No More Learning

The delightful flower of the beautiful will
never unfold itself in the case of the Troglodyte hid in his cavern
always alone, and never finding humanity outside himself; nor among
nomads, who, travelling in great troops, only consist of a
multitude, and have no individual humanity. It will only flourish in
places where man converses peacefully with himself in his cottage,
and with the whole race when he issues from it. In those climates
where a limpid ether opens the senses to the lightest impression,
whilst a life-giving warmth developes a luxuriant nature, where even
in the inanimate creation the sway of inert matter is overthrown,
and the victorious form ennobles even the most abject natures; in
this joyful state and fortunate zone, where activity alone leads to
enjoyment, and enjoyment to activity, from life itself issues a holy
harmony, and the laws of order develope life, a different result
takes place. When imagination incessantly escapes from reality, and
does not abandon the simplicity of nature in its wanderings: then
and there only the mind and the senses, the receptive force and the
plastic force, are developed in that happy equilibrium which is the
soul of the beautiful and the condition of humanity.

What phaenomenon accompanies the initiation of the savage into
humanity? However far we look back into history the phaenomenon is
identical among all people who have shaken off the slavery of the
animal state, the love of appearance, the inclination for dress and
for games.

Extreme stupidity and extreme intelligence have a certain affinity
in only seeking the real and being completely insensible to mere
appearance. The former is only drawn forth by the immediate presence
of an object in the senses, and the second is reduced to a quiescent
state only by referring conceptions to the facts of experience. In
short, stupidity cannot rise above reality, nor the intelligence
descend below truth. Thus, in as far as the want of reality and
attachment to the real are only the consequence of a want and a
defect, indifference to the real and an interest taken in
appearances are a real enlargement of humanity and a decisive step
towards culture. In the first place it is the proof of an exterior
liberty, for as long as necessity commands and want solicits, the
fancy is strictly chained down to the real; it is only when want is
satisfied that it developes without hindrance. But it is also the
proof of an internal liberty, because it reveals to us a force
which, independent of an external substratum, sets itself in motion,
and has sufficient energy to remove from itself the solicitations of
nature. The reality of things is effected by things, the appearance
of things is the work of man, and a soul that takes pleasure in
appearance does not take pleasure in what it receives but in what it
makes.

It is self-evident that I am speaking of aesthetical evidence
different from reality and truth, and not of logical appearance
identical with them. Therefore if it is liked it is because it is an
appearance, and not because it is held to be something better than
it is: the first principle alone is a play whilst the second is a
deception. To give a value to the appearance of the first kind can
never injure truth, because it is never to be feared that it will
supplant it--the only way in which truth can be injured. To despise
this appearance is to despise in general all the fine arts of which
it is the essence. Nevertheless, it happens sometimes that the
understanding carries its zeal for reality as far as this
intolerance, and strikes with a sentence of ostracism all the arts
relating to beauty in appearance, because it is only an appearance.
However, the intelligence only shows this vigorous spirit when it
calls to mind the affinity pointed out further back. I shall find
some day the occasion to treat specially of the limits of beauty in
its appearance.

It is nature herself which raises man from reality to appearance by
endowing him with two senses which only lead him to the knowledge of
the real through appearance. In the eye and the ear the organs of
the senses are already freed from the persecutions of nature, and
the object with which we are immediately in contact through the
animal senses is remoter from us. What we see by the eye differs
from what we feel; for the understanding to reach objects overleaps
the light which separates us from them. In truth, we are passive to
an object; in sight and hearing the object is a form we create.
While still a savage, man only enjoys through touch merely aided by
sight and sound. He either does not rise to perception through
sight, or does not rest there. As soon as he begins to enjoy through
sight, vision has an independent value, he is aesthetically free,
and the instinct of play is developed.

The instinct of play likes appearance, and directly it is awakened
it is followed by the formal imitative instinct which treats
appearance as an independent thing. Directly man has come to
distinguish the appearance from the reality, the form from the body,
he can separate, in fact he has already done so. Thus the faculty of
the art of imitation is given with the faculty of form in general.
The inclination that draws us to it reposes on another tendency I
have not to notice here. The exact period when the aesthetic
instinct, or that of art, developes, depends entirely on the
attraction that mere appearance has for men.

As every real existence proceeds from nature as a foreign power,
whilst every appearance comes in the first place from man as a
percipient subject, he only uses his absolute sight in separating
semblance from essence, and arranging according to subjective law.
With an unbridled liberty he can unite what nature has severed,
provided he can imagine his union, and he can separate what nature
has united, provided this separation can take place in his
intelligence. Here nothing can be sacred to him but his own law: the
only condition imposed upon him is to respect the border which
separates his own sphere from the existence of things or from the
realm of nature.

This human right of ruling is exercised by man in the art of
appearance; and his success in extending the empire of the
beautiful, and guarding the frontiers of truth, will be in
proportion with the strictness with which he separates form from
substance: for if he frees appearance from reality he must also do
the converse.

But man possesses sovereign power only in the world of appearance,
in the unstibstantial realm of imagination, only by abstaining from
giving being to appearance in theory, and by giving it being in
practice. It follows that the poet transgresses his proper limits
when he attributes being to his ideal, and when he gives this ideal
aim as a determined existence. For he can only reach this result by
exceeding his right as a poet, that of encroaching by the ideal on
the field of experience, and by pretending to determine real
existence in virtue of a simple possibility, or else he renounces
his right as poet by letting experience encroach on the sphere of
the ideal, and by restricting possibility to the conditions of
reality.

It is only by being frank or disclaiming all reality, and by being
independent or doing without reality, that the appearance is
aesthetical. Directly it apes reality or needs reality for effect it
is nothing more than a vile instrument for material ends, and can
prove nothing for the freedom of the mind. Moreover, the object in
which we find beauty need not be unreal if pur judgment disregards
this reality; nor if it regards this the judgment is no longer
aesthetical. A beautiful woman if living would no doubt please us as
much and rather more than an equally beautiful woman seen in
painting; but what makes the former please men is not her being an
independent appearance; she no longer pleases the pure aesthetic
feeling. In the painting, life must only attract as an appearance,
and reality as an idea. But it is certain that to feel in a living
object only the pure appearance, requires a greatly higher aesthetic
culture than to do without life in the appearance.

When the frank and independent appearance is found in man
separately, or in a whole people, it may be inferred they have mind,
taste, and all prerogatives connected with them. In this case, the
ideal will be seen to govern real life, honour triumphing over
fortune, thought over enjoyment, the dream of immortality over a
transitory existence.

