‘You ought to maximize happiness.’ That is the heart of ethics according to utilitarianism. The theory is highly influential, if only by way of stimulating many philosophers and those of religious faith to react with disdain. ‘Surely, human beings are no lowly animals, no mere seekers after pleasures, after happiness.’ Others run to the theory’s defence, providing a utilitarian justification; after all, asks Jeremy Bentham, what ultimate appeal other than to happiness could ever sensibly be made? If it is wrong to lie, it is because lies typically lead to unhappiness; if wrong to torture, that is because of the sufferings. When lying seems to be right – when torturing is defended – justifications involve avoidance of greater suffering. ‘If you tell the truth, it will break him.’ ‘If you fail to extract the information, thousands will be maimed.’ When torture is condemned outright, the appeal again is to overall happiness; torture is ineffective or brutalizes us, reducing happiness in the long run.
This section’s title, from Bentham, locates the utilitarian heart. In John Stuart Mill’s words:
The creed which accepts as the foundation of morals, Utility, or the Greatest Happiness Principle, holds that actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness.
Utilitarianism is consequentialist (as the term is used today) – the most influential consequentialist moral theory. It is teleological, assessing actions by outcome, the end, the telos. The actions themselves may be pleasurable, so those pleasures enter the calculations. The theory, by definition, is hedonistic, its key value being happiness. Sometimes the stress is on maximizing welfare; sometimes minimizing suffering. Most people recognize suffering, pain, as a great bad, far worse in its disvalue than the intrinsic positive value of pleasure; we feel urgent needs to prevent suffering, but not so urgent to create pleasure. The Greatest Happiness Principle sums up what has become known as ‘act utilitarianism’. The ‘act’ qualification is omitted here, until variant utilitarianisms – indirect utilitarianisms – are to the fore.
Utilitarianism is a cognitivist moral position: ‘cognitivist’ because, in judging actions right, we are judging matters of fact, apparently cognizant, knowing, of truths. Good states of affairs are those of happiness; right actions secure the good. The good, the consequential good – in this case, happiness – is prior to the right. Some philosophers distinguish sharply between the right and the good, though the terms are often used more or less synonymously: actions that are right may equally well be deemed good. The idea, though, is that right actions are obligatory – what we morally ought to do – whereas the good is what is morally desirable or worthwhile. The right, so to speak, commands us; the good attracts us. For utilitarians, right actions, to be right, must be for the good, that is, for the greatest happiness.
The term ‘utility’ is sometimes understood to mean whatever leads to happiness, and sometimes happiness itself. ‘Utility’ possesses an austere functional ring, so let us speak of happiness. Bentham’s happiness is solely a matter of pleasure and absence of pain. One immediate worry is that some people gain pleasure from inflicting pain on non-consenting others; why consider those pleasures valuable? Perhaps such pleasures can lack utilitarian support because of reduced overall happiness; but perhaps there is something intrinsically bad, not resting upon consequences, about pleasure in others’ suffering. Another worry is that, paradoxically, utilitarian reasoning could lead to not helping others: suppose we provide dinners and temporary comfort, at festival times, for some down-and-outs. They are pleased. On returning to hungry sleeping on streets, though, they suffer all the more, now aware of how much better things could be for them; perhaps they now, understandably, experience painful feelings of resentment at the lucky wealthy.
Utilitarians seek to include all pleasures and all pains in their ‘felicific calculus’. Happiness is to be quantified by units of pleasure, pains being units of negative pleasure. The units – mythical or theoretical entities – have been labelled ‘hedons’. Actions lead to so many hedons, the quantity depending on intensity of pleasures, of pains, duration, fecundity (in leading to more) and likelihood. Quantity is key, not the source or nature of actions leading to the pleasures. Here is Bentham:
Prejudice apart, the game of push-pin is of equal value with the arts and sciences of music and poetry. If the game of push-pin furnish more pleasure, it is more valuable than either.
Many would welcome Bentham’s view: any pop song’s lyrics are as valuable as Shakespeare’s sonnets, if generating the same quantities of hedons. Musicals could well be more valuable than Britten’s operas and rap music more than Schubert’s lieder – for mass culture generates more pleasure, given larger numbers pleasured. Maybe aesthetic value is being conflated here with moral value; but even were Bentham to recognize greater aesthetic value in Poussin’s paintings than Peter Cave’s drawings, which artistic endeavours ought to be displayed hangs on resultant pleasure. The Cave drawings may generate more overall pleasure through laughter at his masterly incompetence.
Some, particularly economists, speak of maximizing satisfactions – of desires, of preferences. Caution is required. Even when certain desires are satisfied, we may be far from satisfied overall. Witness King Midas: he seemed to secure what he desired – for everything he touched turned to gold – yet, when his touch turned his daughter to gold, he realized the folly of his desire. Further, the powerful, be they corporate, governmental or religious, can manipulate our desires. We adapt to circumstances rather than to what is best for us: for example, the enslaved, knowing nothing better, can be frightened of being set free. Further still, if desire satisfaction is all that is valuable, then, to use Plato’s example, why not sprinkle ourselves with itching powder, leading to intense scratching satisfactions?
BENTHAM: DEALING IN LIGHT INSTEAD OF DARKNESS
Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) founded modern-day utilitarianism. Although others tied morality to greatest happiness – Francis Hutcheson; Joseph Priestley, discoverer of oxygen – Bentham developed the theory and promoted it, passing the flame to John Stuart Mill.
