I. On the Relation of Theory to Practice in Morality in General

(in reply to some exceptions taken by Professor Garve) ^*

Before I come to the real point at issue—namely, what in the use of one and the same concept may be valid only in theory or only in practice—I must compare my theory, as set forth elsewhere, with Herr Garve’s notion of it, to see beforehand whether we understand each other.

A. Provisionally, by way of introduction, I had defined ethics as a science that teaches, not how we are to achieve happiness, but how we are to become worthy of happiness. My definition, as I had not failed to note, does not mean that in matters of obeying duty a man should renounce his natural goal of happiness.^** He cannot do so, nor can any other finite rational being. What I mean is that, when duty calls, he must completely abstract from this consideration. Under no circumstances must he turn it into a condition of obeying the law prescribed to him by reason; indeed, he must seek as best he can to be conscious that no motive derived from it has imperceptibly mingled with his definition of his duty, as will happen because we tend to conceive duty as linked with sacrifices exacted by its observance (by virtue) rather than with the benefits it confers. The point is to bring the call of duty to mind in its totality, as demanding unconditional obedience, as self-sufficient, and as requiring no other influence.

a. Herr Garve puts my thesis as follows: “Kant maintained that observance of the moral law quite irrespective of happiness is man’s sole ultimate end, that it must be viewed as the sole end of the Creator.” (According to my theory, the sole end of the Creator is neither the morality of man alone nor happiness alone; instead, it is the highest good possible in the world: the union and concordance of the two.)

B. I had further remarked that this concept of duty need not be based upon any particular end, but that, rather, it introduced another end for the human will: namely, to strive as best he can for the highest good that is possible in the world (universal happiness linked to and in accordance with the purest morality in the world as a whole). Since this is within our power on the one side, but not on both, its effect as a practical end is to constrain men of reason to believe in a moral world governor and in a life to come— not as if both had to be presumed in order to give the general concept of duty “support and firmness,” i.e. a safe ground and the required strong motivating force, but only so that an object is provided for this ideal of pure reason.^* For duty in itself is nothing but the will’s restriction to the condition of a universal legislation made possible by an accepted maxim—the object of the will, or the purpose may be anything whatever (hence even happiness) provided the object, or any purpose we may have, is completely abstracted from. When we ask about the principle of morals, the doctrine of the highest good as the ultimate end of a will that is in conformity to its laws, can thus be wholly ignored and put aside as episodic; and indeed we shall see later that where the real issue is at stake, no attention at all is paid to this doctrine, only to the universal moral standpoint.

b. Herr Garve covers these theses in the following expressions: “that a virtuous man can never, nor must he ever lose sight of this aspect (his own happiness), for otherwise he would utterly lose his way to the invisible world, to a conviction of God’s existence and of immortality. But this conviction, according to that theory, is absolutely necessary to give support and firmness to the moral system .” And he concludes with this crisp and pithy summary of the assertions attributed to me: “A virtuous man, in accordance with those principles, will strive incessantly to be worthy of happiness; but insofar as he is truly virtuous, he will never strive to be happy.” (Here the word “insofar” causes an ambiguity that must first be straightened out. It may mean that, being virtuous, one bows to his duty in the act; in this sense the sentence fully accords with my theory. Or it may mean that if one is really virtuous, or in other words, that even if duty is not involved and there is no conflict with it, the virtuous man ought never to consider happiness at all. In that sense it is a flat contradiction of my statements.)

These exceptions are thus nothing but misunderstandings (for I would not wish to consider them misinterpretations). The possibility of their occurrence would be puzzling if the human tendency to follow one’s own habitual trains of thought even in the evaluation of the thoughts of others, and thus to carry one’s own thinking into theirs, did not suffice to explain such a phenomenon.

