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Title: The justification of the good
An essay on moral philosophy
Author: Vladimir Sergeyevich Solovyov
Editor: Stephen Graham
Translator: Natalie Duddington
Release date: October 4, 2026 [eBook #79715]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Constable and Company Ltd., 1918
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79715
Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUSTIFICATION OF THE GOOD ***
CONSTABLE’S RUSSIAN LIBRARY UNDER THE EDITORSHIP OF
STEPHEN GRAHAM
THE JUSTIFICATION OF THE GOOD
CONSTABLE’S RUSSIAN LIBRARY
EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS
BY STEPHEN GRAHAM.
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
By FEDOR SOLOGUB
WAR AND CHRISTIANITY:
THREE CONVERSATIONS
By VLADIMIR SOLOVYOF
THE WAY OF THE CROSS
By V. DOROSHEVITCH
A SLAV SOUL, AND OTHER STORIES
By ALEXANDER KUPRIN
THE EMIGRANT
By L. F. DOSTOIEFFSKAYA
THE REPUBLIC OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS,
AND OTHER STORIES
By VALERY BRUSSOF
THE JUSTIFICATION OF THE GOOD
By VLADIMIR SOLOVYOF
THE JUSTIFICATION
OF THE GOOD
AN ESSAY ON MORAL PHILOSOPHY
BY VLADIMIR SOLOVYOF
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN
BY NATHALIE A. DUDDINGTON, M.A.
WITH A NOTE
BY STEPHEN GRAHAM
LONDON
CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD.
_First Published 1918._
DEDICATED TO
MY FATHER, THE HISTORIAN
SERGEY MIHAILOVITCH SOLOVYOF
AND TO MY GRANDFATHER, THE PRIEST
MIHAIL VASSILYEVITCH SOLOVYOF
WITH A LIVING AND GRATEFUL RECOGNITION
OF AN ETERNAL BOND
EDITOR’S NOTE
It may be of use to the reader approaching Solovyof for the first
time if I state in an elementary form the ideas to which the Russian
philosopher specially consecrated his life and energies. They were:
The universal Church, the idea of the unity of Christendom, and
beyond that ultimately the conscious unity of mankind. Not a
world-republic, however, but a world-church.
The evolution of the God-man, not the superman with his greater
earth-sense and fierceness, but the God-man with his greater
heaven-sense, mystical sense.
The Eternal Feminine, a characterisation of all humanity at one in
the mystical body of the Church. Woman as the final expression of the
material world in its inward passivity.
Love as the highest revelation, the gleam of another world upon our
ordinary existence. Love, therefore, as the proof of immortality, the
guerdon and sense of it.
Sancta Sophia, the Heavenly Wisdom, the grand final unity of praise,
the wall of the city of God.
_The Justification of the Good_ is the book in which Solovyof
elucidates the laws of the higher idealism. It is a classical work
of the utmost importance in Russian studies. All that is positive in
modern Russian thought springs from the teaching of Solovyof. Time is
only now coming abreast of him and he appears especially as the prophet
of this era, with his vision of united humanity and the realisation of
the kingdom. All students of thought and religion, both here and in
America, ought to feel indebted to Mrs. Duddington for the brilliant
translation she has done. Tolstoy we know; Dostoievsky we know; and now
comes a new force into our life, Solovyof, the greatest of the three.
Through Solovyof we shall see Russia better and Europe better.
STEPHEN GRAHAM.
SOLOVYOF’S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
The object of this book is _to show the good as truth and
righteousness_, that is, as the only right and consistent way of
life in all things and to the end, for all who decide to follow it.
I mean the Good _as such_; it alone justifies itself and justifies
our confidence in it. And it is not for nothing that before the open
grave, when all else has obviously failed, we call to this essential
Good and say, “Blessed art Thou, O Lord, for Thou hast taught us Thy
justification.”
In the individual, national, and historical life of humanity, the Good
justifies itself by its own good and right ways. A moral philosophy,
true to the Good, having discovered these ways in the past, indicates
them to the present for the future.
When, in setting out on a journey, you take up a _guide-book_, you seek
in it nothing but true, complete, and clear directions with regard to
the route chosen. This book will not persuade you to go to Italy or
Switzerland if you have decided to go to Siberia, nor will it provide
you with money to traverse the oceans if you can only pay the fare down
to the Black Sea.
Moral philosophy is no more than a systematic guide to the right way
of life’s journey for men and nations; the author is only responsible
for his directions being correct, complete, and coherent. But no
exposition of the moral norms--of the conditions, _i.e._ for attaining
the true purpose of life--can have any meaning for the man who
consciously puts before him an utterly different aim. To indicate the
necessary stations on the road to the better, when the worse has been
definitely chosen, is not merely a useless but an annoying and even
insulting thing to do, for it brings the bad choice back to one’s mind,
especially when in our inmost heart the choice is unconsciously and in
spite of ourselves felt to be both bad and irrevocable.
I have not the slightest intention of preaching virtue and denouncing
vice; I consider this to be both an idle and an immoral occupation
for a simple mortal, since it presupposes an unjust and proud claim
to be better than other people. What matters, from the point of view
of moral philosophy, are not the particular deviations from the right
way, however great they may be, but only the general, definite, and
decisive _choice_ between two moral paths, a choice made with full
deliberation. The question may be asked whether every man makes such a
choice. It certainly is not made by people who die in their infancy,
and, so far as clear consciousness of self is concerned, many grown-up
people are not far removed from babes. Moreover, it should be noted
that even when conscious choice has been made, it cannot be observed
from outside. The distinction of principle between the two paths has
no empirical _definiteness_, and cannot be practically _defined_. I
have seen many strange and wondrous things, but two objects have I
never come across in nature: a man who has finally attained perfect
righteousness, and a man who has finally become utterly evil. And all
the pseudo-mystical cant based upon external and practically applicable
divisions of humanity into the sheep and the goats, the regenerate and
the unregenerate, the saved and the damned, simply reminds me of the
frank words of the miller--
Long have I travelled
And much have I seen,
But copper spurs on water pails
Saw I never ne’en.
At the same time I think of the lectures I heard long ago at the
University on embryology and zoology of the invertebrate. These
lectures enabled me, among other things, to form a definite conception
of the two well-known truths, namely, that at the lowest stages of
organic life no one but a learned biologist, and sometimes not even
he, can distinguish the vegetable from the animal forms, and that at
the early stages of the intra-uterine life only a learned embryologist
can tell, and not always with certainty, the embryo of man from the
embryo of some other creature, often of a distinctly unpleasant one. It
is the same with the history of humanity and with the moral world. At
the early stages the two paths are very close together, and outwardly
indistinguishable.
But why, it will be asked, do I speak with regard to the moral world,
of the choice between two paths only? The reason is, that in spite of
all the multiplicity of the forms and expressions of life, one path
only leads to the life that we hope for and renders it eternal. All
other paths, which at first seem so like it, lead in the opposite
direction, fatally draw farther and farther away from it, and finally
become merged together in the one path of eternal death.
In addition to these two paths that differ in principle, some thinkers
try to discover a third path, which is neither good nor bad, but
natural or animal. Its supreme practical principle is best expressed
by a German aphorism, which, however, was unknown both to Kant and to
Hegel: _Jedes Tierchen hat sein Plaisirchen_. This formula expresses
an unquestionable truth, and only stands in need of amplification
by another truth, equally indisputable: _Allen Tieren fatal ist
zu krepiren_. And when this necessary addition is made, the third
path--that of animality made into a principle--is seen to be reduced
to the second path of death.[1] It is impossible for man to avoid
the dilemma, the final choice between the two paths--of good and of
evil. Suppose, indeed, we decide to take the third, the animal path,
which is neither good nor bad, but merely natural. It is natural for
animals, just because animals do not decide anything, do not choose
between this path and any other, but passively follow the only one
upon which they have been placed by a will foreign to them. But when
man _actively_ decides to follow the path of moral _passivity_, he
is clearly guilty of falsehood, wrong, and sin, and is obviously
entering not upon the animal path, but upon that of the two human
paths which proves in the end, if not at the beginning, to be the
path of eternal evil and death. It is indeed easy to see from the
first that it is _worse_ than the animal path. Our younger brothers
are deprived of reason, but they undoubtedly possess an inner sense;
and although they cannot consciously condemn and be ashamed of their
nature and its bad, mortal way, they obviously suffer from it; they
long for something better which they do not know but which they dimly
feel. This truth, once powerfully expressed by St. Paul (Rom. viii.
19-23), and less powerfully repeated by Schopenhauer, is entirely
confirmed by observation. Never does a human face bear the expression
of that profound, hopeless melancholy which, for no apparent reason,
overshadows sometimes the faces of animals. It is impossible for man
to stop at the animal self-satisfaction, if only because animals are
not in the least self-satisfied. A conscious human being cannot be an
animal, and, whether he will or no, he must choose between two paths.
He must either become higher and better than his material nature, or
become lower and worse than the animal. And the essentially human
attribute which man cannot be deprived of consists not in the fact that
he becomes this or that, but in the fact that he _becomes_. Man gains
nothing by slandering his younger brothers and falsely describing as
animal and natural the path of diabolical persistence in the wrong--the
path which he himself has chosen, and which is opposed both to life and
to nature.