Bentham was reading a bulky English history at age three, and soon after, learning Latin. He became a great social reformer, sceptical of religion, viewing it a juggernaut – The Jug – produced by superstition and ancestor-worship, as was the English common law. Reason should lead to the alleviation of suffering. With that in mind, he designed a ‘frigidarium’, an ice-house, for perishable foods, and a prison ‘panopticon’, enabling wardens to control prisoner activity from a central panoramic view.
Pain and pleasure: Nature, wrote Bentham, has placed us under two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure, determining what we do and what we ought to do. Hence, the law should be grounded in codes to maximize pleasures, minimize pains, not in abstract concepts of inalienable human rights or natural rights granted by God – ‘nonsense on stilts’. He proposed ministries for health, education and reduction of indigence (poverty); he supported universal suffrage and secret ballots.
Although frustrated in love, he argued that sexual relations were typically beneficial because of the pleasures; so, he advocated legalized prostitution and, for the times, courageously proposed the legalization of homosexual acts – let people scratch where it itches.
The ‘auto-icon’: Bentham – well, his skeleton, his so-called auto-icon dressed in his clothes – can be found in the cloisters of University College London. He was (so to speak) spiritual founder of that first University of London, the first British university without religious tests, creating ‘the godless students of Gower Street’.
Based on human desire for overall pleasure, reason and law were to rear ‘the fabric of felicity’ – for, insisted Bentham:
Systems which attempt to question that… deal in sounds instead of sense, in caprice instead of reason, in darkness instead of light.
Bentham’s simple, uniform understanding of pleasure was challenged by Mill. Mill had noted how many people reacted with inveterate dislike of Bentham’s pleasure.
To suppose that life has (as they express it) no higher end than pleasure – no better and nobler object of desire – they designate as utterly mean and grovelling; as a doctrine worthy only of swine, to whom the followers of Epicurus were contemptuously likened…
Mill’s response was that of the Epicureans: the accusation supposed humans to be capable solely of swinish pleasures – but that supposition is mistaken. Mill continued:
Socrates would rather choose to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied. The pig probably would not, but then the pig knows only one side of the question: Socrates knows both.
Mill, believing qualitative differences exist between pleasures, would have valued Schubert’s lieder as providing higher pleasures than rap music. Mill would have lacked sympathy for the observation of Samuel Butler, Erewhon’s author, who wrote:
I should like to like Schumann’s music better than I do; I dare say I could make myself like it better if I tried; but I do not like having to try to make myself like things; I like things that make me like them at once and no try at all.
Returning to Schubert, had Mill known, he would have condemned Schubert’s smoking, drinking and sexual cavortings – Schubert’s ‘slough of moral degradation’ – for Mill spoke of the absurdly disproportionate time mankind occupied itself with lower pleasures such as sex. Higher pleasures, for example, poetry, are more valuable than lower, such as push-pin. There are, of course, difficulties in determining the higher; further, with no common measure for pleasures, the utilitarian ideal of a hedonistic calculation is much weakened, if not made impossible.
Let us reflect a little more on pleasure. Pleasurable experiences are valuable, but often, so too are their sources, the objects of the experiences, and our sharing them with others. The most pleasurable activities, paradoxically, are not pleasurable solely because of the pleasure. Were the pleasure all that mattered, then we should be as pleased with a drug injection that gave us the pleasures resulting from a lover’s kiss or attending an operatic performance as with engaging in the real thing.
Let us reflect a little more on happiness. Happiness involving contentment is valuable, but happiness also requires struggles, painful struggles, perhaps to develop worthwhile talents or achieve desirable ends – even to solve crossword puzzles. Many pleasures, once over, strike us as worthless in contrast to accomplishments that retain value. Even when deceased, it remains true that, for example, Harold was a fine craftsman or maintained his dignity despite reversals in fortune. An enriched understanding of happiness as a fulfilled life – we meet that concept, eudaimonia, in Chapter Four – involves more than pleasure; it can involve reputation and accomplishments, for they remain even after one’s last breath. Mill, indeed, understood happiness as including nobility, appreciation of music and the love of virtue for its own sake. That understanding raises problems, given Mill’s overarching utilitarianism; it is certainly a far cry from Bentham’s concept of happiness as open to calculation.
Utilitarianism possesses two features often deemed essential to moral theory: universality and impartiality. Examining those features will help our appreciation of the look of typical moral theories as well as leading us into distinctive utilitarian problems.
Talk of ‘theory’ is of a moral principle or set of principles that has something comprehensive to say about how we ought to act. We should not think much of a moral theory if all it delivers is the restricted injunction not to tread on toes or steal hats. A theory, as well as containing comprehensive principles from which particular injunctions (such as the prohibition on toe-treading) derive, highlights certain concepts as fundamental. Utilitarianism highlights consequences for overall happiness; other theories highlight rights, natural goods or virtuous dispositions.
Utilitarianism commits morality to universality: its morality applies to everyone. A principle could, though, possess universal application, yet be highly partial: the universal principle could be that we should all (including the elderly) ignore the interests of the elderly. Utilitarianism, though, claims impartiality: well, to the extent that pleasures count equally, if of equal intensity and duration, irrespective of whether the individuals pleasured are lords or serfs, old or young, European or Asian – or, for that matter, human beings, pigeons, or philosophers. It is thus a cosmopolitan theory. The feature not ignored is happiness. Universality and impartiality align with the common sense appeal, ‘Put yourselves in their shoes’.