In this case public opinion will no longer be feared and an olive
crown will be more valued than a purple mantle. Impotence and
perversity alone have recourse to false and paltry semblance, and
individuals as well as nations who lend to reality the support of
appearance, or to the aesthetical appearance the support of reality,
show their moral unworthiness and their aesthetical impotence.
Therefore, a short and conclusive answer can be given to this
question--How far will appearance be permitted in the moral world?
It will run thus in proportion as this appearance will be
sesthetical, that is, an appearance that does not try to make up for
reality, nor requires to be made up for by it. The aesthetical
appearance can never endanger the truth of morals: wherever it seems
to do so the appearance is not aesthetical. Only a stranger to the
fashionable world can take the polite assurances, which are only a
form, for proofs of affection, and say he has been deceived; but
only a clumsy fellow in good society calls in the aid of duplicity
and flatters to become amiable. The former lacks the pure sense for
independent appearance; therefore he can only give a value to
appearance by truth. The second lacks reality, and wishes to replace
it by appearance. Nothing is more common than to hear depreciators
of the times utter these paltry complaints--that all solidity has
disappeared from the world, and that essence is neglected for
semblance. Though I feel by no means called upon to defend this age
against these reproaches, I must say that the wide application of
these criticisms shows that they attach blame to the age, not only
on the score of the falsez but also of the frank appearance. And
even the exceptions they admit in favour of the beautiful have for
their object less the independent appearance than the needy
appearance. Not only do they attack the artificial colouring that
hides truth and replaces reality, but also the beneficent appearance
that fills a vacuum and clothes poverty; and they even attack the
ideal appearance that ennobles a vulgar reality. Their strict sense
of truth is rightlyl offended by the falsity of manners;
unfortunately, they class politeness in this category. It displeases
them that the noisy and showy so often eclipse true merit, but they
are no less shocked that appearance is also demanded from merit, and
that a real substance does not dispense with an agreeable form. They
regret the cordiality, the energy, and solidity of ancient times;
they would restore with them ancient coarseness, heaviness, and the
old Gothic profusion. By judgments of this kind they show an esteem
for the matter itself unworthy of humanity, which ought only to
value tne matter inasmuch as it can receive a form and enlarge the
empire of ideas. Accordingly, the taste of the age need not much
fear these criticisms, if it can clear itself before better judges.
Our defect is not to grant a value to aesthetic appearance (we do
not do this enough): a severe judge of the beautiful might rather
reproach us with not having arrived at pure appearance, with not
having separated clearly enough existence from the phaenomenon, and
thus established their limits. We shall deserve this reproach so
long as we cannot enjoy the beautiful in living nature without
desiring it; as long as we cannot admire the beautiful in the
imitative arts without having an end in view; as long as we do not
grant to imagination an absolute legislation of its own; and as long
as we do not inspire it with care for its dignity by the esteem we
testify for its works.

LETTER XXVII.

Do not fear for reality and truth. Even if the elevated idea of
aesthetic appearance became general, it would not become so, as long
as man remains so little cultivated as to abuse it; and if it became
general, this would result from a culture that would prevent all
abuse of it. The pursuit of independent appearance requires more
power of abstraction, freedom of heart, and energy of will than man
requires to shut himself up in reality; and he must have left the
latter behind him if he wishes to attain to aesthetic appearance.
Therefore a man would calculate very badly who took the road of the
ideal to save himself that of reality. Thus reality would not have
much to fear from appearance, as we understand it; but, on the other
hand, appearance would have more to fear from reality. Chained to
matter, man uses appearance for his purposes before he allows it a
proper personality in the art of the ideal: to come to that point a
complete revolution must take place in his mode of feeling,
otherwise he would not be even on the way to the ideal.
Consequently, when we find in man the signs of a pure and
disinterested esteem, we can infer that this revolution has taken
place in his nature, and that humanity has really begun in him.
Signs of this kind are found even in the first and rude attempts
that he makes to embellish his existence, even at the risk of making
it worse in its material conditions. As soon as he begins to prefer
form to substance and to risk reality for appearance (known by him
to be such), the barriers of animal life fall, and he finds himself
on a track that has no end.

Not satisfied with the needs of nature, he demands the superfluous.
First, only the superfluous of matter, to secure his enjoyment
beyond the present necessity; but afterwards he wishes a
superabundance in matter, an aesthetical supplement to satisfy the
impulse for the formal, to extend enjoyment beyond necessity. By
piling up provisions simply for a future use, and anticipating their
enjoyment in the imagination, he outsteps the limits of the present
moment, but not those of time in general. He enjoys more; he does
not enjoy differently. But as soon as he makes form enter into his
enjoyment, and he keeps in view the forms of the objects which
satisfy his desires, he has not only increased his pleasure in
extent and intensity, but he has also ennobled it in mode and
species.

No doubt nature has given more than is necessary to unreasoning
beings; she has caused a gleam of freedom to shine even in the
darkness of animal life. When the lion is not tormented by hunger,
and when no wild beast challenges him to fight, his unemployed
energy creates an object for himself; full of ardour, he fills the
re-echoing desert with his terrible roars, and his exuberant force
rejoices in itself, showing itself without an object. The insect
flits about rejoicing in life in the sunlight, and it is certainly
not the cry of want that makes itself heard in the melodious song of
the bird; there is undeniably freedom in these movements, though it
is not emancipation from want in general, but from a determinate
external necessity.

The animal works, when a privation is the motor of its activity, and
it plays when the plenitude of force is this motor, when an
exuberant life is excited to action. Even in inanimate nature a
luxury of strength and a latitude of determination are shown, which
in this material sense might be styled play. The tree produces
numberless germs that are abortive without developing, and it sends
forth more roots, branches and leaves, organs of nutrition, than are
used for the preservation of the species. Whatever this tree
restores to the elements of its exuberant life, without using it, or
enjoying it, may be expended by life in free and joyful movements.
It is thus that nature offers in her material sphere a sort of
prelude to the limitless, and that even there she suppresses
partially the chains from which she will be completely emancipated
in the realm of form. The constraint of superabundance or physical
play, answers as a transition from the constraint of necessity, or
of physical seriousness, to aesthetical play; and before shaking
off, in the supreme freedom of the beautiful, the yoke of any
special aim, nature already approaches, at least remotely, this
independence, by the free movement which is itself its own end and
means.

The imagination, like the bodily organs, has in man its free
movement and its material play, a play in which, without any
reference to form, it simply takes pleasure in its arbitrary power
and in the absence of all hindrance. These plays of fancy, inasmuch
as form is not mixed up with them, and because a free succession of
images makes all their charm, though confined to man, belong
exclusively to animal life, and only prove one thing--that he is
delivered from all external sensuous constraint--without our being
entitled to infer that there is in it an independent plastic force.

From this play of free association of ideas, which is still quite
material in nature and is explained by simple natural laws, the
imagination, by making the attempt of creating a free form, passes
at length at a jump to the aesthetic play: I say at one leap, for
quite a new force enters into action here; for here, for the first
time, the legislative mind is mixed with the acts of a blind
instinct, subjects the arbitrary march of the imagination to its
eternal and immutable unity, causes its independent permanence to
enter in that which is transitory, and its infinity in the sensuous.
Nevertheless, as long as rude nature, which knows of no other law
than running incessantly from change to change, will yet retain too
much strength, it will oppose itself by its different caprices to
this necessity; by its agitation to this permanence; by its manifold
needs to this independence, and by its insatiability to this sublime
simplicity. It will be also troublesome to recognise the instinct of
play in its first trials, seeing that the sensuous impulsion, with
its capricious humour and its violent appetites, constantly crosses.
It is on that account that we see the taste, still coarse, seize
that which is new and startling, the disordered, the adventurous and
the strange, the violent and the savage, and fly from nothing so
much as from calm and simplicity. It invents grotesque figures, it
likes rapid transitions, luxurious forms, sharply marked changes,
acute tones, a pathetic song. That which man calls beautiful at this
time, is that which excites him, that which gives him matter; but
that which excites him to give his personality to the object, that
which gives matter to a possible plastic operation, for otherwise it
would not be the beautiful for him. A remarkable change has
therefore taken place in the form of his judgments; he searches for
these objects, not because they affect him, but because they furnish
him with the occasion of acting; they please him, not because they
answer to a want, but because they satisfy a law, which speaks in
his breast, although quite low as yet.