* * * * *
What I most desired to show in this book is the manner in which the one
way of the Good, while remaining true to itself, and, consequently,
justifying itself, grows in completeness and definiteness as the
conditions of the historical and natural environment become more
complex. The chief claim of my theory is to establish in and through
the unconditional principle of morality the complete inner connection
between true religion and sound politics. It is a perfectly harmless
claim, since true religion cannot force itself upon any one, and
politics are free to be as unsound as they like--at their own risk, of
course. At the same time moral philosophy makes no attempt to guide
particular individuals by laying down any external and absolutely
definite rules of conduct. If any passage in the book should strike the
reader as ‘moralising’ he will find that either he has misunderstood my
meaning or that I did not express myself with sufficient clearness.
But I have done my best to be clear. While preparing this second
edition I read the book over five times in the course of nine months,
every time making fresh additions, both small and great, by way of
explanation. Many defects of exposition still remain, but I hope they
are not of such a nature as to lay me open to the menace, “Cursed is he
who doeth the work of God with negligence.”
* * * * *
Whilst I was engaged in writing this book I sometimes experienced moral
benefit from it; perhaps this is an indication that the book will not
be altogether useless for the reader also. If this should be the case
it will be enough to justify this ‘justification of the good.’
VLADIMIR SOLOVYOF.
MOSCOW, _December 8, 1898_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The pseudo-superhuman path, thrown into vivid light by the madness
of the unhappy Nietzsche, comes to the same thing. See below, Preface
to the First Edition.
SOLOVYOF’S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
A PRELIMINARY CONCEPTION OF THE MORAL MEANING OF LIFE
Is there any meaning in life? If there is, is that meaning moral
in character, and is its root in the moral sphere? In what does it
consist, and what is the true and complete definition of it? These
questions cannot be avoided, and there is no agreement with regard
to them in modern consciousness. Some thinkers deny all meaning to
life, others maintain that the meaning of life has nothing to do with
morality, and in no way depends upon our right or good relation to God,
men, and the world as a whole; the third admit the importance of the
moral norms for life, but give conflicting definitions of them, which
stand in need of analysis and criticism.
Such analysis cannot in any case be dismissed as unnecessary. At the
present stage of human consciousness the few who already possess a firm
and final solution of the problem of life _for themselves_ must justify
it _for others_. An intellect which has overcome its own doubts does
not render the heart indifferent to the delusions of others.
I
Some of those who deny the meaning of life are in earnest about it,
and end by taking the practical step of committing suicide. Others
are not in earnest, and deny the meaning of life solely by means of
arguments and pseudo-philosophic systems. I am certainly not opposed
to arguments and systems, but I am referring to men who regard their
philosophising as a thing _on its own account_, which does not bind
them to any concrete actions or demand any practical realisation. These
men and their intellectual exercises cannot be taken seriously. Truths
like the judgment that the angles of a triangle are together equal to
two right angles remain true quite independently of the person who
utters them and of the life he leads; but a pessimistic valuation of
life is not a mathematical truth--it necessarily includes the personal,
subjective attitude to life. When the theoretical pessimist affirms
as a real objective truth that life is evil and painful, he thereby
expresses his conviction that this is so for _every one_, including
himself. In that case, why does he go on living and enjoying the evil
of life as though it were a good? It is sometimes urged that instinct
compels us to live in spite of the rational conviction that life is not
worth living. But this appeal to instinct is vain. Instinct is not an
external mechanically compelling force, but is an inner condition which
prompts every living creature to seek certain states which appear to it
to be pleasant or desirable. The fact that in virtue of his instinct
the pessimist finds pleasure in life seems to undermine the basis of
his pseudo-rational conviction that life is evil and painful. He may
say that the pleasures of life are illusory. What, however, can be the
meaning of these words from his point of view? If one recognises the
positive meaning of life many things may be dismissed as illusory in
comparison, as drawing our attention away from the chief thing. St.
Paul could say that by comparison with the kingdom of heaven, which is
won through a life of renunciation, all carnal affections and pleasures
are as dung and rubbish in his eyes. But a pessimist who does not
believe in a kingdom of heaven, and attaches no positive significance
to a life of renunciation, can have no standard for distinguishing
illusion from truth.
From this point of view everything is reduced to the state of pleasure
or of pain which is being actually experienced; but no pleasure while
it is being experienced can be an illusion. The only way to justify
pessimism on this low ground is childishly to count the number of
pleasures and pains in human life, assuming all the time that the
latter are more numerous than the former, and that, therefore, life is
not worth living. This calculus of happiness could only have meaning
if arithmetical _sums_ of pleasures and pains actually existed, or
if the arithmetical difference between them could itself become a
sensation; since, however, in actual reality sensations exist only in
the concrete, it is as absurd to reckon them in abstract figures as to
shoot at a stone fortress with a cardboard gun. If the only motive for
continuing to live is to be found in the surplus of the pleasurable
over the painful sensations, then for the vast majority of men this
surplus is a fact: men live and find that life is worth living. With
them, no doubt, must be classed such theoreticians of pessimism who
talk of the advantages of non-existence, but in reality prefer any kind
of existence. Their arithmetic of despair is merely a play of mind
which they themselves contradict, finding, in truth, more pleasure than
pain in life, and admitting that it is worth living to the end. From
comparing their theory with their practice one can only conclude that
life has a meaning and that they involuntarily submit to it, but that
their intellect is not strong enough to grasp that meaning.
Pessimists who are in earnest and commit suicide also involuntarily
prove that life has a meaning. I am thinking of conscious and
self-possessed suicides, who kill themselves because of disappointment
or despair. They supposed that life had a certain meaning which made it
worth living, but became convinced that that meaning did not hold good.
Unwilling to submit passively and unconsciously--as the theoretical
pessimists do--to a different and unknown meaning, they take their own
life. This shows, no doubt, that they have a stronger will than the
former, but proves nothing as against the meaning of life. These men
failed to discover it, but what did they seek it in? There are two
types of passionate men among them: the passion of some is purely
personal and selfish (Romeo, Werther), that of others is connected with
some general interest which, however, they separate from the meaning
of existence as a whole (Cleopatra, Cato of Utica). Neither the first
nor the second care to know the meaning of universal life, although
the meaning of their own existence depends upon it. Romeo killed
himself because he could not have Juliet. The meaning of life for him
was to possess that woman. If, however, this really were the meaning
of life, it would be wholly irrational. In addition to Romeo forty
thousand gentlemen might find the meaning of their life in possessing
that same Juliet, so that this supposed meaning would forty thousand
times contradict itself. Allowing for difference in detail, we find
the same thing at the bottom of every suicide: life is not what _in my
opinion_ it ought to be, therefore life is senseless and is not worth
living. The absence of correspondence between the arbitrary demands
of a passionate nature and the reality is taken to be the result of
some hostile fate, terrible and senseless, and a man kills himself
rather than submit to this blind force. It is the same thing with
persons belonging to the second type. The queen of Egypt, conquered by
the world-wide power of Rome, would not take part in the conqueror’s
triumph, and killed herself by means of a poisonous snake. Horace, a
Roman, called her a great woman for doing it, and no one would deny
that there is a grandeur about her death. But if Cleopatra was looking
to her own victory as to a thing that ought to be, and regarded the
victory of Rome as simply the senseless triumph of an irrational
force, she, too, took her own blindness to be a sufficient reason for
rejecting the truth of the whole.
The meaning of life obviously cannot coincide with the arbitrary and
changeable demands of each of the innumerable human entities. If it
did, it would be non-meaning--that is, it would not exist at all. It
follows, therefore, that a disappointed and despairing suicide was not
disappointed in and despaired of the meaning of life, but, on the
contrary, of his hope that life might be meaningless. He had hoped that
life would go in the way he wanted it to, that it would always and in
everything directly satisfy his blind passions and arbitrary whims,
_i.e._ that it would be senseless--of _that_ he was disappointed and
found that life was not worth living. But the very fact of his being
disappointed at the world not being meaningless proves that there is
a meaning in it. This meaning, which the man recognises in spite of
himself, may be unbearable to him; instead of understanding it he may
only repine against some one and call reality by the name of a ‘hostile
fate,’ but this does not alter the case. The meaning of life is simply
confirmed by the fatal failure of those who reject it: some of them
(the theoretic pessimists) must live _unworthily_, in contradiction
to their own preaching, and others (the practical pessimists or the
suicides) in denying the meaning of life have actually to deny their
own existence. Life clearly must have a meaning, since those who deny
it inevitably negate themselves, some by their unworthy existence, and
others by their violent death.
II
“The meaning of life is to be found in the æsthetic aspect of it, in
what is strong, majestic, beautiful. To devote ourselves to this aspect
of life, to preserve and strengthen it in ourselves and in others, to
make it predominant and develop it further till super-human greatness
and new purest beauty is attained, this is the end and the meaning of
our existence.” This view, associated with the name of the gifted and
unhappy Nietzsche, has now become the fashionable philosophy in the
place of the pessimism that has been popular in recent years. Unlike
the latter, it does not require any criticism imported from outside,
but can be disproved on its own grounds. Let it be granted that the
meaning of life is to be found in strength and beauty. But, however
much we may devote ourselves to the æsthetic cult, we shall find in it
no protection, nor the least hope of protection, against the general
and inevitable fact which destroys this supposed independence of
strength and beauty, and renders void the divine and absolute character
they are alleged to possess. I mean the fact that the end of all
earthly strength is impotence, and the end of all earthly beauty is
ugliness.