Universality and impartiality are not sufficient for a theory to be a moral theory. That no one can travel faster than light is universal and applies impartially, but is not in the moral arena. Morality’s universality and impartiality sets the framework for how we ought to act, not how we do or cannot help but act. The framework’s content is, of course, also highly morally relevant. A universal and impartial theory could be that we ought to torture as many people as we can, irrespective of colour and creed. That injunction is not recognizable as part of a moral theory, though people could advocate such (immoral) living. Some, far less radically, insist that everyone ought always to act in his own interests. That egoist recommendation – apparently Ayn Rand, the US-based novelist, held that position – would, superficially at least, conflict with morality’s concern for others; it would need careful argument in support. For example, acting out of (enlightened) self-interest could perhaps be the most likely means to secure overall happiness, or it may be argued that self-interest is intrinsically tied up with the moral virtues (to be seen in Chapter 4).
Utilitarianism raises another typical worry: morality’s foundations. What is the source of the Greatest Happiness Principle? Has it been plucked from the heavens? Is it blindingly obvious? Or is there some reasoning to demonstrate its truth? That introduces the connection between theory and common intuitions, our common sense. Any moral theory must have initial regard for what we take, pre-theoretically, as morally evident. If, from a moral theory, the conclusion is that we ought now to kill men without beards, we should rightly think that something has gone wrong with the theory. How, then, does the basic utilitarian idea survive, when considering particular intuitions?
You are walking along a winding road on a mountain’s edge; behind you, the road has been crumbling. A coach is approaching, packed with passengers. You could let it carry on its merry way to a fatal and un-merry ending – or you could hail it down, saving many lives. Surely, morality demands that you do the latter. You ought not to think, ‘Nothing to do with me’, or, if a journalist, ‘Let’s wait to photograph the disaster’.
Similar pre-theoretic cases suggest that what underlies our moral certainties is the utilitarian principle that we ought to maximize happiness, welfare, or at least minimize suffering.
Some people ask you the time of the train. You could lie, causing them to miss the train, their holiday plans ruined. True, you may secure a small amount of schadenfreude, of dubious personal happiness; but the right action is surely to tell the truth.
Again, this harmonizes with utilitarianism: telling the truth here is likely to maximize overall happiness. Perhaps, though – as we shall see later – the rightness of truth-telling has nothing to do with happiness.
We could muddy waters. The train-seekers are in fact terrorists in disguise, planning to bomb the train, causing numerous casualties. If we know that, morally we ought not to be helping them. That reasoning, though, also aims at maximizing happiness, hence providing more nourishment for utilitarians. On the surface, the theory has a lot going for it.
Utilitarianism looks to the future, the dim and distant as well as the near. Opponents eagerly stress how distant futures are unknown. Who knows whether saving a young woman, in the coach scenario above, will mean that later on she will bear children, leading, generations later, to the birth of a Hitler-like figure who causes millions to suffer? Utilitarians – as we all do every day – have to rely on what it is reasonable to believe about future possibilities. Without further evidence, we have to be neutral regarding distant unknown consequences of saving lives now.
A moral theory, as seen with utilitarianism, may accord with certain basic moral beliefs. The theory, with such support, can then determine what morally ought to be done in different circumstances – and that may challenge other commonsensical beliefs. For example, if the Greatest Happiness Principle attracts us, then if we must choose between saving only one life and saving many lives, we should undoubtedly take the many-saving option (assuming lives with equal happiness potential). In the runaway tram example, where five workers will be killed unless an intervention is made, we ought to divert the tram, even though someone else, a lone man on the siding, will be killed as a result. That is good, basic utilitarian reasoning, yet many people baulk at ‘playing God’ in such a way.
Suppose utilitarianism leads us to accept that the tram diversion is morally required, even though probably psychologically challenging. Now suppose the only way of stopping the tram – and hence saving the five (or even five hundred and five) lives – is by pushing a reluctant bulky man, an innocent passer-by, off a bridge, in front of the oncoming tram, halting the tram and killing the man. There would be five (or five hundred and five) people saved, one person killed, as previously. Many feel, however, that we ought not to push, even though we ought to divert. Now suppose those moral intuitions are right – divert in the first scenario, not push in the second – what explains or justifies that difference?
One justification, derived from Immanuel Kant, forthcoming in Chapter Three, is that people ought not to be used solely as means to an end. The bulky man is being used – to save the others. In the diversion case, if the solo man on the track escaped being hit by the diverted tram, the five would still be saved. The solo man’s death is foreseen, but neither his presence nor his death is necessary for the saving; neither advances the aim of saving the five. The bulky man’s tram-stopping presence is required, even if not theoretically his death; perhaps his stopping the tram ‘magically’ leaves him alive, but he has still been used just as a means to a desirable end.
As those examples illustrate, moral theories respect certain basic moral intuitions, yet can lead to revision of others; but which intuitions should be taken as most self-evident? Moral theories are not justifying our basic moral intuitions; rather certain of those intuitions stimulate us into proposing the theory. We have to start from particular cases. A fundamental starting point for some, though, may be no starting point at all for others. In some societies, human sacrifice to appease the gods has been taken as a basic given; in others, moral norms include infanticide, honour killings or suttee (where a widow sacrifices herself on her husband’s funeral pyre). Such differences lead to wild claims that all morality is relative. Those claims are to be rejected (please see ‘The folly of relativism’). Starting with particular cases is not peculiar to ethics and the humanities. In ‘hard’ logic, we start with particular arguments – ‘All men are mortal; Socrates is a man; therefore Socrates is mortal’ – which we see as obviously valid. From such instances, we formulate rules of logic.
