Chapter IV, 7
Original German
In England und Frankreich steht die Philosophie, im ganzen genommen, fast noch da, wo Locke und Condillac sie gelassen haben. Maine de Byran, von seinem Herausgeber, Hrn. Cousin, le premier métaphysicien Français de mon tems genannt, ist, in seinen 1834 erschienenen Nouvelles considérations du physique et moral, ein fanatischer Bekenner des liberi arbitrii indifferentiae, und nimmt es als eine Sache, die sich ganz und gar von selbst versteht. Nicht anders machen es manche der deutschen neueren, philosophischen Skribenten: das liberum arbitrium indifferentiae, unter dem Namen „sittliche Freiheit“, tritt als eine ausgemachte Sache bei ihnen auf, gerade als ob alle die oben angeführten großen Männer nie dagewesen wären. Sie erklären die Freiheit des Willens für unmittelbar im Selbstbewußtsein gegeben und dadurch so unerschütterlich festgestellt, daß alle Argumente dagegen nichts anderes, als Sophismen sein können. Diese erhabene Zuversicht entspringt bloß daraus, daß die Guten gar nicht wissen, was Freiheit des Willens ist und bedeutet; sondern, in ihrer Unschuld, nichts anderes darunter verstehen, als die in unserm zweiten Abschnitt analysierte Herrschaft des Willens über die Glieder des Leibes, an welcher doch wohl nie ein vernünftiger Mensch gezweifelt hat und deren Ausdruck eben jenes „ich kann thun was ich will“ ist. Dies, meinen sie ganz ehrlich, sei die Freiheit des Willens, und pochen darauf, daß sie über allen Zweifel erhaben ist. Es ist eben der Stand der Unschuld, in welchen, nach so vielen großen Vorgängern, die Hegelsche Philosophie den deutschen denkenden Geist zurückversetzt hat. Leuten dieses Schlages könnte man freilich zurufen:
„Seid ihr nicht wie die Weiber, die beständigZurück nur kommen auf ihr erstes Wort,Wenn man Vernunft gesprochen stundenlang?“
Jedoch mögen, bei manchen unter ihnen, die oben angedeuteten theologischen Motive im stillen wirksam sein.
Und dann wieder die medizinischen, zoologischen, historischen, politischen und belletristischen Schriftsteller unserer Tage, wie äußerst gern ergreifen sie jede Gelegenheit, um die „Freiheit des Menschen“, die „sittliche Freiheit“ zu erwähnen! Sie dünken sich etwas damit. Auf eine Erklärung derselben lassen sie sich freilich nicht ein: aber wenn man sie examinieren dürfte, würde man finden, daß sie dabei entweder gar nichts, oder aber unser altes, ehrliches, wohlbekanntes liberum arbitrium indifferentiae denken, in so vornehme Redensarten sie es auch kleiden möchten, also einen Begriff, von dessen Unstatthaftigkeit den großen Haufen zu überzeugen, wohl nimmer gelingen wird, von welchem jedoch Gelehrte sich hüten sollten, mit so viel Unschuld zu reden. Daher eben gibt es auch einige Verzagte unter ihnen, welche sehr belustigend sind, indem sie nicht mehr sich unterstehen, von der Freiheit des Willens zu reden, sondern, um es fein zu machen, statt dessen sagen „Freiheit des Geistes“ und damit durchzuschleichen hoffen. Was sie sich dabei denken, weiß ich glücklicherweise dem mich fragend ansehenden Leser anzugeben: Nichts, rein gar nichts, — als daß es eben, nach guter deutscher Art und Kunst, ein unentschiedener, ja eigentlich nichtssagender Ausdruck ist, welcher einen, ihrer Leerheit und Feigheit erwünschten Hinterhalt gewährt, zum Entwischen. Das Wort „Geist“, eigentlich ein tropischer Ausdruck, bezeichnet überall die intellektuellen Fähigkeiten, im Gegensatz des Willens: diese aber sollen in ihrem Wirken durchaus nicht frei sein, sondern sich zunächst den Regeln der Logik, sodann aber dem jedesmaligen Objekt ihres Erkennens anpassen, fügen und unterwerfen, damit sie rein, d. h. objektiv auffassen, und es nie heiße stat pro ratione voluntas. Ueberhaupt ist dieser „Geist“, der in jetziger deutscher Litteratur sich überall herumtreibt, ein durchaus verdächtiger Geselle, den man daher, wo er sich betreffen läßt, nach seinem Paß fragen soll. Der mit Feigheit verbundenen Gedankenarmut als Maske zu dienen, ist sein häufigstes Gewerbe. Uebrigens ist das Wort Geist bekanntlich mit dem Worte Gas verwandt, welches, aus dem Arabischen und der Alchimie stammend, Dunst oder Luft bedeutet, eben wie auch spiritus, πνευμα, animus, verwandt mit ἀνεμων.