When we speak of strength, grandeur, and beauty there rises to the mind
of every one, beginning with the Russian provincial schoolmaster (see
Gogol’s _Inspector-General_) and ending with Nietzsche himself, one and
the same image, as the most perfect historical embodiment of all these
æsthetic qualities taken together. This instance is sufficient.
“And it happened after that Alexander, son of Philip, the Macedonian,
who came out of the land of Chittim, had smitten Darius, King of the
Persians and Medes, that he reigned in his stead, the first over
Greece, and made many wars, and won many strongholds, and slew the
kings of the earth, and went through to the ends of the earth, and took
spoils of many nations, insomuch that the earth was quiet before him,
whereupon he was exalted, and his heart was lifted up. And he gathered
a mighty strong host, and ruled over countries, and nations, and kings,
who became tributaries unto him. And after these things he fell sick,
and perceived that he should die” (Book I. of the Maccabees).
Is strength powerless before death really strength? Is a decomposing
body a thing of beauty? The ancient pattern of beauty and of strength
died and decayed like the weakest and most hideous of creatures, and
the modern worshipper of beauty and of strength became in his lifetime
a mental corpse. Why is it that the first was not saved by his strength
and beauty, and the second by his cult of it? No one can worship a
deity which saves neither those in whom it is incarnate, nor those who
worship it.
In his last works the unhappy Nietzsche turned his views into a furious
weapon against Christianity. In doing so he showed a low level of
understanding befitting French free-thinkers of the eighteenth century
rather than modern German savants. He looked upon Christianity as
belonging exclusively to the lower classes, and was not even aware of
the simple fact that the Gospel was from the first received not as a
doubtful call to rebellion but as a joyful and certain message of sure
_salvation_, that the whole force of the new religion lay in the fact
that it was founded by ‘the first fruits of them that slept,’ who had
risen from the dead, and, as they firmly believed, secured eternal life
to His followers. To speak of slaves and pariahs in this connection
is irrelevant. Social distinctions mean nothing when it is a question
of death and resurrection. Do not ‘the gentle’ die as well as ‘the
simple’? Were not Sulla the Roman aristocrat and dictator, Antioch the
king of Syria, and Herod the king of Judæa eaten up by worms while
still alive? The religion of salvation cannot be the religion for
slaves and ‘Chandals’ alone--it is the religion for all, since all need
salvation. Before beginning to preach so furiously against equality,
one ought to abolish the chief equaliser--death.
Nietzsche’s polemic against Christianity is remarkably shallow, and his
pretension to be ‘antichrist’ would be extremely comical had it not
ended in such tragedy.[2]
The cult of natural strength and beauty is not directly opposed to
Christianity, and it is not Christianity that makes it void, but its
own inherent weakness. Christianity does not by any means reject
strength and beauty, but it is not satisfied with the strength of a
dying invalid or the beauty of a decomposing corpse. Christianity
has never preached hostility to or contempt for strength, grandeur,
or beauty _as such_. All Christian souls, beginning with the first
of them, rejoiced at having had revealed to them the infinite source
of all that is truly strong and beautiful, and at being saved by it
from subjection to the false power and grandeur of the powerless and
unlovely elements of the world. “My soul doth _magnify_ the Lord, and
my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.... For He that is _mighty
hath done to me great_ things; and holy is His name.... He hath _shewed
strength_ with his arm; He hath scattered the proud in the imagination
of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and
exalted them of low degree. He hath filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich He hath sent empty away.” It is obvious that the contempt
here is only for the false, imaginary strength and wealth, and that
humility is not the absolute ideal or the final end but only the
necessary and the right way to heights unattainable to the proud.
Strength and beauty are divine, but not in themselves: there is a
strong and beautiful Deity whose strength is never exhausted and whose
beauty never dies, for in Him strength and beauty are inseparable from
the good.
No one worships impotence and ugliness; but some believe in the eternal
strength and beauty which are conditioned by the good and which
_actually_ liberate their bearers and worshippers from the power of
death and corruption, while others extol strength and beauty taken in
the abstract and fictitious. The first doctrine may be waiting for
its final victory in the future, but this does not make things any
better for the second; it is conquered already, it is always being
conquered--it dies with every death and is buried in all the cemeteries.
III
The pessimism of false philosophers and of genuine suicides inevitably
leads us to recognise that life has a meaning. The cult of strength
and beauty inevitably shows that that meaning is not to be found in
strength and beauty as such, but only as conditioned by the triumphant
good. The meaning of life is in the good; but this opens the way for
new errors in the definition of what precisely we are to understand by
the good.
At first sight there appears to be a sure and simple way of avoiding
any errors in this connection. If, it will be urged, the meaning of
life is the good, it has revealed itself to us already and does not
wait for any definition on our part. All we have to do is to accept it
with love and humility, and subordinate to it our existence and our
individuality, in order to make them rational. The universal meaning
of life or the inner relation of separate entities to the great whole
cannot have been invented by us; it was given from the first. The firm
foundations of the family have been laid down from all eternity; the
family by a living, personal bond connects the present with the past
and the future; the fatherland widens our mind and gives it a share
in the glorious traditions and aspirations of the soul of the nation;
the Church, by connecting both our personal and our national life with
what is absolute and eternal, finally liberates us from the limitations
of a cramped existence. What, then, is there to trouble about? Live
in the life of the whole, widen on all sides the limits of your small
self, ‘take to heart’ the interests of others and the interest of all,
be a good member of the family, a zealous patriot, a loyal son of the
Church, and you will know the good meaning of life in practice and have
no need to seek for it and look for its definition. There is an element
of truth in this view, but it is only the _beginning_ of truth. It is
impossible to stop at this--the case is not so simple as it looks.
Had life with its good meaning assumed at once, from all eternity, one
unchanging and abiding form, then there would certainly be nothing to
trouble about. There would be no problem for the intellect, but only
a question for the will--to accept or _unconditionally_ to reject
that which has been unconditionally given. This was precisely, as I
understand it, the position of one of the spirits of light in the
first act of the creation of the world. But our human position is less
fateful and more complex. We know that the historical forms of the Good
which are given to us do not form such a _unity_ that we could either
accept or reject them as a whole. We know also that these forms and
principles of life did not drop down ready made from heaven but were
developed in time and on earth. And knowing that they had _become_
what they are, we have no rational ground whatever for affirming that
they are finally and wholly fixed, and that what is given at the
moment is entirely completed and ended. But if it is not ended, it is
for us to carry on the work. In the times prior to ours the higher
forms of life--now the holy heritage of the ages--did not come to be
of themselves but were evolved through men, through their thought and
action, through their intellectual and moral work. Since the historical
form of the eternal good is not one and unchanging, the choice has to
be made between many different things, and this cannot be done without
the critical work of thought. It must have been ordained by God Himself
that man should have no external support, no pillow for his reason and
conscience to rest on, but should ever be awake and standing on his
own legs. “What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the son of
man, that Thou visitest him?” Piety itself forbids us to despise in
ourselves and in others that which God Himself respects, for the sake
of which He remembers and visits us--namely, the inner, unique, and
invaluable dignity of man’s reason and conscience. And those who are
guilty of such contempt and seek to replace the inner standard of truth
by an external one, suffer natural retribution in the fatal failure
of their attempt. The concrete, clear, and consistent minds among
them--minds that cannot be content with vague phrases--accomplish with
remarkable rapidity a direct descent from the certain to the doubtful,
from the doubtful to the false, and from the false to the absurd.
“God,” they argue, “manifests His will to man externally through the
authority of the Church; the only true Church is our Church, its voice
is the voice of God; the true representatives of our Church are the
clergy, hence their voice is the voice of God; the true representative
of the clergy for each individual is his confessor; therefore all
questions of faith and conscience ought in the last resort to be
decided for each by his confessor.” It all seems clear and simple.
The only thing to be arranged is that all confessors should say the
same thing, or that there should be one confessor only--omnipresent
and immortal. Otherwise, the difference of opinion among many changing
confessors may lead to the obviously impious view that the voice of God
contradicts itself.
As a matter of fact, if _this_ individual or collective representative
of external authority derives his significance merely from his official
position, all persons in the same position have the same authority
which is rendered void by their contradicting one another. And if, on
the other hand, one or some of them derive their superior authority
in my eyes from the fact of my confidence in them, it follows that I
myself am the source and the creator of my highest authority, and that
I submit to my own arbitrary will alone and find in it the meaning
of life. This is the inevitable result of seeking at all costs an
_external_ support for reason, and of taking the absolute meaning of
life to be something that is imposed upon man from without. The man
who wants to accept the meaning of life on external authority ends by
taking for that meaning the absurdity of his own arbitrary choice.
There must be no external, formal relation between the individual and
the meaning of his life. The external authority is necessary as a
transitory stage, but it must not be preserved for ever and regarded
as an abiding and final norm. The human ego can only expand by giving
inner heartfelt response to what is greater than itself, and not by
rendering merely formal submission to it, which after all really alters
nothing.