That in the end – and in the beginning – we turn to particular examples to assess moral principles may lead to ‘particularism’. Particularists doubt the value of principles; why not stay with the particulars? Looking at where principles lead is, though, a useful way of seeing how we would handle examples, real and imaginary. Principles that charm non-particularists can highlight considerations that may aid us when reflecting on what ought to be done in particular cases; still further reflection may then show how those principles fail to accommodate moral complexities, the principles thus requiring caveats or rejection.
There are many cases, as we have seen, where utilitarian reasoning accords with moral intuitions. The following is an example that most would accept.
You are a surgeon; you can either have your usual rest day or work additional hours to operate on some surprise emergency casualties. Unless more factors enter the tale, for utilitarians you ought to forgo the rest day and perform the operations. Your loss of pleasure given the extra work is swamped by the victims’ pleasures in having, say, their limbs saved.
There are, though, many cases where, but for fancy footwork, utilitarianism clashes with common sense morality: for example, the tram tale’s second scenario. Although common sense should not always have the last word, we should surely not use an innocent passer-by as a heavy brake, even to save many others. Utilitarianism does not merely permit such seeming immoralities; it demands them – even demanding that the bulky man offer himself up (or down) as sacrificial saviour.
Until nuances arrive, killing a healthy person, for example, to save five lives by distribution of his organs, is a utilitarian requirement; after all, letting the five die has the same consequential outcome as killing the five. Consequentialists see no intrinsic distinction, morally relevant, between ‘acts and omissions’. Further, doing nothing, foreseeing the death of the five, is, on the surface, morally equivalent to intending their death. If consequences are the key, then the alleged moral distinction between intending and foreseeing, as promoted in the Doctrine of Double Effect, lacks moral significance – unless some consequential differences flow.
Returning to the surgeon scenario, probably greater overall happiness would be secured if the surgeon sacrificed all his luxuries – unnecessary rest days, family life – and spent his wakeful, skilful time in operating theatres. Many of us, certainly the author and many readers, could reduce living standards to help the dispossessed, the starving and the ill. Although our happiness would diminish, the reduced suffering of others could more than compensate for our loss of some happiness.
Utilitarian morality demands far more than most of us can stomach. Utilitarianism, it seems, commits the morally minded to become, so to speak, saints. It allows no room for ‘going beyond duty’ – for supererogation – because there is nothing beyond duty. To overcome that objection, the requirement to maximize happiness is sometimes replaced by that of doing enough (satisficing utilitarianism) or at least of increasing overall happiness by some degree (progressive utilitarianism).
Note how our common sense intuitions are generating changes to the theory; those particular proposed changes suffer from obvious difficulties in judging and justifying the ‘enough’.
We are engaging puzzles of the just, of the moral distribution of goods. For utilitarians, a demanding question is: which takes higher priority, the greatest happiness or the greatest number?
Suppose just three people, Aimee, Ariadne and Ardon. Perhaps Ardon has far greater happiness potential than the two women combined; Aimee and Ariadne should therefore forgo their happiness, with resources heading to Ardon – maybe the women become his slaves – causing him immense happiness, swamping the women’s unhappiness. Greatest happiness is thus secured. If, though, the greatest number of happy individuals takes highest priority, then – and here is a second scenario – Ardon should forgo happiness, serving as overworked slave to the two women; the two women each have maximum happiness, though the trio’s combined happiness is now lower than in the first scenario. A third version would seek an equal happiness distribution: the three would each have a reasonable and equal amount of happiness, but the overall total could well be lower than in the two earlier scenarios.
A fourth version of our threesome tale would have the three creating more and more people. That could maximize happiness, even though each individual possesses only slight overall happiness, perhaps because of overcrowding. To avoid that fourth scenario, utilitarians may aim to maximize average happiness. Even if creating more people increases total happiness, the average happiness of the larger population could well be lower than that of the smaller population. The ‘average’ answer suffers a simple but significant fault: killing those whose happiness is below the current average, or below a certain level, could increase average happiness. Whether the increase occurs depends on whether and how such killings affect the remainder’s happiness levels. The remainder may feel insecure at such killings, lowering overall happiness; some will find that their happiness is now below the new average, making them vulnerable to such a policy for increasing average happiness.
Distribution of a promoted good affects the amount of good for each individual, as does seeking the maximum good. Maximizing happiness, utilitarian-style, as sole concern, ignores whether the happiness amount for a given individual is good enough for that individual. Individuals seem mere containers for happiness; whether one container holds more happiness than another is ignored, unless affecting overall happiness. That some happiness is my happiness is irrelevant; it could be mixed in with the happiness of all others in one happiness-maximizing cauldron. That approach generates unease; what is morally right depends in part, it seems, upon how things are for each individual – and how lives compare.
Concern for the individual links with the mantra that individuals deserve to be treated equally – ‘all men are equal’ – but once ‘what is deserved’ is in the frame, we place limits on equality; equality in this or that respect should not be promoted. Ardon surely does not deserve as many resources as the others if he lazes while Aimee and Ariadne labour. Fairness, though, does not always merit highest priority. Suppose our three As are clinging to the wreckage of a shipwreck, with clean water scarce; equal water distribution would ensure all three perish. Fairness, it appears, yields to ensuring that at least one survives, however unfair that is for the others; but which of the three should survive – the owner of the ship, the owner of the water or the one who has so far had the least out of life? Should it be settled by a random draw? Utilitarians, presumably, would select the survivor as the one likely to generate the greatest happiness.