This polemical treatment of the moral principle just cited is followed then by a dogmatic statement to the contrary. Herr G. comes to this analytical conclusion: “In the order of concepts, the perceiving and distinguishing acts in which we prefer one condition to another must precede our choice of either, and thus precede the predetermination of a specific end. But if a creature endowed with consciousness of itself and its condition prefers a present and perceived condition to others, this condition is a good one; and a series of such good conditions is the most general concept, expressed by the word happiness.” Moreover: “A law presupposes motives, but motives presuppose a previously perceived difference between a condition that is worse and one that is better. This perceived difference is the element of the concept of happiness,” etc. And further: “From happiness, in the most general sense of the word, spring the motives for every endeavor, including that for compliance with the moral law. I must know that something is good before I can ask whether the fulfillment of my moral duties comes under the rubric of the good. Man must have a motivational drive that puts him in motion before a goal can be set for him,^* indicating where the motion ought go.”

This argument is nothing but a play on the ambiguity of the word “good.” Either the good is absolutely good, good in itself as opposed to evil in itself, or it is never more than conditionally good, being compared with the good that is worse or better since the state chosen as better may be only a comparatively better state though in itself it is still evil.

The maxim that a categorically commanding law of the freely choosing will should be observed absolutely, regardless of underlying ends (that is, duty) differs essentially, i.e., in kind, from the maxim to pursue an end supplied by nature itself as our motive for some sort of action (the end generally called happiness). For the first is good in itself, while the second is far from it; in the event of a clash with duty, it may be very evil. On the other hand, if the basis is a certain end and there is thus no law that commands absolutely (if the law commands only under the conditions of that end), two opposite courses of action may both be conditionally good though one is better than the other (which would then be called comparatively evil). They do not differ in kind, merely in degree. And this is the case with all acts not motivated by the absolute law of reason (by duty), but by an end arbitrarily proposed by ourselves. For that end is part of the sum of all ends, whose attainment we call happiness; and one act can do more for my happiness, the other less, so that each can be better or worse than the other.

But preferring one state of determining the will to another is simply a free act (res merae facultatis, as the lawyers say). It is an act in which no consideration is given to the question whether the determination of will is good or evil in itself, and in which alternatives are therefore equivalent.

A state of being in line with a certain given end which I prefer to any other end of its kind is a comparatively better state in the field of happiness (which reason never acknowledges as other than conditionally good to the extent that one is worthy of it). But the state in which I consciously prefer to do my duty, when there is a conflict between certain of my ends and the moral law of duty, is not merely a better state; it is the only condition that is good in itself. It is a good from an altogether different field, a field in which ends that may suggest themselves to me (and their sum total, happiness) will not even be considered, and in which the determining ground of the choosing will is not its material (an object on which the choosing is based) but the mere form of the universal lawfulenss of its maxim.

By no means, therefore, can one say that every state I prefer to any other kind is classified as happiness by me. I must first be sure that I am not acting counter to my duty; not until then am I permitted to look for all the happiness compatible with my morally (not physically) good state.^*

True, the will must have motives; but these are not specific objects presumed as ends and relating to physical feelings. They are nothing but the unconditioned law itself, and the will’s receptivity in subjecting itself to that law as an unconditional constraint is called moral feelings. This is not the cause but the effect of the will’s determination, of which we would not have the slightest inner perception if that inner constraint were not already present within us. This is why the old litany—that this feeling (and thus a pleasure which we make our end) constitutes the will’s first determining cause, and that happiness (of which that pleasure is an element) therefore constitutes the ground of all objective necessity to act, hence of all obligation—is just a toying with rationalizations. For if we are incapable of ceasing to ask questions when a cause has been proposed for a certain effect, we will in the end turn the effect into its own cause.

Now I come to the point that properly concerns us here: to exemplify and test the interests of theory and practice that presumably conflict in philosophy. Herr G., in the treatise cited above, provides the best example. First (speaking of the difference I note between a doctrine that teaches how to become happy and one that teaches how to become worthy of happiness) he says: “For my own part I confess that I fully comprehend this division of ideas in my mind, but that I cannot find this division of wishes and strivings in my heart, that in fact it is incomprehensible to me how any man can be conscious of having achieved complete detachment from his desire for happiness, and thus having performed his duty quite unselfishly.”

