Chapter III, 10

This account of the nature of individual character does indeed imply that virtues and vices are inborn. The truth may be unwelcome to many prejudices and much old wives’ philosophy, with its so-called practical interests—that is, its small, narrow concepts and limited nursery-school views. Yet it was already the conviction of the father of moral philosophy, Socrates, who, according to Aristotle (Eth. magna, I, 9), maintained: “It is not in our power to become virtuous or vicious, and so on” (“Whether we are good or bad does not lie within our choice”). Aristotle’s objection here is plainly poor: he himself shares Socrates’ opinion and states it most clearly in Eth. Nicom., VI, 13: “Everyone holds that our several traits of character somehow belong to us by nature: for justice, temperance, courage and the rest are ours from birth.” (“Each trait of character seems in some fashion to be present by nature in every person: for from the very moment of birth we have an inclination toward justice, temperance, fortitude and the remaining virtues.”) If we survey all the virtues and vices briefly collected in Aristotle’s de virtutibus et vitiis, we shall find that in actual people they can all be conceived only as inborn qualities, and would be genuine only as such. If, instead, they arose from reflection and were deliberately assumed, they would really amount to a kind of pretense and be ungenuine; we could then place no reliance whatever on their continuance or on their holding firm under the pressure of circumstances. Nor is it otherwise if we add the Christian virtue of love, charity, which is absent from Aristotle and all the ancients. How could one person’s tireless goodness and another’s incorrigible, deep-rooted malice—the character of the Antonines, Hadrian and Titus on one side, and of Caligula, Nero and Domitian on the other—have flown in from outside, the work of chance circumstances or mere knowledge and instruction? Nero, after all, had Seneca as his tutor. Rather, the seed of all a person’s virtues and vices lies in his inborn character, the true core of the whole person. This conviction, natural to the unprejudiced person, also guided the hand of Velleius Paterculus when he wrote of Cato (II, 35): “A man the very image of virtue, closer in every aspect of his nature to the gods than to men, who never did right to be seen doing so, but because he could not do otherwise”∗).

∗) This passage is gradually becoming a regular weapon in the determinists’ arsenal, an honor the good old historian certainly never dreamed of 1800 years ago. Hobbes praised it first, and Priestley after him. Schelling then reproduced it in his treatise on freedom, S. 478, in a translation somewhat falsified to suit his purposes. For that reason he does not name Velleius Paterculus, but, with equal shrewdness and refinement, says “an ancient.” Finally, I too have not failed to bring it forward, since it really does bear on the subject.

On the assumption of freedom of the will, however, it is quite impossible to see where virtue and vice—or indeed the fact that two people brought up alike act very differently, even oppositely, under entirely identical circumstances and occasions—could originate. The actual, original and fundamental difference between characters is incompatible with a freedom of the will in which opposite actions are supposed to be equally possible for every person in every situation. On that assumption, character must begin as a blank slate, just as the intellect does according to Locke, with no inborn inclination to either side. Such an inclination would already destroy the perfect balance conceived in freedom of indifferent choice. The ground of the observed differences in different people’s conduct therefore cannot lie, on that assumption, in the subjective; still less can it lie in the objective. For then objects would determine action, and the freedom demanded would be lost altogether. At most, one escape would remain: to place the origin of those actual great differences of conduct midway between subject and object, making them arise from the different ways the subjective apprehends the objective—that is, from the ways different people know it. But then everything would come down to correct or incorrect knowledge of the circumstances. Moral differences of conduct would be transformed into mere differences in the correctness of judgment, and morality would become logic. Suppose the advocates of freedom of the will finally tried to escape this awkward dilemma by saying that characters do not differ innately, but acquire their differences from external circumstances, impressions, experiences, example, teaching and so forth; and that once character had been formed in this way, differences of conduct would afterward be explained by it. We must answer, first, that character would then appear very late, whereas it is actually already recognizable in children, and most people would die before acquiring a character. Second, all those external circumstances, whose work character is supposed to be, lie wholly beyond our power and would be brought about one way or another by chance—or providence, if preferred. If character arose from those circumstances, and differences of conduct arose in turn from character, all moral responsibility for that conduct would disappear entirely, since it would ultimately and plainly be the work of chance or providence. Thus, on the assumption of freedom of the will, the origin of differences in conduct, and with them virtue, vice and responsibility, hangs unsupported, finding nowhere the smallest place to take root. It follows that this assumption, however pleasing it may look at first to an untrained understanding, fundamentally contradicts our moral convictions just as much as it contradicts the highest principle of our understanding, as we have sufficiently shown.