Soon it will not be sufficient for things to please him; he will
wish to please: in the first place, it is true, only by that which
belongs to him; afterwards by that which he is. That which he
possesses, that which he produces, ought not merely to bear any more
the traces of servitude, nor to mark out the end, simply and
scrupulously, by the form. Independently of the use to which it is
destined, the object ought also to reflect the enlightened
intelligence which imagines it, the hand which shaped it with
affection, the mind free and serene which chose it and exposed it to
view. Now, the ancient German searches for more magnificent furs,
for more splendid antlers of the stag, for more elegant drinking
horns; and the Caledonian chooses the prettiest shells for his
festivals. The arms themselves ought to be no longer only objects of
terror, but also of pleasure; and the skilfully worked scabbard will
not attract less attention than the homicidal edge of the sword. The
instinct of play, not satisfied with bringing into the sphere of the
necessary an aesthetic superabundance for the future more free, is
at last completely emancipated from the bonds of duty, and the
beautiful becomes of itself an object of man's exertions. He adorns
himself. The free pleasure comes to take a place among his wants,
and the useless soon becomes the best part of his joys. Form, which
from the outside gradually approaches him, in his dwelling, his
furniture, his clothing, begins at last to take possession of the
man himself, to transform him, at first exteriorly, and afterwards
in the interior. The disordered leaps of joy become the dance, the
formless gesture is changed into an amiable and harmonious
pantomime, the confused accents of feeling are developed, and begin
to obey measure and adapt themselves to song. When, like the flight
of cranes, the Trojan army rushes on to the field of battle with
thrilling cries, the Greek army approaches in silence and with a
noble and measured step. On the one side we see but the exuberance
of a blind force, on the other; the triumph of form and the simple
majesty of law.

Now, a nobler necessity binds the two sexes mutually, and the
interests of the heart contribute in rendering durable an alliance
which was at first capricious and changing like the desire that
knits it. Delivered from the heavy fetters of desire, the eye, now
calmer, attends to the form, the soul contemplates the soul, and the
interested exchange of pleasure becomes a generous exchange of
mutual inclination. Desire enlarges and rises to love, in proportion
as it sees humanity dawn in its object; and, despising the vile
triumphs gained by the senses, man tries to win a nobler victory
over the will. The necessity of pleasing subjects the powerful
nature to the gentle laws of taste; pleasure may be stolen, but love
must be a gift. To obtain this higher recompense, it is only through
the form and not through matter that it can carry on the contest. It
must cease to act on feeling as a force, to appear in the
intelligence as a simple phenomenon; it must respect liberty, as it
is liberty it wishes to please. The beautiful reconciles the
contrast of different natures in its simplest and purest expression.
It also reconciles the eternal contrast of the two sexes, in the
whole complex framework of society, or at all events it seeks to do
so; and, taking as its model the free alliance it has knit between
manly strength and womanly gentleness, it strives to place in
harmony, in the moral world, all the elements of gentleness and of
violence. Now, at length, weakness becomes sacred, and an unbridled
strength disgraces; the injustice of nature is corrected by the
generosity of chivalrous manners. The being whom no power can make
tremble, is disarmed by the amiable blush of modesty, and tears
extinguish a vengeance that blood could not have quenched. Hatred
itself hears the delicate voice of honour, the conqueror's sword
spares the disarmed enemy, and a hospitable hearth smokes for the
stranger on the dreaded hill-side where murder alone awaited him
before.

In the midst of the formidable realm of forces, and of the sacred
empire of laws, the aesthetic impulse of form creates by degrees a
third and a joyous realm, that of play and of the appearance, where
she emancipates man from fetters, in all his relations, and from all
that is named constraint, whether physical or moral.

If in the dynamic state of rights men mutually move and come into
collision as forces, in the moral (ethical) state of duties, man
opposes to man the majesty of the laws, and chains down his will. In
this realm of the beautiful or the aesthetic state, man ought to
appear to man only as a form, and an object of free play. To give
freedom through freedom is the fundamental law of this realm.

The dynamic state can only make society simply possible by subduing
nature through nature; the moral (ethical) state can only make it
morally necessary by submitting the will of the individual to the
general will. The aesthetic state alone can make it real, because it
carries out the will of all through the nature of the individual. If
necessity alone forces man to enter into society, and if his reason
engraves on his soul social principles, it is beauty only that can
give him a social character; taste alone brings harmony into
society, because it creates harmony in the individual. All other
forms of perception divide the man, because they are based
exclusively either in the sensuous or in the spiritual part of his
being. It is only the perception of beauty that makes of him an
entirety, because it demands the co-operation of his two natures.
All other forms of communication divide society, because they apply
exclusively either to the receptivity or to the private activity of
its members, and therefore to what distinguishes men one from the
other. The aesthetic communication alone unites society, because it
applies to what is common to all its members. We only enjoy the
pleasures of sense as individuals, without the nature of the race in
us sharing in it; accordingly, we cannot generalise our individual
pleasures, because we cannot generalise our individuality. We enjoy
the pleasures of knowledge as a race, dropping the Individual in our
judgment; but we cannot generalise the pleasures of the
understanding, because we cannot eliminate individuality from the
judgments of others as we do from our own. Beauty alone can we enjoy
both as individuals and as a race, that is, as representing a race.
Good appertaining to sense can only make one person happy, because
it is founded on inclination, which is always exclusive; and it can
only make a man partially happy, because his real personality does
not share in it. Absolute good can only render a man happy
conditionally, for truth is only the reward of abnegation, and a
pure heart alone has faith in a pure will. Beauty alone confers
happiness on all, and under its influence every being forgets that
he is limited.

Taste does not suffer any superior or absolute authority, and the
sway of beauty is extended over appearance. It extends up to the
seat of reason's supremacy, suppressing all that is material. It
extends down to where sensuous impulse rules with blind compulsion,
and form is undeveloped. Taste ever maintains its power on these
remote borders, where legislation is taken from it. Particular
desires must renounce their egotism, and the agreeable, otherwise
tempting the senses, must in matters of taste adorn the mind with
the attractions of grace.

Duty and stern necessity must change their forbidding tone, only
excused by resistance, and do homage to nature by a nobler trust in
her. Taste leads our knowledge from the mysteries of science into
the open expanse of common sense, and changes a narrow scholasticism
into the common property of the human race. Here the highest genius
must leave its particular elevation, and make itself familiar to the
comprehension even of a child. Strength must let the Graces bind it,
and the arbitrary lion must yield to the reins of love. For this
purpose taste throws a veil over physical necessity, offending a
free mind by its coarse nudity, and dissimulating our degrading
parentage with matter by a delightful illusion of freedom. Mercenary
art itself rises from the dust; and the bondage of the bodily, at
its magic touch, falls off from the inanimate and animate. In the
aesthetic state the most slavish tool is a free citizen, having the
same rights as the noblest; and the intellect which shapes the mass
to its intent must consult it concerning its destination.
Consequently in the realm of aesthetic appearance, the idea of
equality is realised, which the political zealot would gladly see
carried out socially. It has often been said that perfect politeness
is only found near a throne. If thus restricted in the material, man
has, as elsewhere appears, to find compensation in the ideal world.

Does such a state of beauty in appearance exist, and where? It must
be in every finely harmonised soul; but as a fact, only in select
circles, like the pure ideal of the church and state--in circles
where manners are not formed by the empty imitations of the foreign,
but by the very beauty of nature; where man passes through all sorts
of complications in all simplicity and innocence, neither forced to
trench on another's freedom to preserve his own, nor to show grace
at the cost of dignity.




FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES OF THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS

BY

IMMANUEL KANT


TRANSLATED BY

T. K. ABBOTT




INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Immanuel Kant was born in Konigsberg, East Prussia, April 22, 1724,
the son of a saddler of Scottish descent. The family was pietist,
and the future philosopher entered the university of his native city
in 1740, with a view to studying theology. He developed, however, a
many-sided interest in learning, and his earlier publications were
in the field of speculative physics. After the close of his period
of study at the university he became a private tutor; then In 1755,
privat-docent; and in 1770, professor. During the first eleven years
of his professorship Kant published little, spending his energies in
the meditation that was to result in the philosophical system of
which the first part was given to the world in his "Critique of Pure
Reason" in 1781. From that time till near the end of the century he
issued volume after volume; yet when he died In 1804 he regarded his
statement of his system as fragmentary.