Mill sees maximum happiness as arising through individuals being free to develop as they choose, so long as not directly causing others to be harmed. The value of liberty becomes prominent in Mill’s reasoning, as does the value of diversity – of society avoiding conformity to an overall uniformity. Mill speaks of
a State, which dwarfs its men, in order that they may be more docile instruments in its hands even for beneficial purposes – will find that with small men no great thing can really be accomplished.
It has been argued, though, that the greatest happiness could result from people living in uniformity, following the crowd, even indoctrinated with mistaken beliefs. Mill’s promotion of liberty could be at odds with his utilitarianism.
Mill can rightly reject such objections; happiness for Mill, it seems, essentially involves values such as knowing the truth, being autonomous (self-governing), honourable, imaginative and different. Mill’s happiness, as already noted, is a flourishing or ‘living well’. Mill also recognizes the importance of different conceptions of happiness; hence, his utilitarianism promotes conditions – public welfare – that would enable people to experiment with their chosen ways of living and, to use Adam Smith’s expression, overcome ‘the poverty of aspiration’. We should, though, beware such promotion collapsing into unquestioned praise for self-realization: ‘to thy own self be true’. Caveats are needed for, of course, sincerity does not immunize us from wickedness. A murderer may be a sincere self-realizing murderer, an idler authentic in his sloth.
Urging greatness leads to competition. In competitions, some are hurt; some are swamped with envy, haughtily dismissed by the successful. The novelist Julian Barnes, commenting on the annual Booker (now Man Booker) Prize for fiction, noted:
The Booker… is beginning to drive people mad. It drives publishers mad with hope, booksellers mad with greed, judges mad with power, winners mad with pride, and losers (the unsuccessful shortlistees plus every other novelist in the country) mad with envy and disappointment.
On the bigger scale, Mill accepted the beneficial effects of business competition, yet with competition, some people suffer through losing the competitive race, being driven out of business. Overall, though, happiness gains – so it is believed.
JOHN STUART MILL: DISCOVERING THE CHARM
John Stuart Mill (1806–73), home-educated, was learning classical Greek from age three, then Latin, then correcting his father’s six volumes on British India. Much influenced by Bentham, close family friend, Mill, in his teens, formed the Utilitarian Society. The term ‘utilitarian’ had appeared in Galt’s novel Annals of the Parish. Mill, ‘with a boy’s fondness for a name and a banner’, was the first to describe himself, and others, thus.
Ceasing to charm: At twenty, Mill asked himself about his aims:
Suppose that all your objects in life were realized; that all the changes in institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and happiness to you?
He answered ‘No!’ – a mental malady. ‘The end had ceased to charm.’
Charm rediscovered: Mill came to see that happiness involved more than Benthamite pleasures. He discovered Wordsworth’s poetry, nature’s beauty and the love of Harriet Taylor – a pity she was Mrs Taylor. Respecting her husband, Harriet and John lived apart for twenty years, without impropriety. Their relationship, wrote Harriet, gave
an edifying picture for those poor wretches who cannot conceive friendship but in sex – nor believe that expediency and the consideration for the feelings of others can conquer sensuality.
Bentham would, no doubt, have disagreed.
After Mr Taylor’s death, John and Harriet married. True to his advocacy of equality, John disclaimed rights over Harriet and her property. With Harriet’s death seven years later, John was heartbroken. He purchased a small white house in Avignon, installing the furniture from the nearby hotel room, scene of her death. The house overlooked the cemetery where she was buried. From 8 May 1873, the house overlooked the cemetery where, side by side, Harriet and John were buried.
Eminent Victorian reformer, Mill was greatly respected – a Member of Parliament, promoter of liberty, equality and welfare, even arguing against the mistreatment of horses. Mill felt sympathy, empathy, fellow-feeling – and, eventually, personal love. He was, after all, human.
Equality and fairness in distribution are not the sole values that challenge utilitarian reasoning. Numerous scenarios exist in which utilitarians seem committed to apparent immoralities. Here are some…
Justice dictates that only the guilty merit punishment, but suppose a community has suffered violent assaults, rapes and murders. The locals are convinced that a particular ‘outsider’ is the criminal. The authorities know of his total innocence – the real perpetrator recently committed suicide – but they also know that the community distrusts them and would dismiss their evidence of suicide. The public remains terrified while the outsider remains free. For utilitarians, it would surely be right for the authorities to falsify evidence, ensuring that the innocent outsider is convicted, incarcerated, even put to death. True, he would have a miserable time or no time at all; but the community’s relief would easily outweigh that. ‘So much for justice,’ declare objectors to utilitarianism.
The 1666 Great Fire of London destroyed much of the City. Fingers pointed at Robert Hubert as the arsonist – an outsider, a simpleton. Although he was not the fire-raiser (being out of England at the time), a jury found him guilty and he was hanged. Justice was not done, but riots were probably avoided. Utilitarians should applaud the outcome. The people’s satisfaction, though, derived from their belief that the culprit had been rightfully punished; they possessed a belief in justice, distinct from utilitarian morality. That thought points to Government House utilitarianism (please see insert, ‘Utilitarianism in secret’).
Honesty, promise-keeping, even life preservation – all these may come under pressure if utilitarian justifications hold sway. Promise-keeping, for example, is, as with guilt, essentially ‘backward looking’ – not in its being regressive, but its regard for what was done. Marisa takes out a loan voluntarily, promising repayment next year. Morally, she ought to repay – our typical moral stance – yet circumstances could easily be described whereby the greatest happiness would result if she broke the promise.
Everyday morality readily recognizes values other than overall happiness – for example, fairness, justice, equality, honesty, respecting human life. Utilitarians have three responses. One is to shore up the basic utilitarian line with explanations of how, properly understood, utilitarianism grounds those other values. The second response supplements or nuances the theory. A third line, described in the next section, produces radical revisions.