I shall answer the latter point first. I gladly admit that no man can ever be conscious with certainty of having performed his duty quite unselfishly, for this is a matter of internal experience, and this consciousness of his state of mind would require one to have a consistently clear view of all the subsidiary notions and considerations which imagination, habit, and inclination attach to the concept of duty. We can never demand such a view, nor can the nonbeing of something (as of some hidden weighing of benefits) be an object of experience. But that man ought to perform his duty quite unselfishly, and that his desire for happiness must be completely divorced from his concept of duty in order to preserve its purity— this he knows with the utmost clarity. Or, should he believe that he does not, this can be required of him to the best of his ability. For it is precisely in that purity of the concept of duty that the true worth of morality is found, and thus one must be capable of it. Perhaps no person has ever been quite unselfish (without an admixture of other motives) in doing what he recognized and also revered as his duty; perhaps, despite the greatest striving, no one will ever get that far. But each person is able—and as far as the fulfillment of his duty is concerned, this suffices—to scrutinize himself painstakingly and to perceive not only an absence of any such participating motives, but also to become aware of self-denial in regard to many motives at odds with the idea of duty, or, consequently, with the maxim to strive toward this purity. On the other hand, to make a maxim of favoring the influence of such motives, on the pretext that human nature does not allow this kind of purity (which also cannot be stated with certainty), is the death of all morality.

As for Herr G.’s previously quoted confession of being unable to find that division (more properly, that detachment) in his heart, I do not hesitate to deny his self-accusation outright and to defend his heart against his mind. In his heart (in determining his will) this honest man has always found that kind of detachment. It was in his mind only, for purposes of speculation and of seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible (inexplicable)—to wit, the possibility of categorical imperatives (such as the imperatives of duty)—that the detachment would not fit in with accustomed principles of psychological explanation (all built upon the mechanism of natural necessity).^*

But then Herr G. concludes: “Such niceties in the distinction of ideas grow dim when we merely reflect on particular objects; but they evaporate altogether when it comes to action, when the ideas are to be applied to desires and intentions. The simpler, the quicker, the less clearly conceived our step from reflecting on motives to real action, the smaller our chance to know precisely and surely just how much weight each motive carried in guiding the step this way rather than another.” And on this I must contradict him loudly and zealously.

The concept of duty in its total purity is not only incomparably simpler, clearer, and more comprehensible and natural for everyone’s practical use than any motive drawn from happiness, or mixed with happiness and with considerations of happiness (which always require a great deal of skill and thought). In the view of even the most common human reason, the concept of duty is far stronger, more penetrating, and more promising than any motives borrowed from the self-interested principle of happiness—provided only it is presented to our will in detachment from, or even in opposition to, those considerations of happiness.

Suppose, for instance, that someone is holding another’s property in trust (a deposit) whose owner is dead, and that the owner’s heirs do not know and can never hear about it. Present this case even to a child of eight or nine, and add that, through no fault of his, the trustee’s fortunes are at lowest ebb, that he sees a sad family around him, a wife and children disheartened by want. From all of this he would be instantly delivered by appropriating the deposit. And further that the man is kind and charitable, while those heirs are rich, loveless, extremely extravagant spendthrifts, so that this addition to their wealth might as well be thrown into the sea. And then ask whether under these circumstances it might be deemed permissible to convert the deposit to one’s own use. Without doubt, anyone asked will answer “No!”—and in lieu of grounds he can merely say: “It is wrong!”, i.e., it conflicts with duty. Nothing is clearer than that. And assuredly it is not his own happiness that the man promotes by surrendering the deposit. For if happiness were the end that he expected to determine his decision, he might, for example, think along these lines: “If you give up, unasked, what does not belong to you, you will gain a widespread good reputation that may become quite lucrative for you.” But all this is very uncertain. On the other hand, many misgivings arise as well: “To end your straitened condition at one stroke, you might embezzle what has been entrusted to you; but if you made prompt use of it, you would evoke suspicions concerning how and by what means your circumstances had so quickly improved; however, if you were slow about it, your distress would increase in the meantime to a point beyond help.”