Of the enormous importance of Kant in the history of philosophy, no
idea can be given here. The important document which follows was
published in 1785, and forms the basis of the moral system on which
he erected the whole structure of belief in God, Freedom, and
Immortality. Kant is often difficult and obscure, and became more so
as he grew older; but the present treatise can be followed, in its
main lines, by any intelligent person who is interested enough in
the fundamental problems of human life and conduct to give it
serious and concentrated attention. To such a reader the subtle yet
clear distinctions, and the lofty and rigorous principles of action,
which it lays down, will prove an intellectual and moral tonic such
as hardly any other modern writer affords.




PREFACE

Ancient Greek philosophy was divided into three sciences: Physics,
Ethics, and Logic. This division is perfectly suitable to the nature
of the thing, and the only improvement that can be made in it is to
add the principle on which it is based, so that we may both satisfy
ourselves of its completeness, and also be able to determine
correctly the necessary subdivisions.

All rational knowledge is either material or formal: the former
considers some object, the latter is concerned only with the form of
the understanding and of the reason itself, and with the universal
laws of thought in general without distinction of its objects.
Formal philosophy is called Logic. Material philosophy, however,
which has to do with determinate objects and the laws to which they
are subject, is again two-fold; for these laws are either laws of
nature or of freedom. The science of the former is Physics, that of
the latter, Ethics; they are also called natural philosophy and
moral philosophy respectively.

Logic cannot have any empirical part; that is, a part in which the
universal and necessary laws of thought should rest on grounds taken
from experience; otherwise it would not be logic, i. e. a canon for
the understanding or the reason, valid for all thought, and capable
of demonstration. Natural and moral philosophy, on the contrary, can
each have their empirical part, since the former has to determine
the laws of nature as an object of experience; the latter the laws
of the human will, so far as it is affected by nature: the former,
however, being laws according to which everything does happen; the
latter, laws according to which everything ought to happen.
[Footnote: The word "law" is here used in two different senses, on
which see Whately's Logic, Appendix, Art. "Law. "] Ethics, however,
must also consider the conditions under which what ought to happen
frequently does not.

We may call all philosophy empirical, so far as it is based on
grounds of experience: on the other hand, that which delivers its
doctrines from a priori principles alone we may call pure
philosophy. When the latter is merely formal it is logic; if it is
restricted to definite objects of the understanding it is
metaphysic.

In this way there arises the idea of a two-fold metaphysic--a
metaphysic of nature and a metaphysic of morals. Physics will thus
have an empirical and also a rational part. It is the same with
Ethics; but here the empirical part might have the special name of
practical anthropology, the name morality being appropriated to the
rational part.

All trades, arts, and handiworks have gained by division of labour,
namely, when, instead of one man doing everything, each confines
himself to a certain kind of work distinct from others in the
treatment it requires, so as to be able to perform it With greater
facility and. in the greatest perfection. Where the different kinds
of work are not so distinguished and divided, where everyone is a
jack-of-all-trades, there manufactures remain still in the greatest
barbarism. It might deserve to be considered whether pure philosophy
in all its parts does not require a man specially devoted to it, and
whether it would not be better for the whole business of science if
those who, to please the tastes of the public, are wont to blend the
rational and empirical elements together, mixed in all sorts of
proportions unknown to themselves, and who call themselves
independent thinkers, giving the name of minute philosophers to
those who apply themselves to the rational part only--if these, I
say, were warned not to carry on two employments together which
differ widely in the treatment they demand, for each of which
perhaps a special talent is required, and the combination of which
in one person only produces bunglers. But I only ask here whether
the nature of science does not require that we should always
carefully separate the empirical from the rational part, and prefix
to Physics proper (or empirical physics) a metaphysic of nature, and
to practical anthropology a metaphysic of morals, which must be
carefully cleared of everything empirical, so that we may know how
much can be accomplished by pure reason in both cases, and from
whnat sources it draws this its a priori teaching, and that whether
the latter inquiry is conducted by all moralists (whose name is
legion), or only by some who feel a calling thereto.

As my concern here is with moral philosophy, I limit the question
suggested to this: Whether it is not of the utmost necessity to
construct a pure moral philosophy, perfectly cleared of everything
which is only empirical, and which belongs to anthropology? for that
such a philosophy must be possible is evident from the common idea
of duty and of the moral laws. Every one must admit that if a law is
to have moral force, i. e. to be the basis of an obligation, it must
carry with it absolute necessity; that, for example, the precept,
"Thou shalt not lie," is not valid for men alone, as if other
rational beings had no need to observe it; and so with all the other
moral laws properly so called; that, therefore, the basis of
obligation must not be sought in the nature of man, or in the
circumstanced in the world in which he is placed, but a priori
simply in the conceptions of pure reason; and although any other
precept which is founded on principles of mere experience may be in
certain respects universal, yet in as far as it rests even in the
least degree on an empirical basis, perhaps only as to a motive,
such a precept, while it may be a practical rule, can never be
called a moral law.

Thus not only are moral laws with their principles essentially
distinguished from every other kind of practical knowledge in which
there is anything empirical, but all moral philosophy rests wholly
on its pure part. When applied to man, it does not borrow the least
thing from the knowledge of man himself (anthropology), but gives
laws a priori to him as a rational being. No doubt these laws
require a judgment sharpened by experience, in order on the one hand
to distinguish in what cases they are applicable, and on the other
to procure for them access to the will of the man, and effectual
influence on conduct; since man is acted on by so many inclinations
that, though capable of the idea of a practical pure reason, he is
not so easily able to make it effective in concrete in his life.

A metaphysic of morals is therefore indispensably necessary, not
merely for speculative reasons, in order to investigate the sources
of the practical principles which are to be found a priori in our
reason, but also because morals themselves are liable to all sorts
of corruption, as long as we are without that clue and supreme canon
by which to estimate them correctly.
For in order that an action
should be morally good, it is not enough that it conform to the
moral law, but it must also be done for the sake of the law,
otherwise that conformity is only very contingent and uncertain;
since a principle which is not moral, although it may now and then
produce actions conformable to the law, will also often produce
actions which contradict it. Now it is only in a pure philosophy
that we can look for the moral law in its purity and genuineness
(and, in a practical matter, this is of the utmost consequence): we
must, therefore, begin with pure philosophy (metaphysic), and
without it there cannot be any moral philosophy at all. That which
mingles these pure principles with the empirical does not deserve
the name of philosophy (for what distinguishes philosophy from
common rational knowledge is, that it treats in separate sciences
what the latter only comprehends confusedly); much less does it
deserve that of moral philosophy, since by this confusion it even
spoils the purity of morals themselves, and counteracts its own end.

Let it not be thought, however, that what is here demanded is
already extant in the propaedeutic prefixed by the celebrated Wolf
[Footnote: Johann Christian Von Wolf (1679-1728) was the author of
treatises on philosophy, mathematics, &c. , which were for a long
time the standard text-books in the German Universities. His
philosophy was founded on that of Leibnitz. ] to his moral
philosophy, namely, his so-called general practical philosophy, and
that, therefore, we have not to strike into an entirely new field.
Just because it was to be a general practical philosophy, it has not
taken into consideration a will of any particular kind-say one which
should be determined solely from a priori principles without any
empirical motives, and which we might call a pure will, but volition
in general, with all the actions and conditions which belong to it
in this general signification. By this it is distinguished from a
metaphysic of morals, just as general logic, which treats of the
acts and canons of thought in general, is distinguished from
transcendental philosophy, which treats of the particular acts and
canons of pure thought, i. e. that whose cognitions are altogether a
priori. For the metaphysic of morals has to examine the idea and the
principles of a possible pure will, and not the acts and conditions
of human volition generally, which for the most part are drawn from
psychology. It is true that moral laws and duty are spoken of in the
general practical philosophy (contrary indeed to all fitness). But
this is no objection, for in this respect, also the authors of that
science remain true to their idea of it; they do not distinguish the
motives which are prescribed as such by reason alone altogether a
priori, and which are properly moral, from the empirical motives
which the understanding raises to general conceptions merely by
comparison of experiences; but without noticing the difference of
their sources, and looking on them all as homogeneous, they consider
only their greater or less amount. It is in this way they frame
their notion of obligation, which though anything but moral, is all
that can be asked for in a philosophy which passes no judgment at
all on the origin of all possible practical concepts, whether they
are a priori, or only a posteriori.