Taking the first line, we could argue that, as a matter of fact, people would feel insecure and worried if they ran the risk of being punished although innocent, or treated as human organ plantations for community benefit. That would be a utilitarian justification for resisting the lure of such seemingly immoral proposals, unless the proposals could be applied in secret, ensuring the ignorance of others. Regarding promise-keeping and honesty: well, if people know that utilitarian calculations could sometimes justify dishonesty and breaking promises, they would not rely so readily on them; that would create insecurity, chaos, thus, thwarting happiness being maximized.
There are problems with the above utilitarian remedies. Even if dishonesty, promise-breaking and killing people for their organs would have adverse overall consequences, that is not, many would argue, why such actions are morally wrong. Those actions are wrong whatever the consequences – a claim to be met in the next chapter.
Instead of sticking firmly with basic utilitarianism, we may follow the second proposed line – of nuancing the theory. Utilitarians can rightly draw distinctions between the overall desirable utilitarian end, people’s individual motivations, the principles people should follow day by day – and the character traits to be encouraged. Mill notes, for example, that we sense the need to treat the interests of others equally, that we value social co-operation; maximizing happiness will hence require such relationships and characteristics to flourish. Yes, the overall end remains maximum happiness, but, to achieve that, we should often be motivated by love, by respect for others for their sake. Our eyes need to be shielded from the utilitarian end.
John Austin, a one-time close utilitarian friend of Mill, quipped that a man should not consult the common weal, the common welfare, before kissing his mistress: to do so would undermine the loving relationship and hence happiness. How would we feel were people to perform utilitarian calculations, or any calculations at all, before kissing us – or before keeping promises? Non-calculative loving relationships are usually part of people’s happiness. Utilitarianism hence needs to be self-effacing – out of mind – where everyday motivations are concerned. A related current example are ‘prenuptial contracts’; when suggested, they can undermine prospects for loving relationships.
Even in circumstances where calculations can coexist with happiness, it may be impractical to perform them. Hence, on utilitarian grounds, we need to develop certain rules of thumb, as well as character traits, of honesty, promise-keeping and generosity. By doing so, happiness will be advanced.
The above thinking can be viewed as an ‘indirect utilitarianism’, one that pulls us away from applying utilitarian calculations to every proposed act.
Utilitarians, as shown above, seek to avoid counter-intuitive results, either by insisting that proper calculations do not lead to the undesirable results or by nuancing the theory to avoid those results. A third move effects a radical transformation – into the indirect version of rule utilitarianism.
Act utilitarianism asks, ‘Will this particular action maximize happiness?’ The nuances above retain that basic principle, but recognize that motivations may differ from ultimate ends sought; and certain dispositions and rules of thumb are valuable for day-by-day navigation. Rule utilitarians do not apply utilitarian reasoning directly to a proposed act, but ask, ‘Were (hypothetically) everyone, when in similar circumstances, to perform actions of this type, would happiness be maximized?’ Rule utilitarians move us from actual to hypothetical consequences – those consequences resulting on the hypothesis of universal rule-following.
Suppose the following is true: if people stopped eating meat, then overall happiness would increase. There would be radically less animal suffering and people would probably lead healthier lives. There could be more efficient use of land for crops: fewer people would suffer malnourishment. Those advantages in total outweigh the initial misery of meat-eaters deprived of their meat-eating pleasures, and the loss of any pleasures of farmed animals unaware of forthcoming abattoir trips. With that as background, you are now in the supermarket, wanting to buy some veal. The choice is between veal and vegetarian.
Act utilitarians could justifiably recommend the veal. The creature is already dead; you will gain pleasure from the forthcoming meal – and, vitally, your purchase, be it for veal or vegetarian, will make no significant impact on others’ purchasing behaviour and the supermarket’s profits. The reasoning would be different, were you a charismatic, highly influential celebrity or admired political or religious leader; then, proclaiming vegetarianism and acting accordingly could lead numerous others to follow suit. That would affect supermarket buying policies, with resultant reductions in factory farming and animal suffering.
By contrast, rule utilitarians reason as follows: what if everyone were to do the same type of action as I do in these circumstances? If I resist the veal and go for the vegetarian meal, then, were everyone to behave similarly, there would be greater overall happiness than if they followed the rule of purchasing meat whenever they fancied. Even though my vegetarian choice in fact will make no difference to animal suffering – I am no charismatic celebrity – the vegetarian choice is what morality demands. The choice secures maximum happiness, were everyone to follow the same rule: buy vegetarian dishes, not meat.
Much moral reasoning seems rule utilitarian. In an election, my vote typically makes no difference to the electoral outcome. An act utilitarian may argue: I ought to do something more useful or pleasurable than voting. ‘But what if everyone thought that way and ceased to vote?’ people reply. The notice in the park says, ‘Do not pick the flowers’ – but if I picked and no one followed suit, the floral display would remain stunning. ‘But what if everyone picked the flowers whenever it suited him or her? – no longer would there be the park’s flowery delights.’ And so forth…
Act utilitarians will often encourage actions, even though, were everyone to follow suit, happiness reduction would flow. Act utilitarians confidently reply, ‘Not everyone will follow suit.’ Rule utilitarians dismiss that reply; they see morality as founded in best rules. Best rules are determined by the ‘what if everyone…’ test; the rules typically coincide with common sense morality. If everyone lied when it suited him or her, there would be chaos; so, follow the rule: be honest. If we all broke the law whenever we could get away with it, society would collapse; hence, obey the law.