IV
Although the good meaning of life is greater than and prior to any
individual man, it cannot be accepted as something ready made or
taken on trust from some external authority. It must be understood
by the man himself and be made his own through faith, reason, and
experience. This is the necessary condition of a morally-worthy
existence. When, however, this necessary subjective _condition_ of the
good and rational life is taken to be its essence and purpose, the
result is a new moral error, namely, the rejection of all historical
and collective manifestations and forms of the good, of everything
except the inner moral activities and states of the individual. This
moral _amorphism_ or _subjectivism_ is the direct opposite of the
doctrine of the conservative practical humility just referred to.
That doctrine affirmed that life and reality in their given condition
are wiser and better than man, that the historical forms which life
assumes are in themselves good and wise, and that all man has to do is
reverently to bow down before them and to seek in them the absolute
rule and authority for his personal existence. Moral amorphism, on
the contrary, reduces everything to the subjective side, to our own
self-consciousness and self-activity. The only life for us is our own
mental life; the good meaning of life is to be found solely in the
inner states of the individual and in the actions and relations which
directly and immediately follow therefrom. This inner meaning and inner
good is naturally inherent in every one, but it is crushed, distorted,
and made absurd and evil by the different historical developments
and institutions such as the state, the Church, and civilisation in
general. If every one’s eyes were open to the true state of things,
people would be easily persuaded to renounce these disastrous
perversions of human nature which are based in the long run upon
compulsory organisations, such as the law, the army, etc. All these
institutions are kept up by intentional and evil deceit and violence
on the part of the minority, but their existence chiefly depends upon
the lack of understanding and self-deception of the majority which,
besides, employ various artificial means for blunting their reason and
conscience--wine, tobacco, etc. Men, however, are beginning to realise
the error of their ways, and when they finally give up their present
views and change their conduct, all evil forms of human relations will
fall to the ground; evil will disappear as soon as men cease to resist
it by force, and the moral good will be spontaneously manifested and
realised among the formless mass of ‘tramping’ saints.
In its rejection of different institutions moral amorphism forgets
one institution which is rather important--namely, death, and it is
this oversight which alone renders the doctrine plausible. For if
the preachers of moral amorphism were to think of death they would
have to affirm one of two things: either that with the abolition of
the law courts, armies, etc., men will cease to die, or that the
good meaning of life, incompatible with political kingdoms, is quite
compatible with the kingdom of death. The dilemma is inevitable, and
both alternatives to it are equally absurd. It is clear that this
doctrine, which says nothing about death, contains it in itself. It
claims to be the rehabilitation of true Christianity. It is obvious,
however, both from the historical and from the psychological point of
view, that the Gospel did not overlook death. Its message was based
in the first place upon the resurrection of one as an accomplished
fact, and upon the future resurrection of all as a certain promise.
Universal resurrection means the creation of a perfect form for all
that exists. It is the ultimate expression and realisation of the good
meaning of the universe, and is therefore the final end of history. In
recognising the good meaning of life but rejecting all its objective
forms, moral amorphism must regard as senseless the whole history of
the world and humanity, since it entirely consists in evolving new
forms of life and making them more perfect. There is sense in rejecting
one form of life for the sake of another and a more perfect one, but
there is no meaning in rejecting form as such. Yet such rejection is
the logical consequence of the anti-historical view. If we absolutely
reject the forms of social, political, and religious life, evolved by
human history, there can be no ground for recognising the organic forms
worked out by the history of nature or by the world process, of which
the historical process is the direct and inseparable continuation.
Why should my animal body be more real, rational, and holy than the
body of my nation? It will be said that the body of a people does not
exist, any more than its soul, that the idea of a social collective
organism is merely a metaphor for expressing the totality of distinct
individuals. If, however, this exclusively mechanical point of view be
once adopted, we are bound to go further still and say that in reality
there is no individual organism and no individual soul, and that what
exists are merely the different combinations of elementary particles of
matter, devoid of all qualitative content. If the principle of form be
denied, we are logically bound to give up the attempt to understand and
to recognise either the historical or the organic life or any existence
whatever, for it is only pure nothing that is entirely formless and
unconditional.
V
I have indicated two extreme moral errors that are contradictory
of one another. One is the doctrine of the self-effacement of the
human personality before the historical forms of life recognised
as possessing external authority,--the doctrine of passive
submission or practical quietism; the other is the doctrine of the
self-affirmation of the human personality against all historical forms
and authorities--the doctrine of formlessness and anarchy. The common
essence of the two extreme views, that in which, in spite of the
opposition between them, they agree, will no doubt disclose to us the
source of moral errors in general, and will save us from the necessity
of analysing the particular varieties of moral falsity which may be
indefinite in number.
The two opposed views coincide in the fact that neither of them take
the good in its essence, or _as it is in itself_, but connect it with
acts and relations which may be either good or evil according to their
motive and their end. In other words, they take something which is
good, but which may become evil, and they put it in the place of the
Good itself, treating the conditioned as the unconditional. Thus, for
instance, it is a good thing and a moral duty to submit to national
and family traditions and institutions in so far as they express the
good or give a definite form to my _right_ relation to God, men, and
the world. If, however, this condition is forgotten, if the conditional
duty is taken to be absolute and ‘the national interest’ is put in the
place of God’s truth, the good may become evil and a source of evil.
It is easy in that case to arrive at the monstrous idea recently put
forth by a French minister: “It is better to execute twenty innocent
men than to attack (_porter atteinte_) the authority of a national
institution.” Take another instance. Suppose that instead of paying
due respect to a council of bishops or to some other ecclesiastical
authority, as a true organ of the collective organisation of piety,
from which I do not separate myself,--I submit to it unconditionally,
without going into the case for myself. I _assume_ that this particular
council _as such_ is an unfailing authority, that is, I recognise it
in an external way. And then it turns out that the council to which I
submitted was the Robber Council of Ephesus, or something of the kind,
and that owing to my wrong and uncalled-for submission to the formal
expression of the supposed will of God, I have myself suddenly become
a rebellious heretic. Once more evil has come out of the good. Take
a third instance. Not trusting the purity of my conscience and the
power of my intellect, I entrust both my conscience and reason to a
person vested with divine authority and give up reasoning and willing
for myself. One would think nothing could be better. But my confessor
proves to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and instils in me pernicious
thoughts and evil rules. Once more, the conditional good of humility,
accepted unconditionally, becomes an evil.
Such are the results of the erroneous confusion of the good itself with
the particular forms in which it is manifested. The opposite error,
which limits the nature of the good by rejecting the historical forms
of its expression, comes to the same thing. In the first case the
forms or institutions are taken to be the absolute good, which does
not correspond to truth and leads to evil. In the second case these
forms and institutions are unconditionally rejected, and therefore are
recognised as unconditionally evil, which is again contrary to the
truth, and cannot therefore lead to anything good. The first maintain,
for instance, that the will of God is revealed to us through the
priest _only_; the second affirm that this never happens, that the
Supreme will _cannot_ speak to us through the priest, but is revealed
solely and entirely in our own consciousness. It is obvious, however,
that in both cases the will of God has been left out of account and
replaced, in the first instance, by the priest, and in the second by
the self-affirming ego. And yet one would think there could be no
difficulty in understanding that once the will of God is admitted
its expression ought not to be restricted to or exhausted by the
deliverances either of the inner consciousness or of the priest. The
will of God may speak both in us and in him, and its only absolute
and necessary demand is that we should inwardly conform to it and
take up a good or right attitude to everything, including the priest,
and indeed putting him before other things for the sake of what he
represents. Similarly, when the first say that the practical good of
life is wholly contained in the nation and the state, and the second
declare the nation and the state to be a deception and an evil, it
is obvious that the first put into the place of the absolute good
its conditional manifestations in the nation and the state, and the
second limit the absolute good by rejecting its historical forms. In
their view the rejection is unconditional, and the good is conditioned
by it. But it ought to be obvious that the true good in this sphere
depends for us solely upon our _just and good relation to the nation
and to the state_, upon the consciousness of our debt to them, upon the
recognition of all that they have contained in the past and contain
now, and of what they must still acquire before they can become in
the full sense the means of embodying the good that lives in humanity.
It is possible for us to take up this just attitude to the Church, the
nation, and the state, and thus to render both ourselves and them more
perfect; we can know and love them in their true sense, in God’s way.
Why, then, should we distort this true sense by unconditional worship,
or, worse still, by unconditional rejection? There is no reason why,
instead of doing rightful homage to the sacred forms, and neither
separating them from, nor confusing them with, their content, we should
pass from idolatry to iconoclasm, and from it to a new and worse
idolatry.
There is no justification for these obvious distortions of the truth,
these obvious deviations from the right way. It is as clear as day
that the only thing which ought to be unconditionally accepted is that
which is intrinsically good in itself, and the only thing which ought
to be rejected is that which is wholly and essentially evil, while all
other things ought to be either accepted or rejected according to their
actual relation to this inner essence of good or evil. It is clear
that if the good exists it must possess its own inner definitions and
attributes, which do not finally depend upon any historical forms and
institutions, and still less upon the rejection of them.
