beneath his morality, and now set them forth explicitly as postulates of practical reason. Thus, to the world's great edification, there appeared a theology supported solely by morality, indeed born from it. But this happened because that morality itself rested on concealed theological premises. I intend no mocking comparison, but in its form the affair resembles the surprise a performer of natural magic prepares for us when he has us find something in the place where he had prudently planted it beforehand.—Stated in the abstract, Kant's procedure is this: he made into the result what ought to have been the principle or premise—theology—and took as the premise what ought to have been derived as the result—the commandment. But once he had stood the thing on its head in this way, no one, not even he himself, recognized it for what it was: the old, familiar theological morality. We shall examine the execution of this trick in the sixth and seventh sections.
Even before Kant, to be sure, the conception of morality in the imperative form and as a doctrine of duties had frequently been used in philosophy as well. But morality itself was then also founded on the will of a God already proved by other means, and so remained consistent. Once, however, one undertook, as Kant did, to establish an independent foundation and to secure ethics without metaphysical premises, one was no longer entitled to take that imperative form, that "you shall" and "it is your duty," as the basis without deriving it independently.
4 "For since it would be utterly futile to assume a guiding rule laid down for a person's free actions without attaching something to it that gave it force by determining his will through well-being and suffering, wherever we assume a law we must also assume some reward or punishment attached to that law." (On Understanding, vol. II, c. 33, §. 6.)
Plain English translation
Independent, machine-assisted Plain English translation made directly from the complete 1860 German edition and its embedded passages. Source-language reviewed.
The imperative form of Kant's ethics.
Kant's first falsehood lies in his idea of ethics itself. We find that idea stated most clearly on S. 62 (R., S. 54): "In practical philosophy the task is not to give reasons for what happens. The task is to give laws for what ought to happen, even if it never happens." This is already a flat case of assuming what has to be proved. Who tells you that there are laws that our actions ought to obey? Who tells you that what never happens ought to happen? What gives you the right to assume this from the start? And what gives you the right to push on us right away an ethics in a legislating, commanding form, as the only possible one? I say, against Kant, that the ethicist, like the philosopher in general, must be content with explaining and interpreting what is given, that is, what actually exists or happens, in order to reach an understanding of it. I also say that this task keeps the ethicist fully occupied. There is far more to do than has been done to this day, after thousands of years have passed. In line with this Kantian assumption of what has to be proved, the preface, which is entirely part of the subject matter, assumes right away, before any investigation, that there are purely moral laws. That assumption then stays in place. It is the deepest foundation of the whole system. But first let us examine the concept of a law. Its proper and original meaning is limited to civil law—lex, νόμος—a human institution that rests on human choice. The concept of law has a second meaning, a derived, figurative, metaphorical one, when it is applied to nature. Nature has ways of proceeding that always stay the same. Some of these we know independently of experience, and some we have noticed in nature through experience. These we call, metaphorically, laws of nature. Only a very small part of these laws of nature can be seen independently of experience. That part makes up what Kant keenly and admirably separated out and put together under the name Metaphysics of Nature. For the human will there is indeed a law too, insofar as the human being belongs to nature. It is a law that can be strictly proved, one that cannot be broken, has no exceptions, and stands solid as rock. It does not carry necessity merely "so to speak," as the categorical imperative does. It carries real necessity. It is the law of motivation, a form of the law of causality, namely causality that works through cognition. This is the only provable law for the human will, and the will is subject to it as such. It says that any action can occur only as the result of a sufficient motive. Like the law of causality in general, it is a law of nature. Moral laws, on the other hand, that are independent of human enactment, state institutions, or religious teaching may not be assumed to exist without proof. So by taking them for granted in advance, Kant assumes what has to be proved. This looks all the bolder because Kant adds right away, on S. VI of the preface, that a moral law is supposed to carry "absolute necessity" with it. But such necessity always has this mark: the result cannot fail to appear. So how can anyone speak of absolute necessity for these supposed moral laws? As an example of them, Kant gives "du sollt (sic) nicht lügen," that is, "you shall not lie." After all, it is well known, and he admits it himself, that such laws mostly, indeed as a rule, remain without effect. Suppose one wants to assume, in scientific ethics, other laws for the will besides the law of motivation, laws that are original and independent of all human enactment. Then one has to prove and derive their whole existence. That holds if one cares not only to recommend honesty in ethics but also to practice it. Until that proof has been given, I recognize no other origin for bringing the concept of law, precept, and ought into ethics than one that is foreign to philosophy: the Ten Commandments of Moses. The spelling "du sollt" even betrays this origin naively, in the example above, the first example of a moral law that Kant sets up. A concept that can show no origin other than this may not simply push its way into philosophical ethics. It is turned away until valid proof has vouched for it and introduced it. In Kant, this concept gives us the first case of assuming what has to be proved, and it is a big one.