One mystery with rule utilitarianism is the justification behind each rule promoted. Perhaps ‘only pick the flowers when few people are likely to notice the outcome’ would be a better rule for happiness maximization than the blanket: do not pick the flowers. ‘Always stop at red traffic lights except when clearly no other vehicles are crossing’ could be better than: never cross red lights. Consider truth-telling: why restrict the rule choice solely between ‘always tell the truth’ and ‘lie whenever it suits you’? Perhaps a better rule than either would be: tell the truth, unless lying would prevent a murder. Perhaps better still: tell the truth, unless it would reduce overall happiness. That latter rule would justify lying to your dying parents, not worrying them about your chaotic life. The rule utilitarian response could be: if that seemingly better rule became generally known, then we should not know whether to believe people; so, happiness would not be maximized. Perhaps rule utilitarianism, though, could operate with some degree of self-deception or acceptance of truthfulness ‘for the most part’ – or at least with more complex rules than the simple ‘black or white’ proposals.
Rule utilitarianism, in fact, risks collapse into act utilitarianism; the rules could be made so complicated that they enjoin the same actions as those of act utilitarianism. The collapse is avoided if a constraint is introduced: for example, the rules must be very simple and easy to follow. On particular occasions, though, rule utilitarians may well know that to maximize happiness they should break the relevant rules, yet their rule utilitarianism commits them to following the simple rules. That is an unhappy outcome and, one may add, not psychologically all that healthy.
UTILITARIANISM IN SECRET
Henry Sidgwick (1838–1900), unlike Bentham and Mill, was an academic, a leading Cambridge professor and reformer, promoting, for example, university education for women.
The need for secrecy: Utilitarians, Sidgwick argues, understand morality correctly. The greatest happiness, though, is unlikely to result if most people are aware of morality’s utilitarian basis; they could spend ages calculating outcomes or, more likely, miscalculating. Perhaps they would doubt morality, if realizing it is not divinely commanded; they could then succumb to blatant selfishness.
Government House utilitarianism: Sidgwick concludes that the desirable end, happiness maximization, agreeable consciousness, is most likely secured if most people are convinced there exist firm moral principles that must be followed, regardless of consequences. Only the enlightened few should know of morality’s utilitarian basis; they are akin to European rulers in the Government House of a colony. Sidgwick writes:
On Utilitarian principles, it may be right to do and privately recommend, under certain circumstances, what it would not be right to advocate openly…
It may be right secretly to frame an innocent man for the greater good. That people ought sometimes to be ignorant is summarized pithily in Gore Vidal’s comment, ‘Never give the game away.’ It is justified, not so pithily, in Plato’s Republic’s defence of the ‘noble lie’, where rulers lie for a community to run well.
Keeping secrecy secret: Sidgwick, ever consistent, concludes: ‘that the opinion that secrecy may render an action right which would not otherwise be so, should itself be kept comparatively secret…’
Was Sidgwick right to publish that view? Surely, it should be kept secret. Well, it is tucked away in his long and dusty Methods of Ethics; perhaps, he guessed, few readers would read that far in.
Utilitarianism, act and rule, is vulnerable to a fundamental attack. Take an extreme case. ‘It is wrong to torture this child for sheer fun.’ Why? Act utilitarians rely on overall happiness being diminished – but is that really why such torture is wrong? Rule utilitarians argue that if we followed the rule ‘torture children whenever you feel like doing so’, overall happiness would diminish. Is that ‘what if’ consideration really the reason why torture is wrong? Even were there no decrease in overall happiness through such torturing – torturers gain immense pleasure – torture would surely remain morally repugnant, morally wrong.
Concern for the individual may be swallowed up by the utilitarian quest for total happiness. We noted earlier a tension between concern for the community and concern for the individual, as Mill’s gaze turned from the greatest happiness to individuals’ liberty. We now look more closely at the individual. Morality affects me as an agent, as someone who acts. It is self-directed in that I perform the action, though it is not thereby self-interested; I may see that I must act in the interest of others. As an agent, what I morally ought to do is not, it seems, determined solely by overall happiness.
Here is Bernard Williams’s vivid tale of Jim finding himself in a South American village. Tied up against the wall are twenty terrified Indians, randomly selected. Because of recent anti-government protests, Pedro, an army officer, is about to shoot these innocents dead – to remind future possible protestors of the advantages of not protesting. A captain is in charge.
Since Jim is an honoured visitor from another land, the captain is happy to offer him a guest’s privilege of killing one of the Indians himself. If Jim accepts, then as a special mark of the occasion, the other Indians will be let off. Of course, if Jim refuses, then there is no special occasion, and Pedro here will do what he was about to do when Jim arrived, and kill them all… What should Jim do?
There is no chance of Jim turning the tables against Pedro and the captain. The twenty men against the wall – and their families – beg Jim to accept the offer.
Act utilitarians would see no moral dilemma: Jim should shoot one of the Indians. Rule utilitarians could come to see that following the simple rule ‘do not kill’ would be silly and cruel; better the rule: do not kill unless the individual to be killed is about to be killed in any case and other lives will be saved. Jim, though, would be the killing agent – using an Indian as a means to save the others. Even though the right action could well be to shoot, none the less it is morally significant to Jim that he would become a killer; he cannot see the act as agent-neutral. Killing could be so morally repulsive for him that he would not be true to himself if he went ahead. The ‘view from here’ of one agent – of Jim, if so repulsed – and the ‘view from there’ of someone else may differ.