The necessity with which motives act, like all causes in general, as I have shown at length above, is not without a presupposition. We have now learned what that presupposition is, the ground on which this necessity stands: inborn, individual character. Every effect in inanimate nature is the necessary product of two factors: the general natural force manifesting itself here, and the particular cause calling forth that manifestation here. In precisely the same way, every human deed is the necessary product of the person’s character and the motive that has appeared. Once these two are given, the deed follows inevitably. For a different deed to occur, either a different motive or a different character would have to be posited. Every deed could also be predicted with certainty, indeed calculated, were character not so difficult to investigate, and were the motive not often hidden and always exposed to counteracting motives that lie solely in the person’s sphere of thought, inaccessible to others. A person’s inborn character already essentially determines the ends he invariably pursues. The means he adopts are determined partly by external circumstances and partly by his apprehension of them, whose accuracy depends in turn on his understanding and its cultivation. The final result of all this is his individual deeds, and thus the whole part he has to play in the world. The doctrine of individual character developed here is expressed with as much truth as poetry in one of Goethe’s finest stanzas:

“As on the day that gave you to the worldThe sun stood to salute the planets,You grew at once, and onward, ever onward,According to the law with which you entered.So you must be; you cannot flee yourself:So spoke the Sibyls, so the prophets;No time, no power can break to piecesThe stamped form that unfolds in living growth.”

The presupposition on which the necessity of every cause’s effects rests is therefore the inward nature of each thing, whether merely a general natural force manifesting itself in it, a vital force, or will. Every being, whatever its kind, will always react to the causes acting upon it in accordance with its own particular nature. The Scholastics expressed this law, to which all things in the world are subject without exception, in the formula “Action follows being.” Accordingly, a chemist tests bodies with reagents, and one person tests another through the trials to which he puts him. In every case, external causes will necessarily call forth what lies within the being, for it cannot react otherwise than according to what it is.

This account of the nature of individual character does imply that virtues and vices are inborn. This truth may be unwelcome to many prejudices and much spinning-wheel philosophizing, with its so-called practical interests—that is, its small, narrow concepts and limited schoolroom views. But it was already the conviction of Socrates, the father of moral philosophy. According to Aristotle (Eth. magna, I, 9), he maintained: "It is not in our power to become good or bad, etc." (It is not a matter of our own choice whether we are good or bad.) Aristotle's objection here is plainly poor. He himself also shares Socrates's opinion and expresses it very clearly in Eth. Nicom., VI, 13: "For everyone thinks that each trait of character belongs to us in some way by nature: we are just, self-controlled, brave, and have the other traits right from birth." (For individual traits seem in some way to be present by nature in all people: we have an inclination toward justice, self-control, courage, and the other virtues as soon as we are born.) And if we look over all the virtues and vices in Aristotle's book de virtutibus et vitiis, where they are brought together in a short survey, we will find that in real people they can all be conceived only as inborn qualities. Only as such would they be genuine. If instead they arose from reflection and were adopted by choice, they would really amount to a kind of pretense and be false. We could then never count on their lasting or holding up under the pressure of circumstances. Nor is it any different if we add the Christian virtue of love, charity, which is absent from Aristotle and all the ancients. How could one person's tireless goodness and another's incorrigible, deeply rooted wickedness have drifted in from outside, the work of chance circumstances or mere knowledge and instruction? How could this explain the character of the Antonines, Hadrian, and Titus on the one hand, and Caligula, Nero, and Domitian on the other? Nero, after all, had Seneca as his tutor.—Rather, the seed of all a person's virtues and vices lies in their inborn character, the actual core of the whole person. This conviction, natural to anyone without preconceptions, also guided the hand of Velleius Paterculus when he wrote the following about Cato (II, 35): "A man who was the very image of virtue, and in his whole nature closer to gods than to human beings: he never did right in order to seem to do so, but because he could not act otherwise."∗)

∗) This passage is gradually becoming a standard piece of equipment in the determinists' arsenal—an honor the good old historian certainly never dreamed of 1800 years ago. Hobbes was the first to praise it, followed by Priestley. Then Schelling reproduced it in his treatise on freedom, S. 478, in a translation somewhat distorted to suit his purposes. That is also why he does not name Velleius Paterculus, but says, with as much cunning as condescension, "an ancient writer." Finally, I too have not wanted to neglect quoting it, since it really is relevant.