The moral meaning of life is originally and ultimately determined by
the good itself, inwardly accessible to us through our reason and
conscience in so far as these _inner_ forms of the good are freed
by moral practice from slavery to passions and from the limitations
of personal and collective selfishness. This is the ultimate court
of appeal for all external forms and events. “Know ye not that we
shall judge angels?” St. Paul writes to the faithful. And if even the
heavenly things are subject to our judgment, this is still more true
of all earthly things. Man is in principle or in his destination an
_unconditional_ inner form of the good as an unconditional content; all
else is conditioned and relative. The good as such is not conditioned
by anything, but itself conditions all things, and is realised through
all things. In so far as the good is not conditioned by anything, it is
_pure_; in so far as it conditions all things, it is _all-embracing_;
and in so far as it is realised through all things, it is all-powerful.
If the good were not pure, if it were impossible in each practical
question to draw an absolute distinction between good and evil,
and in each particular case to say _yes_ or _no_, life would be
altogether devoid of moral worth and significance. If the good were
not all-embracing, if it were impossible to connect with it all the
concrete relations of life, to justify the good in all of them, and
to correct them all by the good, life would be poor and one-sided.
Finally, if the good had no power, if it could not in the end triumph
over everything, including ‘the last enemy death,’--life would be in
vain.
The inner attributes of the good determine the main problem of human
life; its moral meaning is to be found in the service or the pure,
all-powerful, and all-embracing good.
To be worthy of its object and of man himself, such service must be
_voluntary_, and in order to be that it must be conscious. It is
the business of moral philosophy to make it an object of reflective
consciousness, and partly to anticipate the result which our reflection
must attain. The founder of moral philosophy _as a science_, Kant,
dwelt upon the first essential attribute of the absolute good, its
purity, which demands from man a formally unconditional or autonomous
will. The pure good demands that it should be chosen for its own sake
alone; any other motives are unworthy of it. Without repeating what
Kant has done so well with regard to the question of the formal purity
of the good will, I have paid particular attention to the second
essential attribute of the good, namely, its all-embracing character.
In doing so I did not separate it from the other two attributes (as
Kant had done with regard to the first), but directly developed the
rational and ideal content of the all-embracing good out of the
concrete moral data in which it is contained. As a result, I obtained
not the dialectical moments of the abstract Idea, as in Hegel, nor
the empirical complications of natural facts, as in Herbert Spencer,
but complete and exhaustive moral norms for all the fundamental
practical relations of the individual and the collective life. It is
its all-embracing character alone which justifies the good to our
consciousness; it is only in so far as it conditions all things that it
can manifest both its purity and its invincible power.
VLADIMIR SOLOVYOF.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] It will be remembered that after passing through a mania of
greatness this unfortunate writer fell into complete idiocy.
CONTENTS
PAGE
EDITOR’S NOTE vii
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION ix
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION (_A Preliminary Conception of the
Moral Meaning of Life_) xv
THE GENERAL QUESTION AS TO THE MEANING OF LIFE:
I. Two ways of denying the meaning of life.--Theoretical
pessimism.--The inner inconsistency of persons who argue
about the advantages of non-existence, but in truth prefer
existence.--The fact that they cling to life proves
that life has a meaning though they do not understand
it.--Practical pessimism which finds its final expression in
suicide.--Suicides also involuntarily prove that life has
a meaning, for their despair is due to the fact that life
does not fulfil their arbitrary and contradictory demands.
These demands could only be fulfilled if life were devoid of
meaning; the non-fulfilment proves that life has a meaning
which these persons, owing to their irrationality, do not wish
to know (instances: Romeo, Cleopatra) xv
II. The view that life has an exclusively æsthetic meaning,
which expresses itself in whatever is strong, majestic,
beautiful, without relation to the moral good.--This view is
unanswerably refuted by the fact of death, which transforms
all natural strength and greatness into nothingness, and all
natural beauty into utter ugliness (explanation: words of
the Bible about Alexander of Macedon).--Nietzsche’s pitiful
attacks on Christianity.--True strength, grandeur, and beauty
are inseparable from the absolute good xix
III. The view which admits that the meaning of life is to be
found in the good, but affirms that this good, as given from
above, and realised in forms of life laid down once for all
(family, fatherland, Church), merely demands that man should
submit to it without asking any questions.--The insufficiency
of this view, which forgets that the historical forms of the
good possess no external unity and finality.--Man therefore
must not submit to them implicitly, but must know their
nature and further their growth and development xxiii
IV. The opposite error (moral amorphism), which asserts that
the good is to be found only in the subjective mental states
of each individual and in the good relations between men
which naturally follow therefrom, and that all collectively
organised forms of society lead to nothing but evil, since
they are artificial and make use of compulsion.--But the
social organisation brought about by the historical life
of humanity is the necessary continuation of the physical
organisation brought about by the life of the universe.--All
that is real is complex, nothing exists apart from this or
that form of collective organisation; and the principle of
moral amorphism consistently worked out, logically demands the
rejection of all that is real for the sake of emptiness or
non-being xxv
V. The two extreme forms of moral error--the doctrine of
absolute submission to the historical forms of social life
and the doctrine of their unconditional rejection (moral
amorphism)--coincide in so far as neither of them takes the
good as such, and both regard as unconditionally right or
as unconditionally wrong things which in their nature are
conditional (explanatory examples).--Man in his reason and
conscience as the unconditional inner form, the unconditional
content of which is the good.--The general inner properties of
the good as such: its purity or autonomy, in so far as it is
not conditioned by anything external to it; its fulness or its
all-embracing character in so far as it conditions everything;
its power or actuality, in so far as it is realised through
all things.--The purpose of moral philosophy, and especially
of the system put forward in the present work xxviii
INTRODUCTION
MORAL PHILOSOPHY AS A SCIENCE.
I. The formal universality of the idea of the good at the
lower stages of moral consciousness independently of its
material content (examples and explanations).--The growth of
moral consciousness, gradually introducing into the formal
idea of the good a more befitting content which is more
connected with it inwardly, naturally becomes the science of
Ethics or Moral Philosophy 1
II. Moral philosophy does not wholly depend upon positive
religion.--St. Paul’s testimony as to the moral law ‘written
in the hearts’ of the Gentiles.--Since there exist many
religions and denominations, disputes between them presuppose
a common ground of morality (explanations and examples), and,
consequently, the moral norms to which the disputing parties
appeal cannot depend upon their religious and denominational
differences 3
III. The independence of the moral from the theoretical
philosophy (from epistemology and metaphysics).--In moral
philosophy we study our inner attitude to our own actions (and
that which is logically connected with it), _i.e._ something
_unquestionably_ knowable by us, since it is produced by
ourselves; the disputed question as to the theoretical
certainty concerning other kinds of being, not connected with
us morally, is in this respect irrelevant.--The critique
of knowledge can go no further than _doubt_ the objective
existence of that which is known, and such theoretical
doubt is insufficient to undermine the morally practical
certitude that certain states and actions of the subject are
binding as possessed of inner worth.--Besides, theoretical
philosophy itself overcomes such scepticism in one way or
another.--Finally, even if it were possible to be perfectly
certain of the non-existence of the external world, the
inner distinction between good and evil would not thereby be
abolished; for if it be wrong to bear malice against a human
being, it is still more so against an empty phantom; if it be
shameful slavishly to surrender to the promptings of actual
sensuality, to be slave to an imaginary sensuality is worse
still 9
IV. Moral philosophy does not depend upon the affirmative
answer to the metaphysical question of ‘free will,’ since
morality is possible on the hypothesis of determinism, which
asserts that human actions have a necessary character.--In
philosophy we must distinguish the purely _mechanical_
necessity, which in itself is incompatible with any moral
action, from the _psychological_ and the _ethical_ or the
rationally ideal necessity.--The unquestionable difference
between mechanical movement and a mental reaction necessarily
called forth by motives, _i.e._ by presentations associated
with feelings and desires.--Difference in the quality of
motives that prevail in the life of this or of that individual
enables us to distinguish a good spiritual nature from a
bad one, and, in so far as a good nature, as we know from
experience, can be consciously strengthened and developed, and
a bad consciously corrected and reformed, we are given in the
domain of psychological necessity itself certain conditions
for ethical problems and theories 14
V. In the case of man, the universal rational idea of the
good, expressing itself as the consciousness of absolute
duty to conform to it, may become the prevailing motive of
action, over and above different psychological impulses.
Man may do good quite irrespectively of considerations of
pleasure and pain, for the sake of the good as such or of the
unconditionally excellent.--The conception of moral necessity
or, what is the same thing, of rational freedom.--Just as
the psychological necessity (due to mental affections) is
superior to mechanical necessity, and means freedom from it,
so the moral necessity (due to the idea of the good as the
prevailing motive), while remaining necessary, is superior
to the psychological necessity of mental affections, and
means freedom from the lower motives.--In order that the
absolute idea of the good should be a sufficient ground for
human action, the subject must have a sufficient degree of
moral receptivity and a sufficient knowledge of the good
(explanations and Biblical examples).--It is metaphysically
possible that absolute evil may be arbitrarily preferred
to the absolute good.--Moral philosophy, being a complete
knowledge of the good, is presupposed in the correct
formulation and solution of the metaphysical question
concerning the freedom of choice between good and evil, and
its content does not depend upon the solution of that
question 17
PART I
THE GOOD IN HUMAN NATURE
CHAPTER I
THE PRIMARY DATA OF MORALITY.