Besagtermaßen also steht es hinsichtlich unsers Themas, in der philosophischen und in der weitern gelehrten Welt, nach allem, was die angeführten großen Geister darüber gelehrt haben; woran sich abermals bestätigt, daß nicht allein die Natur, zu allen Zeiten, nur höchst wenige wirkliche Denker, als seltene Ausnahmen, hervorgebracht hat; sondern diese wenigen selbst stets auch nur für sehr wenige dagewesen sind. Daher eben behaupten Wahn und Jrrtum fortwährend die Herrschaft. —
Bei einem moralischen Gegenstande ist auch das Zeugnis der großen Dichter von Gewicht. Sie reden nicht nach systematischer Untersuchung, aber ihrem Tiefblick liegt die menschliche Natur offen: daher treffen ihre Aussagen unmittelbar die Wahrheit. — Jm Shakespeare, Measure for measure, A. 2, Sc. 2, bittet Jsabella den Reichsverweser Angelo um Gnade für ihren zum Tode verurteilten Bruder:
Angelo. I will not do it.Isab. But can you if you would?Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do∗).
∗) Angelo. Ich will es nicht thun.Isabella. Aber könntet Ihr’s, wenn Ihr wolltet?Angelo. Seht, was ich nicht will, das kann ich nicht.
In Twelfth night, A. 1, heißt es:
Fate show thy force, ourselves we do not owe,What is decree'd must be, and be this so ∗∗).
∗∗) Jetzt, kannst du deine Macht, o Schicksal, zeigen:Was sein soll muß geschehn, und keiner ist sein eigen.
Auch Walter Scott, dieser große Kenner und Maler des menschlichen Herzens und seiner geheimsten Regungen, hat jene tief liegende Wahrheit rein zu Tage gefördert, in seinem St. Ronans Well, Vol. 3, chap. 6. Er stellt eine sterbende reuige Sünderin dar, die auf dem Sterbebette ihr geängstetes Gewissen durch Geständnisse zu erleichtern sucht, und mitten unter diesen läßt er sie sagen:
Go, and leave me to my fate; I am the most detestable wretch, that ever liv’d, — detestable to myself, worst of all; because even in my penitence there is a secret whisper that tells me, that were I as I have been, I would again act over all the wickedness I have done, and much worse. Oh! for Heavens assistance, to crush the wicked thought! ∗∗∗)
∗∗∗) „Geht und überlaßt mich meinem Schicksale. Ich bin das elendeste und abscheulichste Geschöpf, das je gelebt hat, — mir selber am abscheulichsten. Denn mitten in meiner Reue flüstert etwas mir heimlich zu, daß, wenn ich wieder wäre, wie ich gewesen bin, ich alle Schlechtigkeiten, die ich begangen habe, abermals begehen würde, ja noch schlimmere dazu. O, um des Himmels Beistand, den nichtswürdigen Gedanken zu ersticken.“
Einen Beleg zu dieser dichterischen Darstellung liefert folgende ihr parallele Thatsache, welche zugleich die Lehre von der Konstanz des Charakters auf das stärkeste bestätigt. Sie ist, 1845, aus der französischen Zeitung La Presse in die Times, vom 2. Juli 1845, übergegangen, woraus ich sie übersetze. Die Ueberschrift lautet: Militärische Hinrichtung zu Oran. „Am 24. März war der Spanier Aguilar, alias Gomez, zum Tode verurteilt worden. Am Tage vor der Hinrichtung sagte er, im Gespräch mit seinem Kerkermeister: Ich bin nicht so schuldig, wie man mich dargestellt hat: ich bin angeklagt, 30 Mordthaten begangen zu haben; während ich doch nur 26 begangen habe. Von Kindheit auf durstete ich nach Blut: als ich 7½ Jahre alt war, erstach ich ein Kind. Ich habe eine schwangere Frau gemordet, und in späterer Zeit einen spanischen Offizier, infolge wovon ich