Intending to publish hereafter a metaphysic of morals, I issue in
the first instance these fundamental principles. Indeed there is
properly no other foundation for it than the critical examination of
a pure practical reason; just as that of metaphysics is the critical
examination of the pure speculative reason, already published. But
in the first place the former is not so absolutely necessary as the
latter, because in moral concerns human reason can easily be brought
to a high degree of correctness and completeness, even in the
commonest understanding, while on the contrary in its theoretic but
pure use it is wholly dialectical; and in the second place if the
critique of a pure practical reason is to be complete, it must be
possible at the same time to show its identity with the speculative
reason in a common principle, for it can ultimately be only one and
the same reason which has to be distinguished merely in its
application. I could not, however, bring it to such completeness
here, without introducing considerations of a wholly different kind,
which would be perplexing to the reader. On this account I have
adopted the title of Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of
Morals, instead of that of a Critical Examination of the pure
practical Reason.

But in the third place, since a metaphysic of morals, in spite of
the; discouraging title, is yet capable of being presented in a
popular form, and one adapted to the common understanding, I find it
useful to separate from it this preliminary treatise on its
fundamental principles, in order that I may not hereafter have need
to introduce these necessarily subtle discussions into a book of a
more simple character.

The present treatise is, however, nothing more than the
investigation and establishment of the supreme principle of
morality, and this alone constitutes a study complete in itself, and
one which ought to be kept apart from every other moral
investigation. No doubt my conclusions on this weighty question,
which has hitherto been very unsatisfactorily examined, would
receive much light from the application of the same principle to the
whole system, and would be greatly confirmed by the adequacy which
it exhibits throughout; but I must forego this advantage, which
indeed would be after all more gratifying than useful, since the
easy applicability of a principle and its apparent adequacy give no
very certain proof of its soundness, but rather inspire a certain
partiality, which prevents us from examining and estimating it
strictly in itself, and without regard to consequences.

I have adopted in this work the method which I think most suitable,
proceeding analytically from common knowledge to the determination
of its ultimate principle, and again descending synthetically from
the examination of this principle and its sources to the common
knowledge in which we find it employed. The division will,
therefore, be as follows:--

1. First section. --Transition from the common rational knowledge of
morality to the philosophical.

2. Second section. --Transition from popular moral philosophy to the
metaphysic of morals.

3. Third section. --Final step from the metaphysic of morals to the
critique of the pure practical reason.




FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES OF THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS


FIRST SECTION

TRANSITION FROM THE COMMON RATIONAL KNOWLEDGE OF MORALITY TO THE
PHILOSOPHICAL

Nothing can possibly be conceived in the world, of even out of it,
which can be called good without qualification, except a Good Will
Intelligence, wit, judgment, and the other talents of the mind,
however they may be named, or courage, resolution, perseverance, as
qualities of temperament, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many
respects; but these gifts of nature may also become extremely bad
and mischievous if the will which is to make use of them, and which,
therefore, constitutes what is called character, is not good. It is
the same with the gifts of fortune. Power, riches, honour, even
health, and the general well-being and contentment with one's
condition which is called happiness, inspire pride, and often
presumption, if there is not a good will to correct the influence of
these on the mind, and with this also to rectify the whole principle
of acting, and adapt it to its end. The sight of a Deing who is not
adorned with a single feature of a pure and good will, enjoying
unbroken prosperity, can never give pleasure to an impartial
rational spectator. Thus a good will appears to constitute the
indispensable condition even of being worthy of happiness.

There are even some qualities which are of service to this good will
itself, and may facilitate its action, yet which have no intrinsic
unconditional value, but always presuppose a good will, and this
qualifies the esteem that we justly have for them, and does not
permit us to regard them as absolutely good. Moderation in the
affections and passions, self-control and calm deliberation are not
only good in many respects, but even seem to constitute part of the
intrinsic worth of the person; but they are far from deserving to be
called good without qualification, although they have been so
unconditionally praised by the ancients. For without the principles
of a good will, they may become extremely bad, and the coolness of a
villain not only makes him far more dangerous, but also directly
makes him more abominable in our eyes than he would have been
without it.

A good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not
by its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply
by virtue of the volition, that is, it is good in itself, and
considered by itself is to be esteemed much higher than all that can
be brought about by it in favour of any inclination, nay, even of
the sum total of all inclinations. Even if it should happen that,
owing to special disfavour of fortune, or the niggardly provision of
a stepmotherly nature, this will should wholly lack power to
accomplish its purpose, if with its greatest efforts it should yet
achieve nothing, and there should remain only the good will (not, to
be sure, a mere wish, but the summoning of all means in our power),
then, like a jewel, it would still shine by its own light, as a
thing which has its whole value in itself. Its usefulness or
fruitfulness can neither add to nor take away anything from this
value. It would be, as it were, only the setting to enable us to
handle it the more conveniently in common commerce, or to attract to
it the attention of those who are not yet connoisseurs, but not to
recommend it to true connoisseurs, or to determine its value.

There is, however, something so strange in this idea of the absolute
value of the mere will, in which no account is taken of its utility,
that notwithstanding the thorough assent of even common reason to
the idea, yet a suspicion must arise that it may perhaps really be
the product of mere high-flown fancy, and that we may have
misunderstood the purpose of nature in assigning reason as the
governor of our will. Therefore we will examine this idea from this
point of view.

In the physical constitution of an organized being, that is, a being
adapted suitably to the purposes of life, we assume it as a
fundamental principle that no organ for any purpose will be found
but what is also the fittest and best adapted for that purpose. Now
in a being which has reason and a will, if the proper object of
nature were its conservation, its welfare, in a word, its happiness,
then nature would have hit upon a very bad arrangement in selecting
the reason of the creature to carry out this purpose. For all the
actions which the creature has to perform with a view to this
purpose, and the whole rule of its conduct, would be far more surely
prescribed to it by instinct, and that end would have been attained
thereby much more certainly than it ever can be by reason. Should
reason have been communicated to this favoured creature over and
above, it must only have served it to contemplate the happy
constitution of its nature, to admire it, to congratulate itself
thereon, and to feel thankful for it to the beneficent cause, but
not that it should subject its desires to that weak and delusive
guidance, and meddle bunglingly with the purpose of nature. In a
word, nature would have taken care that reason should not break
forth into practical exercise, nor have the presumption, with its
weak insight, to think out for itself the plan of happiness, and of
the means of attaining it. Nature would not only have taken on
herself the choice of the ends, but also of the means, and with wise
foresight would have entrusted both to instinct.