On the assumption of freedom of the will, however, it is simply impossible to see where virtue and vice are actually supposed to come from. The same applies more generally to the fact that two people brought up alike act quite differently, even in opposite ways, under completely identical circumstances and occasions. The actual, original, fundamental differences between characters cannot be reconciled with the assumption of a freedom of the will that makes opposite actions equally possible for every person in every situation. On that assumption, a person's character must start out as a blank slate, as the intellect does according to Locke. It must have no inborn inclination to one side or the other, since that would already destroy the perfect balance conceived in freedom of choice through indifference. So, on that assumption, the reason for the different ways different people act cannot lie in the subjective side. Still less can it lie in the objective side, since then objects would determine action, and the freedom demanded would be lost altogether. At most, one way out would remain: to locate the origin of those great actual differences in behavior midway between subject and object. They would arise from the different ways the subjective side apprehends the objective side—that is, from the way different people know it. But then everything would come down to correct or incorrect knowledge of the circumstances at hand. The moral difference between ways of acting would become a mere difference in the accuracy of judgment, and morality would turn into logic. Suppose, finally, that supporters of freedom of the will tried to escape this awkward dilemma by saying that there are no inborn differences between characters, but that such differences arise from external circumstances, impressions, experiences, examples, teachings, and so on. Once character had come into being in this way, it would explain the subsequent differences in action. The first answer is that character would then arrive very late—although in fact it can already be recognized in children—and most people would die before acquiring one. The second is that all the external circumstances supposedly producing character lie entirely outside our power. They are brought about one way or another by chance, or, if one prefers, by providence. So if character arose from them, and differences in action then arose from character, all moral responsibility for those differences would disappear completely. They would clearly be, in the end, the work of chance or providence. Thus, on the assumption of freedom of the will, we see the origin of differences in action, and with them virtue or vice together with responsibility, left hanging without any support and unable to find even a small place to take root. This shows that, however much that assumption may appeal at first sight to an untrained understanding, it is fundamentally just as much at odds with our moral convictions as it is, as has been amply shown, with the highest basic rule of our understanding.

As I showed in detail above, motives act with necessity, like all causes in general. But this necessity is not without a precondition. We have now learned what that precondition is, the ground on which it rests: inborn individual character. Every effect in inanimate nature is the necessary product of two factors: the general force of nature expressing itself here, and the particular cause that calls forth its expression here. In exactly the same way, every human action is the necessary product of a person's character and the motive that has appeared. Given these two, the action follows without fail. For a different action to occur, there would have to be either a different motive or a different character. Every action could even be predicted with certainty, indeed calculated, if character were not so hard to investigate, and if the motive were not often hidden and always exposed to the opposing force of other motives. These other motives lie solely within the person's thoughts, inaccessible to others. A person's inborn character already essentially determines the general goals they pursue without change. The means they use to reach them are determined partly by outward circumstances and partly by how they grasp those circumstances. How accurately they grasp them depends in turn on their understanding and its training. The final result of all this is the person's individual actions, and thus the entire role they have to play in the world.—So one of Goethe's finest stanzas expresses the result of the account of individual character given here both accurately and poetically:

"As on the day that gave you to the worldThe sun stood to greet the planets,You grew at once and kept on growing,By the law under which you first began.This you must be; you cannot escape yourself,So the Sibyls said, and so the prophets;And no time and no power can break apartThe stamped form that develops as it lives."

The precondition on which the necessary effects of all causes depend is therefore the inner nature of each thing. This may be simply a general force of nature expressing itself in that thing, or it may be a vital force, or it may be will. Whatever kind of being it is, it will always react to the causes acting on it in accordance with its own particular nature. The Scholastics expressed this law, to which all things in the world are subject without exception, in the formula: action follows being. In keeping with it, the chemist tests substances with reagents, and one person tests another through the trials they put them through. In every case external causes will necessarily call forth what lies within a being, since it cannot react otherwise than according to what it is.