mich genötigt sah, aus Spanien zu entfliehen. Ich flüchtete nach Frankreich, woselbst ich zwei Verbrechen begangen habe, ehe ich in die Fremdenlegion trat. Unter allen meinen Verbrechen bereue ich am meisten folgendes: Jm Jahr 1841 nahm ich, an der Spitze meiner Kompanie, einen deputierten Generalkommissär, der von einem Sergeanten, einem Korporal und 7 Mann eskortiert war, gefangen: ich ließ sie alle enthaupten. Der Tod dieser Leute lastet schwer auf mir: ich sehe sie in meinen Träumen, und morgen werde ich sie erblicken in den mich zu erschießen beorderten Soldaten. Nichtsdestoweniger würde ich, wenn ich meine Freiheit wieder erhielte, noch andere morden.“
Auch folgende Stelle in Goethes Jphigenia (A. 4, Sc. 2) gehört hieher:
Arkas: Denn du hast nicht der Treue Rat geachtet.Iphigenia: Was ich vermochte, hab' ich gern gethan.Arkas: Noch änderst du den Sinn zur rechten Zeit.Iphigenia: Das steht nun einmal nicht in unsrer Macht.
Auch eine berühmte Stelle in Schillers Wallenstein spricht unsere Grundwahrheit aus:
„Des Menschen Thaten und Gedanken, wißt!Sind nicht wie Meeres blind bewegte Wellen.Die innre Welt, sein Mikrokosmus, istDer tiefe Schacht, aus dem sie ewig quellen.Sie sind notwendig, wie des Baumes Frucht,Sie kann der Zufall gaukelnd nicht verwandeln.Hab' ich des Menschen Kern erst untersucht,So weiß ich auch sein Wollen und sein Handeln.“
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the German, including the author’s notes and appendix. Source edition: Arthur Schopenhauers sämtliche Werke, vol. VII, Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, n.d. [1890s]), Internet Archive item arthurschopenha07schouoft
In England and France, philosophy on the whole stands almost where Locke and Condillac left it. Maine de Byran, called by his editor, Mr. Cousin, “the first French metaphysician of my time,” is in his Nouvelles considérations du physique et moral, published in 1834, a fanatical adherent of freedom of indifferent choice, and takes it as something that goes entirely without saying. Several of the more recent German philosophical scribblers do no differently: freedom of indifferent choice, under the name of “moral freedom,” appears with them as a settled matter, just as if all the great men cited above had never existed. They declare freedom of the will to be given immediately in self-consciousness and thereby so unshakably established that all arguments against it can be nothing but sophisms. This lofty confidence springs merely from the fact that these good souls do not at all know what freedom of the will is and means, but in their innocence understand by it nothing other than the mastery of the will over the limbs of the body that we analyzed in our second section—a mastery that surely no reasonable person has ever doubted, and whose expression is precisely that “I can do what I will.” This, they suppose in all honesty, is freedom of the will, and they insist that it is beyond all doubt. It is precisely the state of innocence into which, after so many great predecessors, the Hegelian philosophy has set the German thinking mind back. To people of this stamp one might indeed call out:
“Are you not like the women, who foreverCome back to nothing but their first word,When one has spoken reason for hours?”
In some of them, however, the theological motives indicated above may be silently at work.