And, in fact, we find that the more a cultivated reason applies
itself with deliberate purpose to the enjoyment of life and
happiness, so much the more does the man fail of true satisfaction.
And from this circumstance there arises in many, if they are candid
enough to confess it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred
of reason, especially in the case of those who are most experienced
in the use of it, because after calculating all the advantages they
derive, I do not say from the invention of all the arts of common
luxury, but even from the sciences (which seem to them to be after
all only a luxury of the understanding), they find that they have,
in fact, only brought more trouble on their shoulders, rather than
gained in happiness; and they end by envying, rather than despising,
the more common stamp of men who keep closer to the guidance of mere
instinct, and do not allow their reason much influence on their
conduct. And this we must admit, that the judgment of those who
would very much lower the lofty eulogies of the advantages which
reason gives us in regard to the happiness and satisfaction of life,
or who would even reduce them below zero, is by no means morose or
ungrateful to the goodness with which the world is governed, but
that there lies at the root of these judgments the idea that our
existence has a different and far nobler end, for which, and not for
happiness, reason is properly intended, and which must, therefore,
be regarded as the supreme condition to which the private ends of
man must, for the most part, be postponed. For as reason is not
competent to guide the will with certainty in regard to its objects
and the satisfaction of all our wants (which it to some extent even
multiplies), this being an end to which an implanted instinct would
have led with much greater certainty; and since, nevertheless,
reason is imparted to us as a practical faculty, i. e. as one which
is to have influence on the will, therefore, admitting that nature
generally in the distribution of her capacities has adapted the
means to the end, its true destination must be to produce a will,
not merely good as a means to something else, but good in itself,
for which reason was absolutely necessary. This will then, though
not indeed the sole and complete good, must be the supreme good and
the condition of every other, even of the desire of happiness. Under
these circumstances, there is nothing inconsistent with the wisdom
of nature in the fact that the cultivation of the reason, which is
requisite for the first and unconditional purpose, does in many ways
interfere, at least in this life, with the attainment of the second,
which is always conditional, namely, happiness. Nay, it may even
reduce it to nothing, without nature thereby failing of her purpose.
For reason recognises the establishment of a good will as its
highest practical destination, and in attaining this purpose is
capable only of a satisfaction of its own proper kind, namely, that
from the attainment of an end, which end again is determined by
reason only, notwithstanding that this may involve many a
disappointment to the ends of inclination.

We have then to develop the notion of a will which deserves to be
highly esteemed for itself, and is good without a view to anything
further, a notion which exists already in the sound natural
understanding, requiring rather to be cleared up than to be taught,
and which in estimating the value of our actions always takes the
first place, and constitutes the condition of all the rest. In order
to do this we will take the notion of duty, which includes that of a
good will, although implying certain subjectve restrictions and
hindrances. These, however, far from concealing it, or rendering it
unrecognisable, rather bring it out by contrast, and make it shine
forth so much the brighter.

I omit here all actions which are already recognised as inconsistent
with duty, although they may be useful for this or that purpose, for
with these the question whether they are done from duty cannot arise
at all, since they even conflict with it. I also set aside those
actions which really conform to duty, but to which men have no
direct inclination, performing them because they are impelled
thereto by some other inclination. For in this case we can readily
distinguish whether the action which agrees with duty is done from
duty, or from a selfish view. It is much harder to make this
distinction when the action accords with duty, and the subject has
besides a direct inclination to it. For example, it is always a
matter of duty that a dealer should not overcharge an inexperienced
purchaser, and wherever there is much commerce the prudent tradesman
does not overcharge, but keeps a fixed price for everyone, so that a
child buys of him as well as any other. Men are thus honestly
served; but this is not enough to make us believe that the tradesman
has so acted from duty and from principles of honesty: his own
advantage required it; it is out of the question in this case to
suppose that he might besides have a direct inclination in favour of
the buyers, so that, as it were, from love he should give no
advantage to one over another. Accordingly the action was done
neither from duty nor from direct inclination, but merely with a
selfish view.

On the other hand, it is a duty to maintain one's life; and, in
addition, everyone has also a direct inclination to do so. But on
this account the often anxious care which most men take for it has
no intrinsic worth, and their maxim has no moral import. They
preserve their life as duty requires, no doubt, but not because duty
requires. On the other hand, if adversity and hopeless sorrow have
completely taken away the relish for life; if the unfortunate one,
strong in mind, indignant at his fate rather than desponding or
dejected, wishes for death, and yet preserves his life without
loving it--not from inclination or fear, but from duty--then his
maxim has a moral worth.

To be beneficent when we can is a duty; and besides this, there are
many minds so sympathetically constituted that, without any other
motive of vanity or self-interest, they find a pleasure in spreading
joy around them and can take delight in the satisfaction of others
so far as it is their own work. But I maintain that in such a case
an action of this kind, however proper, however amiable it may be,
has nevertheless no true moral worth, but is on a level with other
inclinations, e. g. the inclination to honour, which, if it is
happily directed to that which is in fact of public utility and
accordant with duty, and consequently honourable, deserves praise
and encouragement, but not esteem. For the maxim lacks the moral
import, namely, that such actions be done from duty, not from
inclination. Put the case that the mind of that philanthropist were
clouded by sorrow of his own, extinguishing all sympathy with the
lot of others, and that while he still has the power to benefit
others in distress, he is not touched oy their trouble because he is
absorbed with his own; and now suppose that he tears himself out of
this dead insensibility, and performs the action without any
inclination to it, but simply from duty, then first has his action
its genuine moral worth. Further still; if nature has put little
sympathy in the heart of this or that man; if he, supposed to be an
upright man, is by temperament cold and indifferent to the
sufferings of others, perhaps because in respect of his own he is
provided with the special gift of patience and fortitude, and
supposes, or even requires, that others should have the same--and
such a man would certainly not be the meanest product of nature--but
if nature had not specially framed him for a philanthropist, would
he not still find in himself a source from whence to give himself a
far higher worth than that of a good-natured temperament could be?
Unquestionably. It is just in this that the moral worth of the
character is brought out which is incomparably the highest of all,
namely, that he is beneficent, not from inclination, but from duty.

To secure one's own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly; for
discontent with one's condition, under a pressure of many anxieties
and amidst unsatisfied wants, might easily become a great temptation
to transgression of duty. But here again, without looking to duty,
all men have already the strongest and most intimate inclination to
happiness, because it is just in this idea that all inclinations are
combined in one total. But the precept of happiness is often of such
a sort that it greatly interferes with some inclinations, and yet a
man cannot form any definite and certain conception of the sum of
satisfaction of all of them which is called happiness. It is not
then to be wandered at that a single inclination, definite both as
to what it promises and as to the time within which it can be
gratified, is often able to overcome such a fluctuating idea, and
that a gouty patient, for instance, can choose to enjoy what he
likes, and to suffer what he may, since, according to his
calculation, on this occasion at least, he has [only] not sacrificed
the enjoyment of the present moment to a possibly mistaken
expectation of a happiness which is supposed to be found in health.
But even in this case, if the general desire for happiness did not
influence his will, and supposing that in his particular case health
was not a necessary element in this calculation, there yet remains
in this, sas in all other cases, this law, namely, that he should
promote his happiness not from inclination but from duty, land by
this would his conduct first acquire true moral worth.

It is in this manner, undoubtedly, that we are to understand those
passages of Scripture also in which we are commanded to love our
neighbour, even our enemy. For love, as an affection, cannot be
commanded, but beneficence for duty's sake may; even though we are
not impelled to it by any inclination--nay, are even repelled by a
natural and unconquerable aversion. This is practical love, and not
pathological--a love which is seated in the will, and not in the
propensions of sense--in principles of action and not of tender
sympathy; and it is this love alone which can be commanded.

The second [Footnote: The first proposition was that to have moral
worth an action must be done from duty. ] proposition is: That an
action done from duty derives its moral worth, not from the purpose
which is to be attained by it, but from the maxim by which it is
determined, and therefore does not depend on the realization of the
object of the action, but merely on the principle of volition by
which the action has taken place, without regard to any object of
desire. It is clear from what precedes that the purposes which we
may have in view in our actions, or their effects regarded as ends
and springs of the will, cannot give to actions any unconditional or
moral worth. In what, then, can their worth lie, if it is not to
consist in the will and in reference to its expected effect? It
cannot lie anywhere but in the principle of the will without regard
to the ends which can be attained by the action. For the will stands
between its a priori principle, which is formal, and its a
posteriori spring, which is material, as between two roads, and as
it must be determined by something, it follows that it must be
determined by the formal principle of volition when an action is
done from duty, in which case every material principle has been
withdrawn from it.