The will thus pursuant to the maxim of happiness vacillates between motivations, wondering what it should resolve upon. For it considers the outcome, and that is most uncertain: one must have a good head on his shoulders to disentangle himself from the jumble of arguments and counterarguments and not to deceive himself in the tally. But if he asks himself where his duty lies, he is not in the least embarrassed for what answer to give himself; he is instantly certain what he must do. In fact, if the concept of duty carries any weight with him, he will actually shudder to think of benefits he might derive from its violation, just as if he still had a choice.

It is clear, then, that these distinctions are not the niceties they seem to be to Herr G. They are graven into the human soul in the crudest, most legible script, and Herr G.’s argument that they evaporate altogether when it comes to action contradicts our experience. Not, of course, the experience embodied in the history of maxims derived from one principle or the other, for this unfortunately shows that most of these maxims flow from the principle of self-interest. But it contradicts the experience, which can only be an inner experience, that no idea does more to lift the human spirit and to fan its enthusiasm than the very idea of a pure moral character. Due to this idea, man will revere his duty above all else, will wrestle with the countless ills of life as well as with its most seductive temptations, and yet (as we correctly assume that he can) will overcome them. That he knows he can do this because he ought to—this is the revelation of divine tendencies within himself deep enough to fill him with sacred awe, as it were, at the magnitude and sublimity of his true destiny. And if it were more frequently brought to the attention of men, if they became accustomed to divesting virtue of the rich loot of advantages to be gained by the performance of duty, and to envisioning virtue in all its purity; if constant use of this view were made a principle of private and public education (a method of inculcating virtue that has been neglected in almost every age)—if these things were done, the state of human morality would improve in short order. The fact that historical experience until now has not yet proved the doctrines of virtue successful may well be due to the wrong premise. The motivating force derived from the idea of duty itself has been considered far too refined for the vulgar understanding; while the cruder idea of duty, based upon certain benefits expected in this world (and indeed in a future world) from following the law (without regard to its motivating force) was credited with a more vigorous effect upon the mind. And it may be due to the adoption of the educational and homiletic principle of preferring the pursuit of happiness over the supreme requirement of reason: being worthy of happiness. The prescriptions how to gain happiness, or at least to keep from harm, are not commandments. They are not downright obligatory on anyone. Having been warned, man may choose what seems good to him if he is willing to suffer the consequences. Ill effects are apt to result from his failure to take the advice received, but he has no reason to regard them as punishment. Punishment is reserved for a will that is free but unlawful; nature and inclination cannot legislate for freedom. With regard to the idea of duty the situation is entirely different. The violation of one’s duty, even without taking into consideration the disadvantages that follow, directly affects the mind of the agent and makes him reprehensible and punishable in his own eyes.

Here we have clear proof that in ethics what is right in theory must work in practice.

As a human being, a creature whose own reason subjects him to certain duties, everybody is a businessman. And since, being human, he never outgrows the school of wisdom, he cannot assume that experience has taught him more about what man is or what can be required of him. He cannot send the adherents of theory back to their academies with proud disdain, for none of his experience helps him to escape precepts of theory. It may perhaps help him to learn how theory, once taken into our principles, could be better and more generally put to work; but here we are speaking, not of such pragmatic skills, but of principles.

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^* Versuche über verschiedne Gegenstünde aus der Moral und Literature (Essays on Several Subjects froin the Realin of Ethics and Literature) by Ch. Garve, Part One, pp. 111-116. I call the denial of my theses “exceptions” taken by this worthy man to points on which (I hope) he wants to come to an understanding with me. I do not call then1 “attacks,” derogatory statements designed to provoke a defense for which there is neither a place here nor an inclination on my part.