And then again, the medical, zoological, historical, political and belletristic writers of our day—how eagerly they seize every opportunity to mention “the freedom of man,” “moral freedom”! They fancy themselves somebody for it. They do not, to be sure, venture an explanation of it; but if one were permitted to examine them, one would find that by it they think either nothing at all or else our good old honest, well-known freedom of indifferent choice, however grand the phrases in which they may dress it—a concept whose untenability will probably never be got across to the great mob, but of which scholars ought to take care not to speak with so much innocence. That is precisely why there are also some timid ones among them, highly amusing, who no longer dare to speak of freedom of the will but, to be refined about it, say “freedom of the spirit” instead and hope to slip through with that. What they think by it I am fortunately able to tell the reader who looks at me inquiringly: nothing, absolutely nothing—except that it is, in good German manner and art, an indecisive, indeed really meaningless expression, which affords their emptiness and cowardice a welcome hiding place from which to slip away. The word “spirit,” properly a figurative expression, everywhere designates the intellectual faculties, as opposed to the will; but these are by no means supposed to be free in their operation. They are to adapt, conform and submit themselves first to the rules of logic and then to the particular object of their knowing, so that they may apprehend purely—that is, objectively—and it may never be said: “Will stands in place of reason.” In general, this “spirit” that knocks about everywhere in present German literature is a thoroughly suspicious fellow, whom one should therefore ask for his passport wherever he is caught. Serving as a mask for poverty of thought joined with cowardice is his most frequent trade. Incidentally, the word Geist, as is well known, is related to the word gas, which, derived from Arabic and alchemy, means vapor or air, just as spiritus, pneuma (“breath”) and animus are related to anemon (“winds”).
Such, then, is the state of things regarding our theme, in the philosophical and in the wider learned world, after all that the great minds cited have taught about it. This confirms once more that nature has not only at all times produced very few real thinkers, as rare exceptions, but that these few themselves have always existed only for very few. That is precisely why delusion and error continually hold sway.—
On a moral subject the testimony of the great poets also carries weight. They do not speak after systematic investigation, but human nature lies open to their penetrating vision, and so their statements strike the truth directly.—In Shakespeare’s Measure for measure, A. 2, Sc. 2, Isabella begs the regent Angelo for mercy for her brother, who is condemned to death:
Angelo. I will not do it.Isab. But could you, if you would?Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do∗).
∗) Angelo. I will not do it.Isabella. But could you do it, if you wanted to?Angelo. Look, what I do not will, that I cannot do.
In Twelfth night, A. 1, we read:
Fate, show your force; we do not own ourselves.What is decreed must be, and let it be so∗∗).
∗∗) Now, O Fate, you can show your power:What is to be must come to pass, and no one is his own.
Walter Scott too, that great connoisseur and painter of the human heart and its most secret stirrings, has brought that deep-lying truth plainly to light in his St. Ronans Well, Vol. 3, chap. 6. He portrays a dying, repentant sinner who on her deathbed seeks to ease her anguished conscience by confessions, and in the midst of these he has her say:
“Go, and leave me to my fate. I am the most detestable wretch that ever lived—detestable to myself, worst of all, because even in my penitence there is a secret whisper telling me that, were I as I have been, I would again act over all the wickedness I have done, and much worse. Oh, for Heaven’s help to crush the wicked thought!”∗∗∗)
∗∗∗) “Go, and leave me to my fate. I am the most wretched and abominable creature that ever lived—most abominable to myself. For even in the midst of my remorse something whispers to me secretly that, if I were again as I have been, I would commit again all the wickedness I have committed, and even worse besides. Oh, for Heaven’s help to stifle the worthless thought.”
A corroboration of this poetic portrayal is supplied by the following parallel fact, which at the same time confirms in the strongest way the doctrine of the constancy of character. In 1845 it passed from the French newspaper La Presse into the Times of July 2, 1845, from which I translate it. The heading reads: Military Execution at Oran. “On March 24, the Spaniard Aguilar, alias Gomez, had been sentenced to death. On the day before the execution he said, in conversation with his jailer: ‘I am not as guilty as I have been made out to be: I am accused of having committed 30 murders, whereas I have in fact committed only 26. From childhood on I thirsted for blood: when I was 7½ years old, I stabbed a child. I murdered a pregnant woman, and at a later time a Spanish officer, as a result of which I found myself obliged to flee from Spain. I fled to France, where I committed two crimes before I entered the Foreign Legion. Of all my crimes I repent most of the following: In 1841, at the head of my company, I captured a deputy commissary general, who was escorted by a sergeant, a corporal and 7 men; I had them all beheaded. The death of these people weighs heavily on me: I see them in my dreams, and tomorrow I shall see them again in the soldiers ordered to shoot me. Nevertheless, if I were to regain my freedom, I would murder others still.’”