I. The feeling of shame (originally of sexual modesty) as
the natural root of human morality.--Actual shamelessness of
all animals and the supposed shamelessness of certain savage
peoples; the latter indicates difference in external relations
and not in the feeling itself.--Darwin’s erroneous inference
from phallism 25
II. The profound meaning of shame: that which is ashamed in
the mental act of shame separates itself from that of which
it is ashamed. In being ashamed of the fundamental process of
his animal nature, man proves that he is not merely a natural
event or phenomenon, but has an independent super-animal
significance (confirmation and explanation out of the Bible).
The feeling of shame is inexplicable from the external and the
utilitarian point of view 28
III. The second moral datum of human nature--pity or the
sympathetic feeling which expresses man’s moral relation not
to the lower nature (as in shame) but to living beings like
himself.--Pity cannot be the result of human progress, for
it exists among the animals also.--Pity is the individual
psychological root of the right social relations 32
IV. The third moral datum of human nature--the feeling of
reverence or of _piety_, which expresses man’s due relation
to the higher principle and constitutes the individual
psychological root of religion.--Darwin’s reference to the
rudiments of religious feeling in tame animals 34
V. The feelings of shame, pity, and reverence exhaust the
whole range of moral relations possible for man, namely, of
relations to that which is below him, on a level with him,
and above him.--These normal relations are determined as the
_mastery_ over material sensuality, as the _solidarity_ with
other living beings, and as the inner _submission_ to the
superhuman principle.--Other determinations of moral life--all
the virtues--may be shown to be modifications of these three
fundamental facts, or as a result of the interaction between
them and the intellectual nature of man (example) 35
VI. _Conscience_ as a modification of shame in a definite and
generalised form.--The supposed conscience of animals 37
VII. From the fundamental facts of morality human reason
deduces universal and necessary principles and rules of the
moral life 39
CHAPTER II
THE ASCETIC PRINCIPLE IN MORALITY.
I. The moral self-affirmation of man as a supermaterial being,
half-conscious and unstable in the simple feeling of shame,
is, by the activity of reason, raised into the principle of
asceticism.--Asceticism is not directed against the material
nature in general: that nature cannot, as such, be recognised
as evil from any point of view (proofs from the chief
pessimistic doctrines--the Vedanta, the Sankhya, Buddhism,
Egyptian gnosis, Manicheism) 41
II. The opposition of the spiritual principle to the material
nature, finding its immediate expression in the feeling of
shame and developed in asceticism, is called forth not by the
material nature as such, but by the undue preponderance of
the lower life, which seeks to make the rational being of man
into a passive instrument or a useless appendage of the blind
physical process.--In analysing the meaning of shame, reason
logically deduces from it a necessary, universal, and morally
binding norm: the physical life of man must be subordinate to
the spiritual 44
III. The moral conception of spirit and of flesh.--Flesh as
excited animality or irrationality, false to its essential
definition to serve as the matter or the potential basis of
the spiritual life.--Real significance of the struggle between
the spirit and the flesh 45
IV. Three chief moments in the conflict of the spirit with the
flesh: (1) inner distinction of the spirit from the flesh;
(2) actual struggle of the spirit for its independence; (3)
clear preponderance of the spirit over the flesh or abolition
of the evil carnal element.--Practical importance of the
second moment, which gives rise to the definite and binding
demands of morality and, in the first place, to the demand for
self-control 47
V. Preliminary tasks of asceticism: acquisition by the
rational will of the power to control breathing and sleep 49
VI. Ascetic demands with regard to the functions of nutrition
and reproduction.--Misunderstandings concerning the question
of sexual relations.--Christian view of the matter 50
VII. Different aspects of the struggle between the spirit and
the flesh.--The three psychological moments in the victory of
the evil principle: thought, imagination, possession.--The
corresponding ascetic rules intended to prevent an evil mental
state from becoming a passion and a vice: “dashing of the
babes of Babylon against the stones”; thinking of something
different; performing a moral action 54
VIII. Asceticism, or abstinence raised into a principle, is
unquestionably good.--When this good is taken, as such, to
be the whole good, we have evil asceticism after the pattern
of the devil, who neither eats nor drinks, and remains in
celibacy.--Since an evil or pitiless ascetic, being an
imitator of the devil, does not deserve moral approbation, it
follows that the principle of asceticism itself has a moral
significance or is good only on condition of its being united
with the principle of altruism, which has its root in pity 57
CHAPTER III
PITY AND ALTRUISM.
I. The positive meaning of pity.--Just as shame singles man
out from the rest of nature and opposes him to other animals,
so pity inwardly connects him with the whole world of the
living 59
II. The inner basis of the moral relation to other beings
is to be found, apart from all metaphysical theories,
in compassion or pity only, and not in co-pleasure or
co-rejoicing.--Positive participation in the pleasure of
another contains the approval of that pleasure, which may,
however, be evil.--Participation in it may therefore be good
or evil according to the object of the pleasure.--Since the
co-rejoicing may itself be immoral, it cannot in any case be
the basis of moral relations.--Answer to certain objections 60
III. Pity as a motive of altruistic action and as a possible
basis of altruistic principles 63
IV. Schopenhauer’s theory of the irrational or mysterious
character of compassion in which, it is urged, there is an
immediate and perfect identification of one entity with
another, foreign to it.--Criticism of this view.--In the
fundamental expression of compassion--the maternal instinct
of animals--the intimate real connection between the being
who pities and the object of its pity is obvious.--Speaking
generally, the natural connection given in reason and
experience between all living beings as parts of one whole
sufficiently explains its psychological expression in pity,
which thus completely corresponds to the clear meaning of the
universe, is compatible with reason, or is rational.--The
erroneous conception of pity as of an immediate and complete
identification of two beings (explanations) 64
V. Infinite universal pity described by St. Isaac the Syrian 68
VI. Pity as such is not the only foundation of _all_ morality,
as Schopenhauer mistakenly asserts.--Kindness to living beings
is compatible with immorality in other respects.--Just as
ascetics may be hard and cruel, so kind-hearted people may
be intemperate and dissolute, and, without doing direct and
intentional evil, injure both themselves and their neighbours
by their shameful behaviour 69
VII. The true essence of pity is not simple identification
of oneself with another, but the recognition of another
person’s inner worth--of his right to existence and to
the greatest possible happiness.--The conception of pity,
taken in its universality and independently of subjective
mental states connected with it (_i.e._ taken logically and
not psychologically), is the conception of _truth_ and of
_justice_: it is true that other people are similar to me
and have the same nature, and it is just that my relation to
them should be the same as my relation to myself.--Altruism
corresponds to truth or to that which is, while egoism
presupposes untruth or that which is not, for in reality
an individual self does not possess the exclusive and
all-important significance which it egoistically assigns to
itself.--The expansion of personal egoism into the family,
national, political, and religious egoism is a sign of
historical progress of morality, but does not disprove the
false principle of egoism, which contradicts the absolute
truth of the altruistic principle 71
VIII. Two rules--of justice (to injure no one) and of mercy
(to help every one)--that follow from the principle of
altruism.--The mistaken division and opposition of mercy and
of justice, which are in truth merely the different aspects or
manifestations of one and the same moral motive.--The moral
principle in the form of justice does not demand the material
or qualitative equality of all individual and collective
subjects. It merely demands that in the presence of all the
necessary and desirable differences there should be preserved
something that is unconditional and the same for all, namely,
the significance of each as an end in himself, and not merely
as a means for the purposes of others 74
CHAPTER IV
THE RELIGIOUS PRINCIPLE IN MORALITY.
I. The peculiarity of the religiously-moral
determinations.--Their root is in the normal relation of
children to parents, based upon an inequality which cannot be
reduced to justice or deduced from pity: a child immediately
recognises the _superiority_ of his parents to himself and his
_dependence_ upon them, feels _reverence_ for them and the
necessity of _obeying_ them (explanation) 77
II. The original germ of religion is neither fetishism
(proof), nor naturalistic mythology (proof), but _pietas erga
parentes_--first in relation to the mother and then to the
father 80
III. The religious relation of children to parents as to
their immediate providence becomes more complex and is
spiritualised, passing into reverence for the departed
parents, lifted above ordinary surroundings and possessed
of mysterious power; the _father_ in his lifetime is only a
candidate for a god, and a mediator and priest of the real
god--of the dead _grandparent_ or ancestor.--The character
and significance of ancestor-worship (illustrations from the
beliefs of ancient peoples) 82
IV. Whatever the difference in the religious conceptions and
manner of worship may be,--from the primitive cult of tribal
ancestors up to the Christian worship in spirit and in truth
of the one universal Heavenly Father,--the moral essence of
religion remains the same. A savage cannibal and a perfect
saint, in so far as both are religious, are at one in their
filial relation to the higher and in their resolution to do
not their own will but the will of the Father.--Such natural
religion is the inseparable part of the law written in our
hearts, and without it a rational fulfilment of other demands
of morality is impossible 85
V. Supposed godlessness or impiety (example).--Cases of
real impiety, _i.e._ of not recognising anything superior
to oneself, are as little proof against the principle as
piety and its binding character, as the actual existence of
shameless and pitiless people is a proof against the duties of
abstinence and kindness.--Apart from our having or not having
any positive beliefs, we _must_, as _rational_ beings, admit
that the life of the world and our own life has a meaning,
and that therefore everything depends upon a supreme rational
principle towards which we must adopt a filial attitude,
submitting all our actions to ‘the will of the Father,’ that
speaks to us through reason and conscience 87
VI. In the domain of piety, as of all morality, higher
demands do not cancel the lower, but presuppose and include
them (examples).--Our real dependence upon the one Father of
the universe is not immediate, in so far as our existence
is determined in the first instance by heredity, _i.e._ by
our ancestors, and the environment created by them.--Since
the Supreme Will has determined our existence through our
ancestors, we cannot, in bowing down before Its action, be
indifferent to Its instruments (explanations).--The moral duty
of reverence to providential men 89
CHAPTER V
VIRTUES.