The third proposition, which is a consequence of the two preceding,
I would express thus: Duty is the necessity "of acting from respect
for the law. " I may have inclination for an object as the effect of
my proposed action, but I cannot have respect for it, just for this
reason, that it is an effect and not an energy of will. Similarly, I
cannot have respect for inclination, whether my own or another's; I
can at most, if my own, approve it; if another's, sometimes even
love it; i. e. look on it as favourable to my own interest. It is
only what is connected with my will as a principle, by no means as
an effect--what does not subserve my inclination, but overpowers it,
or at least in case of choice excludes it from its calculation--in
other words, simply the law of itself, which can be an object of
respect, and hence a command. Now an action done from duty must
wholly exclude the influence of inclination, and with it every
object of the will, so that nothing remains which can determine the
will except objectively the LAW, and subjectively PURE RESPECT for
this practical law, and consequently the maxim [Footnote: A MAXIM is
the subjective principle of volition. The objective principle (i. e.
that which would also serve subjectively as a practical principle to
all rational beings if reason had full power over the faculty of
desire) is the practical LAW. ] that I should follow this law even to
the thwarting of all my inclinations.

Thus the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect
expected from it, nor in any principle of action which requires to
borrow its motive from this expected effeet. For all these effects--
agreeableness of one's condition, and even the promotion of the
happiness of others--could have been also brought about by other
causes, so that for this there would have been no need of the will
of a rational being; whereas it is in this alone that the supreme
and unconditional good can be found. The pre-eminent good which we
call moral can therefore consist in nothing else than THE CONCEPTION
OF LAW in itself, WHICH CERTAINLY IS ONLY POSSIBLE IN A RATIONAL
BEING, in so far as this conception, and not the expected effect,
determines the will. This is a good which is already present in the
person who acts accordingly, and we have not to wait for it to
appear first in the result. [Footnote: It might be here objected to
me that I take refuge behind the word RESPECT in an obscure feeling,
instead of giving a distinct solution of the question by a concept
of the reason. But although respect is a feeling, it is not a
feeling RECEIVED through influence, but is SELF-WROUGHT by a
rational concept, and, therefore, is specifically distinct from all
feelings of the former kind, which may be referred either to
inclination or fear, What I recognise immediately as a law for me, I
recognise with respect. This merely signifies the consciousness that
my will is SUBORDINATE to a law, without the intervention of other
influences on my sense. The immediate determination of the will by
the law, and the consciousness of this is called RESPECT, so that
this is regarded as an EFFECT of the law on the subject, and not as
the CAUSE of it. Respect is properly the conception of a worth which
thwarts my self-love. Accordingly it is something which is
considered neither as am object of inclination nor of fear, although
it has something analogous to both. The OBJECT of respect is the LAW
only, and that, the law which we impose on OURSELVES, and yet
recognise as necessary in itself. As a law, we are subjected to it
without consulting self-love; as imposed by us on ourselves, it is a
result of our will. In the former aspect it has an analogy to fear,
in the latter to inclination. Respect for a person is properly only
respect for the law (of honesty, &c. ), of which he gives us an
example. Since we also look on the improvement of our talents as a
duty, we consider that we see in a person of talents, as it were,
the EXAMPLE OF A LAW (viz. to become like him in this by exercise),
and this constitutes our respect. All so-called moral INTEREST
consists simply in RESPECT for the law. ]

But what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must
determine the will, even without paying any regard to the effect
expected from it, in order that this will may be called good
absolutely and without qualification? As I have deprived the will of
every impulse which could arise to it from obedience to any law,
there remains nothing but the universal conformity of its actions to
law in general, which alone is to serve the will as a principle, i.
e. I am never to act otherwise than so THAT _I_ COULD ALSO WILL THAT
MY MAXIM SHOULD BECOME A UNIVERSAL LAW. Here now, it is the simple
conformity to law in general, without assuming any particular law
applicable to certain actions, that serves the will as its
principle, and must so serve it, if duty is not to be a vain
delusion and a chimerical notion. The common reason of men in its
practical judgments perfectly coincides with this, and always has in
view the principle here suggested. Let the question be, for example:
May I when in distress make a promise with the intention not to keep
it? I readily distinguish here between the two significations which
the question may have. Whether it is prudent, or whether it is
right, to make a false promise. The former may undoubtedly often be
the case. I see clearly indeed that it is not enough to extricate
myself from a present difficulty by means of this subterfuge, but it
must be well considered whether there may not hereafter spring from
this lie much greater inconvenience than that from which I now free
myself, and as, with all my supposed CUNNING, the consequences
cannot be so easily foreseen but that credit once lost may be much
more injurious to me than any mischief which I seek to avoid at
present, it should be considered whether it would not be more
prudent to act herein according to a universal maxim, and to make it
a habit to promise nothing except with the intention of keeping it.
But it is soon clear to me that such a maxim will still only be
based on the fear of consequences. Now it is a wholly different
thing to be truthful from duty, and to be so from apprehension of
injurious consequences. In the first case, the very notion of the
action already implies a law for me; in the second case, I must
first look about elsewhere to see what results may be combined with
it which would affect myself. For to deviate from the principle of
duty is beyond all doubt wicked; but to be unfaithful to my maxim of
prudence may often be very advantageous to me, although to abide by
it is certainly safer. The shortest way, however, and an unerring
one, to discover the answer to this question whether a lying promise
is consistent with duty, is to ask myself, Should I be content that
my maxim (to extricate myself from difficulty by a false promise)
should hold good as a universal law, for myself as well as for
others? and should I be able to say to myself, "Every one may make a
deceitful promise when he finds himself in a difficulty from which
he cannot otherwise extricate himself"? Then I presently become
aware that while I can will the lie, I can by no means will that
lying should be a universal law. For with such a law there would be
no promises at all, since it would be in vain to allege my intention
in regard to my future actions to those who would not believe this
allegation, or if they overhastily did so, would pay me back in my
own coin. Hence my maxim, as soon as it should be made a universal
law, would necessarily destroy itself.

I do not, therefore, need any far-reaching penetration to discern
what I have to do in order that my will may be morally good.
Inexperienced in the course of the world, incapable of being
prepared for all its contingencies, I only ask myself: Canst thou
also will that thy maxim should be a universal law? If not, then it
must be rejected, and that not because of a disadvantage accruing
from it to myself or even to others, but because it cannot enter as
a principle into a possible universal legislation, and reason
extorts from me immediate respect for such legislation. I do not
indeed as yet discern on what this respect is based (this the
philosopher may inquire), but at least I understand this, that it is
an estimation of the worth which far outweighs all worth of what is
recommended by inclination, and that the necessity of acting from
pure respect for the practical law is what constitutes duty, to
which every other motive must give place, because it is the
condition of a will being good in itself, and the worth of such a
will is above everything.