^** Being worthy of happiness is a personal quality based on the subject’s own will. Due to this quality, a generally legislative reason (one making laws for nature as well as for free will) would harmonize with all of a person’s ends. Hence it is totally different from skill in the achievement of some kind of happiness. For a man is not worthy even of this skill, nor of the talent for it lent to him by nature, if his will does not conform to, and cannot be contained in, the only will fit for a universal legislation of reason (i.e., if it is a will that conflicts with morality).

^* The need to assume a highest good in the world made possible with our cooperation, as the ultimate end of all things is due, not to a lack of moral motivations. It is due rather to external conditions in which alone, and in accordance with the motivating forces, an object can be brought forth as an end in itself (as the moral ultimate end). For without an end there cannot be any will—although, where legal compulsion of actions alone is involved, one must abstract from the end, and the law alone constitutes the ground that determines the will. Not every end is moral, however, (not, for example, that of one’s own happiness); but the moral end must be unselfish. And the need for an ultimate end established by pure reason and comprising the entirety of all ends under one principle (a world as the highest good possible through our collaboration) is a need of the unselfish will that expands, beyond the observance of formal laws, to the production of an object (the highest good).

This determination of the will is of a special sort, namely, determination by the idea of the entirety of all ends. Its basis is that if we stand in certain moral relationships to things in the world, we must obey the moral law in every respect; and there is, moreover, a duty to strive with all one’s abilities so that such a relationship (a world in accordance with the highest moral ends) will exist. Man conceives himself here in analogy to the deity which, although subjectively requiring no outward thing, nevertheless cannot be conceived as secluded within itself, but only as destined to bring forth the highest good outside itself by the very sense of its own all-sufficiency. In the supreme being, this necessity (which in man is a duty) can not be conceived by us otherwise than as a moral need. In man, therefore, the motive force lies in the idea of the highest good possible through his efforts. The motivation is not the happiness he means to gain for himself in this cooperation; it is rather that idea as an end in itself and, hence, its pursuit as duty. For the idea contains not the prospect of happiness pure and simple, but only that of a proportion between happiness and the worthiness of whichever subject it may concern. When a will is determined, however, by limiting itself and its purpose to the restrictive condition of belonging to such an entirety, it is not selfish.

^* This, after all, is precisely what I am urging. The motivational drive which a person can have in advance, before a goal (an end) is set for him, can obviously be nothing other than the law itself, through the respect it instills (whatever ends one may have and may attain by compliance). For in regard to the formal element of choosing, the law is all that remains once the substance of choosing (the goal, as Herr G. calls it) is left out of consideration.

^* Happiness contains whatever (and no more than) nature can obtain for us; but virtue contains what nobody but a person himself can give to or take from himself. If one countered that by straying from the path of virtue a person can at least bring recrimination and pure moral self-reproach with accompanying discontent upon himself, and that, consequently, he can make himself unhappy, we may concede that much. Yet none but the virtuous, or he who is about to become virtuous, is capable of this pure moral discontent (not with the disadvantages resulting from his act, but with its sheer illegality). The discontent is thus not the cause but rather the effect of his being virtuous, and the ground that motivated him to be virtuous could not come from that unhappiness (if the pain following a misdeed be so called).

^* In Prof. Garve’s Notes to Cicero’s Book on Duties, p. 69, 1783 edition, we find a remarkable admission worthy of his perspicacity: that freedom, according to his inmost conviction, would “always remain unfathomable and never be explained." There is simply no proof of its actuality to be found in direct or indirect experience—and without any proof one cannot simply assume it. Freedom is demonstrable, then, not on purely theoretical grounds (for these would have to be sought in experience), but by means of theses of purely practical reason—and not of technical-practical theses either (for those again would require empirical grounds), but of moral-practical ones only; so we cannot help wondering why Herr G. did not resort to the concept of freedom to save at least the possibility of such imperatives.