I. Three general aspects of morality: _virtue_ (in the narrow
sense--as a good natural quality), _norm_ or the rule of good
actions, and moral _good_ as the consequence of them.--The
indissoluble logical connection between these three aspects
permits us to regard the whole content of morality under the
first term--as a virtue (in the wide sense) 92
II. Virtue as man’s right relation to everything. Right
relation is not an equal relation (explanation).--Since man
is neither absolutely superior nor absolutely inferior to
everything else, nor unique of his kind, but is conscious
of himself as an _intermediary_ being and _one of many_
intermediary beings, it follows with logical necessity that
the moral norms have a triple character, or that there
are three fundamental virtues in the proper sense of the
term.--These are always alike in all, since they express the
essential moral quality, determined in the right way and
giving rise to right determinations.--All the other so-called
virtues are merely qualities of the will and manners of action
which have no moral determination within themselves and no
constant correlation with the law of duty, and may therefore
be sometimes virtues, sometimes indifferent states, and
sometimes vices (explanations and examples) 93
III. Moral valuation depends upon our right attitude to the
object and not upon the psychological quality of volitional
and emotional states.--The analysis--from this point of
view--of the so-called cardinal or philosophical virtues,
and especially of justice.--It is understood as _rectitudo_,
as _aequitas_, as _justitia_, and as _legalitas_.--In the
first sense--of what is _right in general_--it goes beyond
the boundaries of ethics; in the second, of _impartiality_,
and in the third--of ‘injuring no one’--justice corresponds
to the general principle of altruism (since the rules ‘injure
no one’ and ‘help all’ are inseparable); in the fourth
sense--of absolute submission to existing laws--justice is
not in itself a virtue, but may or may not be according to
circumstances (classical examples: Socrates, Antigone) 95
IV. The so-called ‘theological virtues’ have moral worth
not unconditionally and in themselves, but in relation to
other facts.--Faith is a virtue only on three conditions:
(1) that its object is real; (2) that it has worth; (3) that
the relation of faith to its real and worthy object is a
worthy one (explanations).--Such faith coincides with true
piety.--The same is true of hope.--The positive commandment
of love is conditioned by the negative: do not love the
world, nor all that is in the world (demand for abstinence
or the principle of asceticism).--Love to God coincides with
true piety, and love to our neighbours with pity.--Thus
love is not a virtue, but the culminating expression of all
the fundamental demands of morality in the three necessary
respects: in relation to the higher, to the lower, and to the
equal 100
V. Magnanimity and disinterestedness as modifications of
ascetic virtue.--Liberality as a special manifestation of
altruism.--The different moral significance of patience and
tolerance, according to the object and the situation 102
VI. Truthfulness.--Since speech is the instrument of reason
for expressing the truth, misuse (in lying and deception)
of this formal and universally-human means for selfish and
material ends is shameful for the person who lies, insulting
and injurious to the persons deceived, and contrary to the
two fundamental moral demands of respect for human dignity
in oneself and of justice to others.--Consistently with the
conception of truth, the reality of a particular external fact
must not be arbitrarily separated from the moral significance
of the given situation as a whole.--Difference between
material falsity and moral falsehood.--Detailed analysis of
the question as to whether it is permissible to save a man’s
life by verbally deceiving the murderer 104
VII. The conception of truth or rightness unites in a supreme
synthesis the three fundamental demands of morality, in so
far as one and the same truth demands from its very nature a
different attitude to our lower nature (the ascetic attitude),
to our neighbours (the altruistic attitude), and to the
supreme principle (the religious attitude).--Opposition
between the absolute inner necessity or the binding nature
of truth and its accidental and conditional character as a
sufficient motive of human actions.--Hence the desire to
replace the conception of the moral good or the unconditional
duty by the conception of happiness or of the unconditionally
desirable 111
CHAPTER VI
THE SPURIOUS BASIS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY (_A Critique of
Abstract Hedonism in its Different Forms_).
I. In so far as the (moral) good is not desired by a person
and is not regarded by him as desirable, it is not a good for
him; in so far as it is regarded by him as desirable, but does
not determine his will, it is not an actual good for him; in
so far as it determines his will but does not give him the
power to realise in the whole world that which ought to be, it
is not a sufficient good.--Owing to such empirical discrepancy
the good is regarded as distinct from the right, and is
understood as _welfare_ (eudaemonia).--The obvious advantage
that the eudaemonic principle has over the purely moral one
is that welfare is from the very definition of it desirable
for all.--The nearest definition of welfare is pleasure, and
eudaemonism becomes hedonism 114
II. The weakness of hedonism.--Universality involved in the
conception of pleasure is formal and logical or abstract
only, and does not express any definite and actual unity,
and therefore supplies no general principle or rule of
action.--Man may find real pleasure in things which he
knows lead to destruction, _i.e._ in things which are most
undesirable.--Transition from pure hedonism to extreme
pessimism (Hygesias of Cyrenae--‘the advocate of death’) 116
III. Analysis of pleasure.--What is really desired (or is
an object of desire) are certain represented realities and
not the pleasurable sensations aroused by them (proof).--The
desirability of certain objects or their significance as a
good depends not upon the subjective pleasurable states that
follow, but upon the known or unknown objective relation of
these objects to our bodily or mental nature.--Pleasure as an
_attribute_ of the good.--From this point of view the highest
welfare consists in possessing such good things which in their
totality or as a final result give the maximum of pleasure
and the minimum of pain--the chief practical significance
here belongs not to pleasure as such, but to a careful
consideration of the consequences of this or of that line of
conduct; _prudent_ hedonism 117
IV. If the final end is welfare, the whole point is the
actual attainment and the secure possession of it; neither
the one nor the other, however, may be ensured by prudence
(proof).--The insufficiency of ideal (intellectual and
æsthetic) pleasures from the hedonistic point of view.--Since
pleasures are not abiding quantities which can be added
together, but merely transitory subjective states which, when
past, cease to be pleasures, the advantage of prudent hedonism
over reckless enjoyment of life is apparent only 120
V. Self-sufficient hedonism, whose principle is the inner
freedom from desires and affections which render man
unhappy.--Being purely negative, such freedom can only be a
condition of obtaining a higher good and not that good
itself 123
VI. Utilitarianism affirms as a supreme practical principle
the service of the common good or of general happiness,
which coincides with individual happiness rightly
understood.--Utilitarianism is mistaken not in its practical
demands, in so far as they correspond with the demands
of altruistic morality, but in its desire to base these
demands upon egoism, contrary to the testimony of experience
(self-sacrifice of individual entities to the genus among
animals and savage races; ‘struggle for the life of others’) 124
VII. It is logically erroneous to establish the connection
utilitarianism establishes between personal gain and general
happiness.--General weakness of utilitarianism and all
hedonism.--Happiness remains an indefinite and unrealisable
_demand_, to which the moral demand of the good as duty is in
every respect superior.--Transition to Part II 126
PART II
THE GOOD IS FROM GOD
CHAPTER I
THE UNITY OF MORAL PRINCIPLES.