The example raises the ‘integrity’ objection to utilitarianism. Consequences are important, but so is the integrity of the agent who brings forth those consequences. ‘Let me keep my hands clean’ – but that can smack of moral self-indulgence, even cowardice. Perhaps Jim’s hands would be sullied by not shooting. He would feel terrible at killing; but maybe killing is what he ought to do. Were another explorer to be present, Jim, while refusing the killing to be done ‘through me’, could yet be hoping that the other explorer would accept the captain’s offer. That hope does not sit well with Jim as a man of integrity, even though, given their priorities, it is morally wrong for him to kill, yet right for someone else to kill, someone whose integrity would remain unimpeached by killing.
The scenario presents a simplified choice for Jim. If, though, truly horrified by the plight of all twenty innocent Indians, Jim may feel unable to live with himself if he accepts – or declines – the offer. Either way, he would be enmeshed in tragedy not of his making. He may seek a noble path, sincerely offering up his own life to save the twenty, perhaps hoping that such an offer of self-sacrifice would touch the captain’s heart, leading to all being saved.
Integrity is a recognizable value – one that homes in on agents being true to their principles. Integrity, let us remember, does not, though, always merit highest priority, even any priority. Some Nazis, ‘true to their principles’, went ahead with killing innocent Jews trembling before their eyes.
There are cases where involvement in a cause would secure recognizable overall benefits. You have the opportunity to infiltrate an undesirable political grouping intent on attacking racial minorities. As a member, you would learn of its plans, your ultimate aim being to disrupt its activities. The benefits of infiltration are there to see; yet although some people would hence infiltrate, you could not live with yourself becoming ‘one of them’ – and living in the public gaze as one of them. Is that putting ‘self’ first, over-concerned about appearances – or a proper moral reflection, regarding the sort of person you are?
The twentieth-century British spies – the ‘Cambridge Spies’ – spied for Soviet communism and against fascism. To move high within the British secret services and be trusted by the Americans, their cover involved appearing right-wing. As a result, they lost important political friendships and loves, for what they perceived to be the greater good. They sacrificed their personal lives for a political value. Here is another example: Alan Turing and colleagues, engaged in cracking the Enigma Code during World War II, maintained their work’s secrecy; they received white feathers from women who thought them cowards for not being in the forces, fighting for their country. They lived with that public dishonour, while behaving honourably.
Agent centrality, of actions being mine, has moral significance. A person’s character and what gives substance to his life are morally relevant to how he should act. Morality is not concerned solely with overall consequences, detached from the agent. Further morally relevant partialities are generated by personal relationships; here is an example.
Consider lover-ism: is there anything wrong in giving preference to your beloved? Whom you serve in a shop should surely not rest on race, sex or love, but surely with whom you sleep or dine can rest on such factors. Impartiality is not required there. A classic example is that of ‘whom to save?’ A woman is able to save only one individual from drowning, yet two individuals are in the water, one her husband, the other unknown. Would the woman be guilty of prejudice, of marriage-ism, of love-ism, in choosing automatically to save her husband? Should she choose whom to save on the basis of maximizing overall happiness? Even to think about it may, in Bernard Williams’s observation, be ‘one thought too many’.
That personal relationships are highly relevant to morality may account for the difference between the moral demands on governmental authorities and those on individuals. Medical authorities may rightly refuse the provision of certain treatments, knowing that they are ineffective or wildly costly for what may be achieved. We can understand, though – morally understand – how the mother of a dying child may do virtually anything to secure that treatment for her son, ‘just in case’; we can also understand – morally understand – how another mother, equally compassionate, may reluctantly accept that nothing can be done.
Although utilitarianism finds it difficult to cope with partialities introduced by integrity – as revealed in ‘Jim and the Indians’ – perhaps it does not have to falter when faced with relational partialities. Biologically constituted as we are, maximum happiness could well result if certain feelings and spontaneous actions – regarding one’s own children, for example – are nurtured. The objection to that utilitarian response is that, in a particular situation, act utilitarians theoretically ought seriously to wonder whom to save – it can sometimes be better to override spontaneous feelings – and rule utilitarians, even with complicated rules prioritizing family and lovers, would still be applying rules, engaging one thought, or many thoughts, too many.
We naturally feel that a mother should save her child from drowning rather than an unknown other. To act otherwise would be inhuman. Utilitarianism’s support for that natural feeling hangs solely on whether maximum happiness results. Utilitarians must be open to the possibility of overall happiness arising, for example, if the community brings up children, making them unaware of their biological parents. Promoters of the Jewish kibbutz, at one time, supported communal child-rearing, as did Plato in his Republic regarding children of the ruling guardians.
For utilitarians, which partialities merit promotion is determined by global happiness-maximizing. Others see moral value in some partialities irrespective of overall happiness. An extreme partiality is simple self-interest, in conflict with much of common morality. Partialities can, though, fan out and blossom, and usually do: parents embrace the interests of their children; villagers of their village; nationals of their own nation; and individuals of their own ethnic groups. Witness, though, the political promotion of ‘looking after our own’ that hampers a wider moral gaze. Morally, we typically feel comfortable with some partialities, but not others; so, how should lines be drawn? What justifies exclusion from our moral circles?
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Let us then review another incredibly influential moral theory relevant to these puzzles. It emphasizes the importance of what we, the agents, intend, while maintaining two key similarities with utilitarianism: universality and impartiality. We are approaching Kant’s deontological theory, a theory that can appear austere. It is vastly removed from pleasures, be they egoistic, utilitarian, higher or lower. The watchword is ‘duty’.