The following passage in Goethe’s Iphigenia (A. 4, Sc. 2) also belongs here:
Arkas: For you have not heeded the counsel of loyalty.Iphigenia: What I was able to do, I have gladly done.Arkas: You may yet change your mind in time.Iphigenia: That, once and for all, does not lie in our power.
A famous passage in Schiller’s Wallenstein also expresses our fundamental truth:
“A person’s deeds and thoughts, know this,Are not like the sea’s blindly driven waves.The inner world, his microcosm, isThe deep shaft from which they eternally well up.They are necessary, like the fruit of the tree;Chance, in its juggling, cannot transform them.Once I have examined the kernel of the person,I also know his willing and his doing.”
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation, made independently and directly from the German, not from the Musean edition or a published English translation, including the author’s notes and appendix. Source edition: Arthur Schopenhauers sämtliche Werke, vol. VII, Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, n.d. [1890s]), Internet Archive item arthurschopenha07schouoft
In England and France, philosophy, taken as a whole, still stands almost where Locke and Condillac left it. Maine de Byran, called "the foremost French metaphysician of my time" by his editor, Mr. Cousin, is a fanatical believer in freedom of choice through indifference in his Nouvelles considérations du physique et moral, which appeared in 1834. He takes it as something that goes entirely without saying. Some recent German philosophical scribblers do no differently. Under the name "moral freedom," freedom of choice through indifference appears in their writing as a settled matter, just as if all the great men cited above had never existed. They declare the freedom of the will to be given directly in self-consciousness. They say this settles it so firmly that all arguments against it can be nothing but sophisms. This lofty confidence comes simply from the fact that these good people do not know what freedom of the will is and means. In their innocence they understand by it nothing other than the control of the will over the limbs of the body, which we analyzed in our second section. No reasonable person has ever doubted that control, and "I can do what I will" is exactly its expression. This, they honestly think, is freedom of the will, and they insist that it is beyond all doubt. It is precisely this state of innocence to which Hegelian philosophy, after so many great predecessors, has set the German thinking mind back. To people of this stamp one could indeed call out:
"Are you not like women, who alwaysGo back to nothing but their first word,When someone has spoken sense for hours on end?"
Still, with some of them the theological motives hinted at above may be quietly at work.
And then there are the medical, zoological, historical, political, and literary writers of our day. How very eagerly they seize every chance to mention "the freedom of man" and "moral freedom"! They think it makes them somebody. They do not go into an explanation of it, of course. But if we were allowed to examine them, we would find that by it they mean either nothing at all or our old, honest, well-known freedom of choice through indifference, however grand the phrases they dress it in. Convincing the great crowd that this concept cannot stand will probably never succeed. But scholars should take care not to speak of it with so much innocence. That is also why some of them are timid, and very amusing. They no longer dare to speak of freedom of the will. To be refined, they say "freedom of the spirit" instead and hope to slip through with it. Fortunately I can tell the reader who looks at me with that question what they are thinking by it. Nothing, absolutely nothing—except that, in good German fashion and art, it is an undecided, indeed really empty expression. It gives their emptiness and cowardice a welcome refuge for slipping away. The word "spirit" is really a figurative expression. Everywhere it means the intellectual faculties, as opposed to the will. But these faculties are by no means supposed to be free in their working. They must first adapt, bend, and submit themselves to the rules of logic. Then they must do so to the particular object of their knowing in each case. That way they grasp purely, that is, objectively, and it is never said, "will stands in place of reason." In general, this "spirit" that roams about everywhere in present-day German literature is a thoroughly suspicious fellow. Wherever he is caught, one should ask him for his passport. His most frequent trade is to serve as a mask for poverty of thought joined with cowardice. Besides, the word Geist is known to be related to the word gas. Gas comes from Arabic and alchemy and means vapor or air. In the same way spiritus (breath), pneuma (breath, wind), and animus (soul) are related to anemon (winds).