Thus, then, without quitting the moral knowledge of common human
reason, we have arrived at its principle. And although, no doubt,
common men do not conceive it in such an abstract and universal
form, yet they always have it really before their eyes, and use it
as the standard of their decision. Here it would be easy to show
how, with this compass in hand, men are well able to distinguish,
in every case that occurs, what is good, what bad, conformably to
duty or inconsistent with it, if, without in the least teaching
them anything new, we only, like Socrates, direct their attention
to the principle they themselves employ; and that therefore we do
not need science and philosophy to know what we should do to be
honest and good, yea, even wise and virtuous. Indeed we might well
have conjectured beforehand that the knowledge of what every man
is bound to do, and therefore also to know, would be within the
reach of every man, even the commonest. [Footnote: Compare the note
to the Preface to the Critique of the Practical Reason, p. 111. A
specimen of Kant's proposed application of the Socratic method may
be found in Mr. Semple'a translation of the Metaphysic of Ethics,
p. 290. ] Here we cannot forbear admiration when we see how great
an advantage the practical judgment has over the theoretical in
the common understanding of men. In the latter, if common reason
ventures to depart from the laws of experience and from the
perceptions of the senses it falls into mere inconceivabilities and
self-contradictions, at least into chaos of uncertainty, obscurity,
and instability. But in the practical sphere it is just when the
common understanding excludes all sensible springs from practical
laws that its power of judgment begins to show itself to advantage.
It then becomes even subtle, whether it be that it chicanes with
its own conscience or with other claims respecting what is to
be called right, or whether it desires for its own instruction to
determine honestly the worth of actions; and, in the latter case,
it may even have as good a hope of hitting the mark as any philosopher
whatever can promise himself. Nay, it is almost more sure of doing
so, because the philosopher cannot have any other principle, while
he may easily perplex his judgment by a multitude of considerations
foreign to the matter, and so turn aside from the right way. Would
it not therefore be wiser in moral concerns to acquiesce in the
judgment of common reason or at most only to call in philosophy
for the purpose of rendering the system of morals more complete
and intelligible, and its rules more convenient for use (especially
for disputation), but not so as to draw off the common understanding
from its happy simplicity, or to bring it by means of philosophy
into a new path of inquiry and instruction?

Innocence is indeed a glorious thing, only, on the other hand, it is
very sad that it cannot well maintain itself, and is easily seduced.
On this account even wisdom--which otherwise consists more in
conduct than in knowledge--yet has need of science, not in order to
learn from it, but to secure for its precepts admission and
permanence. Against all the commands of duty which reason represents
to man as so deserving of respect, he feels in himself a powerful
counterpoise in his wants and inclinations, the entire satisfaction
of which he sums up under the name of happiness. Now reason issues
its commands unyieldingly, without promising anything to the
inclinations, and, as it were, with disregard and contempt for these
claims, which are so impetuous, and at the same time so plausible,
and which will not allow themselves to be suppressed by any command.
Hence there arises a natural dialectic, i. e. a disposition, to
argue against these strict laws of duty and to question their
validity, or at least their purity and strictness; and, if possible,
to make them more accordant with our wishes and inclinations, that
is to say, to corrupt them at their very source, and entirely to
destroy their worth--a thing which even common practical reason
cannot ultimately call good.

Thus is the common reason of man compelled to go out of its sphere,
and to take a step into the field of a practical philosophy, not to
satisfy any speculative want (which never occurs to it as long as it
is content to be mere sound reason), but even on practical grounds,
in order to attain in it information and clear instruction
respecting the source of its principle, and the correct
determination of it in opposition to the maxims which are based on
wants and inclinations, so that it may escape from the perplexity of
opposite claims, and not run the risk of losing all genuine moral
principles through the equivocation into which it easily falls.
Thus, when practical reason cultivates itself, there insensibly
arises in it a dialectic which forces it to seek aid in philosophy,
just as happens to it in its theoretic use; and in this case,
therefore, as well as in the other, it will find rest nowhere but in
a thorough critical examination of our reason.




SECOND SECTION

TRANSITION FROM POPULAR MORAL PHILOSOPHY TO THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS


If we have hitherto drawn our notion of duty from the common use of
our practical reason, it is by no means to be inferred that we have
treated it as an empirical notion. On the contrary, if we attend to
the experience of men's conduct, we meet frequent and, as we
ourselves allow, just complaints that one cannot find a single
certain example of the disposition to act from pure duty. Although
many things are done in conformity with what duty prescribes, it is
nevertheless always doubtful whether they are done strictly from
duty, so as to have a moral worth. Hence there have, at all times,
been philosophers who have altogether denied that this disposition
actually exists at all in human actions, and have ascribed
everything to a more or less refined self-love. Not that they have
on that account questioned the soundness of the conception of
morality; on the contrary, they spoke with sincere regret of the
frailty and corruption of human nature, which thought noble enough
to take as its rule an idea so worthy of respect, is yet too weak to
follow it, and employs reason, which ought to give it the law only
for the purpose of providing for the interest of the inclinations,
whether singly or at the best in the greatest possible harmony with
one another.

In fact, it is absolutely impossible to make out by experience with
complete certainty a single case in which the maxim of an action,
however right in itself, rested simply on moral grounds and on the
conception of duty. Sometimes it happens that with the sharpest
self-examination we can find nothing beside the moral principle of
duty which could have been powerful enough to move us to this or
that action and to so great a sacrifice; yet we cannot from this
infer with certainty that it was not really some secret impulse of
self-love, under the false appearance of duty, that was the actual
determining cause of the will. We like then to flatter ourselves by
falsely taking credit for a more noble motive; whereas in fact we
can never, even by the strictest examination, get completely behind
the secret springs of action; since, when the question is of moral
worth, it is not with the actions which we see that we are
concerned, but with those inward principles of them which we do not
see.

Moreover, we cannot better serve the wishes of those who ridicule
all morality as a mere chimera of human imagination overstepping
itself from vanity, than by conceding to them that notions of duty
must be drawn only from experience (as from indolence, people are
ready to think is also the case with all other notions); for this is
to prepare for them a certain triumph. I am willing to admit out of
love of humanity that even most of our actions are correct, but if
we look closer at them we everywhere come upon the dear self which
is always prominent, and it is this they have in view, and not the
strict command of duty which would often require self-denial.
Without being an enemy of virtue, a cool observer, one that does not
mistake the wish for good, however lively, for its reality, may
sometimes doubt whether true virtue is actually found anywhere in
the world, and this especially as years increase and the judgment is
partly made wiser by experience, and partly also more acute in
observation. This being so, nothing can secure us from falling away
altogether from our ideas of duty, or maintain in the soul a well-
grounded respect for its law, but the clear conviction that although
there should never have been actions which really sprang from such
pure sources, yet whether this or that takes place is not at all the
question; but that reason of itself, independent on all experience,
ordains what ought to take place, that accordingly actions of which
perhaps the world has hitherto never given an example, the
feasibility even of which might be very much doubted by one who
founds everything on experience, are nevertheless inflexibly
commanded by reason; that, ex. gr. even though there might never yet
have been a sincere friend, yet not a whit the less is pure
sincerity in friendship required of every man, because, prior to all
experience, this duty is involved as duty in the idea of a reason
determining the will by a priori principles.

When we add further that, unless we deny that the notion of morality
has any truth or reference to any possible object, we must admit
that its law must be valid, not merely for men, but for all rational
creatures generally, not merely under certain contingent conditions
or with exceptions, but with absolute necessity, then it is clear
that no experience could enable us to infer even the possibility of
such apodictic laws. For with what right could we bring into
unbounded respect as a universal precept for every rational nature
that which perhaps holds only under the contingent conditions of
humanity? Or how could laws of the determination of OUR will be
regarded as laws of the determination of the will of rational beings
generally, and for us only as such, if they were merely empirical,
and did not take their origin wholly a priori from pure but
practical reason?

Nor could anything be more fatal to morality than that we should
wish to derive it from examples. For every example of it that is set
before me must be first itself tested by principles of morality,
whether it is worthy to serve as an original example, i. e. , as a
pattern, but by no means can it authoritatively furnish the
conception of morality. Even the Holy One of the Gospels must first
be compared with our ideal of moral perfection before we can
recognise Him as such; and so He says of Himself, "Why call ye Me
(whom you see) good; none is good (the model of good) but God only
(whom ye do not see)? " But whence have we the conception of God as
the supreme good? Simply from the IDEA of moral perfection, which
reason frames a priori, and connects inseparably with the notion of
a free-will.