By that same step, Kant in the preface had taken the concept of the moral law without further ado as given and unquestionably present. He does the same on S. 8 (R., S. 16) with the closely related concept of duty. This concept is let into ethics as belonging there, without having to pass any further test. But I am forced to enter a protest again here. This concept, together with its relatives, that is, the concepts of law, command, ought, and the like, has its origin in theological morality when it is taken in this unconditional sense. In philosophical morality it stays a stranger until it brings a valid credential from the nature of human beings or from the nature of the objective world. Until then I recognize no other origin for it and its relatives than the Ten Commandments. In general, during the Christian centuries, philosophical ethics took its form unconsciously from theological ethics. Theological ethics is essentially commanding. So philosophical ethics also appeared in the form of precept and doctrine of duties. It did so in all innocence, without suspecting that some other authorization was needed first. It thought, rather, that this was simply its own natural shape. Human action has an ethical significance that is metaphysical, that is, it reaches beyond this world of appearance and touches eternity. No one can deny this significance. All peoples, ages, and creeds recognize it, and so do all philosophers except the true materialists. But it is not essential to this significance that it be understood in the form of commanding and obeying, of law and duty. Besides, once these concepts are cut off from the theological assumptions they came from, they really lose all meaning. Kant thinks he can replace those assumptions by speaking of absolute ought and unconditional duty. But this fobs the reader off with words. In fact, it gives the reader a contradiction in terms to digest. Every ought has sense and meaning only in relation to a threatened punishment or a promised reward. That is why Locke already said, long before anyone thought of Kant: For since it would be utterly in vain, to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will; we must, where-ever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law. (On Understanding, Bk. II, c. 33, §. 6.)4 So every ought is necessarily conditioned by punishment or reward. In Kant's language, then, it is essentially and unavoidably hypothetical, and never, as he claims, categorical. But if we take those conditions away in thought, the concept of ought is left empty of sense. That is why absolute ought is indeed a contradiction in terms. A commanding voice, whether it comes from within or from outside, simply cannot be imagined except as threatening or promising. But then obeying it will be wise or foolish, depending on circumstances, yet always selfish, and so without moral worth. The complete unthinkability and absurdity of this concept of an unconditional ought, which underlies Kant's ethics, comes out later in his own system, in the Critique of Practical Reason. It is like a hidden poison in the body: it cannot stay there, but must finally break out and find an outlet. For that unconditional ought, unconditional though it was, afterward postulates a condition for itself after all, and in fact more than one: a reward, and also the immortality of the one to be rewarded, and a rewarder. Of course this is necessary once one has made duty and ought the basic concept of ethics, since these concepts are essentially relative and have meaning only through threatened punishment or promised reward. This payment is postulated afterward for virtue, which therefore only seemed to work for nothing. But it appears decently veiled, under the name of the highest good, which is the union of virtue and happiness. At bottom, however, this is nothing other than the morality that aims at happiness and therefore rests on self-interest, that is, eudemonism. Kant had solemnly thrown it out the main door of his system as heteronomous. Now it sneaks back in by the back door under the name highest good. This is how the assumption of an unconditional, absolute ought, which hides a contradiction, takes its revenge. The conditional ought, on the other hand, can of course not be a basic ethical concept. Everything done with an eye to reward or punishment is necessarily egoistic action, and as such it has no purely moral worth. All this shows that ethics needs a grander and more unprejudiced view, if we are serious about wanting to get to the bottom of the eternal significance of human action, which reaches beyond appearance.
Just as every ought is bound to a condition without exception, so is every duty. The two concepts are very close relatives and almost identical. The only difference between them may be this: ought in general can rest on mere compulsion, while duty presupposes obligation, that is, the taking on of the duty. Obligation takes place between master and servant, superior and subordinate, government and subjects. Precisely because no one takes on a duty for nothing, every duty also gives a right. A slave has no duty, because a slave has no right. But there is an ought for a slave, and it rests on mere compulsion. In the next part I will set out the only meaning that the concept duty has in ethics.
Casting ethics in an imperative form, as a doctrine of duties, and thinking of the moral worth or worthlessness of human actions as the fulfilling or violating of duties, comes, together with the ought, undeniably only from theological morality, and then from the Ten Commandments. Accordingly, it rests essentially on the assumption that human beings depend on another will, one that commands them and announces reward or punishment. It cannot be separated from that assumption. Theology takes the assumption of such a will as settled. But that does not mean it may be drawn quietly and without further ado into philosophical morality. And then one also may not assume in advance that the imperative form, the setting up of commands, laws, and duties, goes without saying in philosophical morality and is essential to it. It is a poor makeshift to replace the outer condition that by its nature clings essentially to such concepts with the word "absolute" or "categorical." As already said, that produces a contradiction in terms.
Kant had borrowed this imperative form of ethics from theological morality, silently and without examining it. The assumptions of theological morality, that is, theology, really underlie that morality. They are the very thing that alone gives it meaning and sense. They cannot be separated from it, and they are contained in it implicitly. So afterward, at the end of his exposition, Kant had an easy time of it. He could develop a theology out of his morality in turn, the well-known moral theology. He only had to bring out into the open the concepts that the ought had implicitly posited and that lay hidden under his morality, and now to set them up explicitly as postulates of practical reason. So, to the great edification of the world, a theology appeared that was supported by morality alone, and had even come out of it. But this happened because that morality itself rests on hidden theological assumptions. I do not intend a mocking comparison. But in form the matter is like the surprise that a conjuror prepares for us, by letting us find an object in the very place where it had been cleverly planted beforehand. Stated in the abstract, Kant's procedure is this: he made into the result what should have been the principle or assumption (theology), and he took as the assumption what should have been derived as the result (the command). Once he had turned the thing on its head in this way, no one recognized it for what it was, not even he himself, namely the old, well-known theological morality. We will look at how this trick was carried out in the sixth and seventh sections.
It is true that even before Kant the casting of morality in the imperative form, as a doctrine of duties, was in frequent use in philosophy too. But then people also based morality itself on the will of a God who had already been proved by other means, and so they stayed consistent. But as soon as someone undertook, like Kant, to give a basis independent of this, and wanted to establish ethics without metaphysical assumptions, that person was no longer entitled to lay that imperative form at the foundation, that "you shall" and "it is your duty," without deriving it some other way.
4 "For since it would be completely pointless to assume a rule laid down for the free actions of human beings without attaching to it something that gave it force, by determining their will through well-being and pain, we must, wherever we assume a law, also assume some reward or punishment attached to that law." (On the Understanding, Bd. II, c. 33, §. 6.)
About this section
Section 4 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 5 of 24 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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