That, then, is how things stand on our subject in the philosophical world and in the wider learned world, after everything the great minds I have named have taught about it. This confirms once more that nature has at all times produced only very few real thinkers, as rare exceptions. It also confirms that these few themselves have always existed for only very few people. That is exactly why delusion and error keep their rule continually.—
On a moral subject the testimony of the great poets also carries weight. They do not speak after systematic inquiry, but human nature lies open to their deep gaze. So what they say strikes the truth directly.—In Shakespeare, Measure for measure, A. 2, Sc. 2, Isabella begs the regent Angelo for mercy for her brother, who has been condemned to death:
Angelo. I will not do it.Isab. But can you if you would?Ang. Look, what I will not do, that I cannot do∗).
∗) Angelo. I will not do it.Isabella. But could you do it, if you wanted to?Angelo. Look: what I do not want, that I cannot do.
In Twelfth night, A. 1, it says:
Fate, show your force: we do not own ourselves.What is decreed must be, and so let it be ∗∗).
∗∗) Now, Fate, you can show your power:What is meant to be must happen, and no one belongs to themselves.
Walter Scott too, that great connoisseur and painter of the human heart and its most secret stirrings, has brought this deep-lying truth clearly into daylight, in his St. Ronans Well, Vol. 3, chap. 6. He portrays a dying, repentant female sinner, who tries on her deathbed to ease her tormented conscience with confessions. In the middle of these he has her say:
Go, and leave me to my fate. I am the most detestable wretch that ever lived—detestable to myself, worst of all. Even in my repentance there is a secret whisper telling me that if I were as I have been, I would act over again all the wickedness I have done, and much worse. Oh, for Heaven's help to crush the wicked thought! ∗∗∗)
∗∗∗) "Go and leave me to my fate. I am the most miserable and abominable creature who ever lived—most abominable to myself. For in the middle of my remorse something whispers to me secretly that if I were again as I have been, I would commit all the wickednesses I have committed once more, and even worse ones besides. Oh, for Heaven's help, to choke this worthless thought."
The following fact, which runs parallel to this poetic portrayal, gives evidence for it, and at the same time confirms the doctrine of the constancy of character in the strongest way. In 1845 it passed from the French newspaper La Presse into the Times of July 2, 1845, and I translate it from there. The headline reads: Military Execution at Oran. "On March 24, the Spaniard Aguilar, alias Gomez, was sentenced to death. On the day before the execution he said, in conversation with his jailer: I am not as guilty as I have been made out to be. I am accused of having committed 30 murders, though I have committed only 26. From childhood I thirsted for blood. When I was 7½ years old, I stabbed a child. I murdered a pregnant woman, and later a Spanish officer, and because of that I was forced to flee from Spain. I escaped to France, where I committed two crimes before I entered the Foreign Legion. Of all my crimes, I repent most of the following: In the year 1841, at the head of my company, I took prisoner a deputy commissary general who was escorted by a sergeant, a corporal, and 7 men. I had them all beheaded. The death of these men weighs heavily on me. I see them in my dreams, and tomorrow I will see them in the soldiers ordered to shoot me. Nevertheless, if I were given my freedom again, I would murder others."
The following passage in Goethe's Iphigenia (A. 4, Sc. 2) also belongs here:
Arkas: For you have not listened to the advice of loyalty.Iphigenia: What I was able to do, I have gladly done.Arkas: You will still change your mind in time.Iphigenia: That, once and for all, is not in our power.
A famous passage in Schiller's Wallenstein also expresses our basic truth:
"A person's deeds and thoughts, know this,Are not like the sea's blindly moving waves.The inner world, a person's microcosm, isThe deep shaft from which they well up forever.They are necessary, like the fruit of the tree.Chance, with its juggling, cannot change them.Once I have examined a person's core,Then I also know their willing and their acting."
About this section
Chapter IV, 7 is part of On the Freedom of the Will 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 chapter 24 of 28 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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