I. Conscience and shame 135
II. The feeling of shame, primarily and fundamentally
connected with the sexual life, transcends the boundaries
of the material existence, and, as the expression of formal
disapprobation, accompanies every violation of the moral law
in all spheres of activity 136
III. For an animal entity the infinity of life is given _in
genitalibus_ only, and the entity in question feels and acts
as a limited, passive means or instrument of the generic
process in its bad infinity; and it is here, in this centre
of the natural life, that man becomes conscious that the
infinity of the genus, in which the animal finds its supreme
destination, is insufficient.--The fact that man is chiefly
and primarily ashamed of the very essence of the animal life,
of the fundamental expression of the physical nature, directly
proves him to be a super-animal and super-natural being.--In
sexual shame man becomes human in the full sense of
the term 137
IV. The eternal life of the genus based upon the eternal death
of individual entities is shameful and unsatisfactory to man,
who both wants, and feels it his duty, to possess eternal
life, and not merely to be its instrument.--The true genius 138
V. The path of animal procreation or of the perpetration
of death, felt at the beginning to be shameless, proves
subsequently to be both pitiless and impious: it is pitiless,
for it means the expulsion or the crowding out of one
generation by another, and it is impious because the expelled
are our fathers 140
VI. Child-bearing as a good and as an evil.--The solution
of the antinomy: in so far as the evil of child-bearing may
be abolished by child-bearing itself, it becomes a good
(explanation) 141
VII. The positive significance of the ecstasy of human
love.--It points to the hidden _wholeness_ of the individual
and to the way of making it manifest.--Uselessness of the
ecstasy of love for animal procreation 142
VIII. The essential inner connection between shame and pity.
Both are a reaction of the hidden _wholeness_ of the human
being against (1) its individual division into sexes; and (2)
a further division--resulting from that first one--of humanity
into a number of conflicting egoistic entities (shame as
individual and pity as social continence) 143
IX. The same is true with regard to (3) piety as religious
continence which opposes man’s separation from the absolute
centre of life 145
X. The one essence of morality is the _wholeness_ of man
rooted in his nature as an abiding _norm_, and realised in the
individual and historical life as right-doing and struggle
with the centrifugal and dividing forces.--The norm-preserving
element in shame.--Modifications of the original (sexual)
shame: conscience as essentially inter-human shame, and the
fear of God as religious shame 146
XI. In so far as the wholeness of the human being (attained
in three directions) becomes a fact, the good coincides with
happiness.--Since true happiness is conditioned by the moral
good, the ethics of pure duty cannot be opposed to eudaemonism
in general, which necessarily enters into it.--Human good
fails to give complete satisfaction and happiness simply
because it itself is never complete and is never fully
realised (explanations) 150
XII. To be truly autonomous the good must be perfect, and
such a good is bound to involve happiness.--If the good and
happiness are wrongly understood, empirical cases of virtue
coinciding or not coinciding with happiness are of no moral
interest whatever (instances) 152
XIII. Critical remarks concerning the insufficiency of Kantian
ethics 153
XIV. Kant’s religious postulates ill-founded.--Reality of the
super-human good, proved by the moral growth of humanity 156
CHAPTER II
THE UNCONDITIONAL PRINCIPLE OF MORALITY.
I. Morality and the world of fact.--In shame man actually
separates himself off from material nature; in pity he
actually manifests his essential connection with and
similarity to other living beings 160
II. In religious feeling the Deity is experienced as the
actuality of the perfect good (= happiness) unconditionally
and entirely realised in itself.--The general basis of
religion is the living experience of the actual presence of
the Deity, of the One which embraces all (explanation) 161
III. The reality of God is not a deduction from religious
experience but its immediate content--that which is
experienced.--Analysis of this content, as of a given relation
of man to God, from the point of view of (1) the difference
between them (‘the dust of the earth’ in us); (2) their
ideal connection (‘the image of God’ in us); and (3) their
real connection (‘the likeness of God’ in us).--The complete
religious relation is logically resolvable into three moral
categories: (1) _imperfection_ in us; (2) _perfection_ in God;
(3) _attaining perfection_ as the task of our life 164
IV. The psychological confirmation: ‘joy in the Holy Spirit’
as the highest expression of religion.--The formally moral
aspect of the religious relation.--The duty ‘to be perfect,’
its ideal extension and practical significance--‘become
perfect’ 166
V. Three kinds of perfection: (1) that which unconditionally
is in God (_actus purus_); (2) that which potentially is in
the soul; (3) that which actually comes to be in the history
of the world.--Proof of the rational necessity of the process.
A mollusc or a sponge cannot express human thought and will,
and a biological process is necessary for creating a more
perfect organism; in like manner the supreme thought and will
(the Kingdom of God) cannot be revealed among semi-animals,
and requires the historical process of making the forms of
life more perfect 168
VI. The necessity of the universal process which follows from
the unconditional principle of the good.--The world as a
system of preliminary material conditions for the realisation
of the kingdom of ends.--The moral freedom of man as the final
condition of that realisation 170
VII. The demands of religious morality: ‘have God in you’
and ‘regard everything in God’s way.’--God’s relation to
evil.--The full form of the categorical imperative as the
expression of the unconditional principle of morality 173
VIII. The higher degrees of morality do not abolish the lower,
but when being realised in history presuppose them and are
based upon them.--Pedagogical aspect of the matter 174
IX. Natural altruism becomes deeper, higher, and wider in
virtue of the unconditional principle of morality.--The
determining power of that principle in relation to collective
historical institutions intended for serving the good.--Our
highest duty is not to serve these institutions uncritically
(since they may fail to fulfil their destination), but to
help them to serve the good or, if they swerve from the right
course, to point out their true duties 176
X. When man’s relation to the Deity is raised to the level of
absolute consciousness, the preserving feeling of continence
(shame, conscience, fear of God) is finally seen to safeguard
not the relative but the absolute dignity of man--his ideal
perfection which is to be realised.--Ascetic morality is now
seen to have a positive eschatological motive, namely, to
re-create our bodily nature and make it the destined abode of
the Holy Spirit 178
CHAPTER III
THE REALITY OF THE MORAL ORDER.
I. Since the reality of the spiritual is inseparable from the
reality of the material, the process--to be considered by
moral philosophy--whereby the universe attains perfection,
being the process of manifestation of God in man, must
necessarily be the process of manifestation of God in
matter.--The series of the concrete grades of being most
clearly determined and characteristic from the point of view
of moral purpose realised in the world-process--the five
‘kingdoms’: the mineral or inorganic, the vegetable, the
animal, the naturally human, and the spiritually human or the
kingdom of God.--Description and definition of them.--Their
external interrelation: inorganic substances nourish the life
of plants, animals exist at the expense of the vegetable
kingdom, men at the expense of animals, and the kingdom of
God consists of men (explanations).--The general character of
the ascent: just as a living organism consists of chemical
substance which has ceased to be _mere_ substance, so natural
humanity consists of animals who have ceased to be _mere_
animals, and the kingdom of God consists of men who have
ceased to be _merely_ human but have entered into a new and
higher plan of existence where their purely human objects
become the means and instruments of another, final purpose 180
II. The stone exists; the plant exists and lives; the animal,
in addition to this, is conscious of its life in its concrete
states and correlations, the natural man, existing, living,
and being conscious of his actual life, comes, besides, to be
gradually aware of its general meaning according to ideas;
the sons of God are called to realise this meaning in all
things to the end (explanation).--The development of the
human kingdom in the ancient world.--The real limit--a living
man-god (apotheosis of the Caesars).--As in the animal kingdom
the appearance of the anthropomorphic ape anticipates the
appearance of the real man, so in natural humanity the deified
Caesar is the anticipation of the true God-man 183
III. The God-man as the first and essential manifestation of
the kingdom of God.--Reasons for believing in the historical
existence of Christ (as the God-man) from the point of view of
the evolution of the world rationally understood 186
IV. Positive unity of the world-process in its three aspects:
(1) the lower kingdoms form part of the moral order as the
necessary conditions of its realisation; (2) each of the
lower forms strives towards a correspondingly higher form;
(3) each of the higher forms physically (and psychologically)
includes the lower.--The process of gathering the universe
together.--The task of the natural man and humanity is to
gather together the universe in idea; the task of the God-man
and the divine humanity is to gather the universe together in
reality 188
V. Positive connection between the spiritual and the natural
man, between grace and natural goodness.--Historical
confirmation of the essential truth of Christianity 190
VI. Christ as the perfect individual--Reason why He first
appeared in the middle of history and not at the end of it 193
VII. The perfect moral order presupposes the moral freedom of
each person, and true freedom is acquired by a finite spirit
through experience only: hence the necessity of historical
development after Christ.--The ultimate significance of
that development.--The actual task morality has before it
inevitably brings us into the realm of conditions which
determine the concrete historical existence of society or of
the collective man 193
PART III
THE GOOD THROUGH HUMAN HISTORY
CHAPTER I
THE INDIVIDUAL AND SOCIETY.
I. The separation between the individual and society as such
is nothing but a morbid illusion (explanation) 199
II. Human personality as such, in virtue of the reason and
will inherent in it, is capable of realising unlimited
possibilities, in other words, it is a special form with
infinite content.--The chimera of self-sufficient personality
and the chimera of impersonal society.--Society is involved
in the very definition of personality as a rationally knowing
and morally active force, which is only possible in social
existence (proofs).--Society is the objectively realisable
content of the rational and moral personality--not its
external limit, but its essential complement.--It embodies
the indivisible wholeness of universal life, partly realised
already in the past (common tradition), partly realisable in
the present (social service) and anticipating the perfect
realisation in the future (the common ideal).--To these
abiding moments of the individually social life there
correspond three main stages in the historical development:
the tribal (past); the nationally-political (present); and the
world-wide (future).--A clear distinction between these grades
and aspects of life actually shows itself in history as the
successive transformation of one into another and not as the
exclusive presence of any one of these forms 200
III. Society is the completed or the expanded individual, and
the individual is the compressed or concentrated society.--The
historical task of morality lies not in creating a solidarity
between the individual and society but in rendering this
solidarity conscious, in transforming it from involuntary into
voluntary, so that each person should understand, accept, and
carry out the common task as his own 203
IV. True morality is a right interaction between the
individual and his environment.--Man is from the first an
individually-social being, and the whole history is a process
of gradually deepening, widening, and raising to a higher
level this two-sided, individually-social life. Of these
two indivisible and correlative terms the individual is the
movable, the dynamic element, while society is the inert,
conservative, and static element of history.--There can be no
opposition of principle between the individual and society but
only between the different stages of the individually-social
development 204
V. The clan (in the wide sense) as the rudimentary embodiment
of morality as a whole (religious, altruistic, and ascetic),
or as the realisation of the individual human dignity in the
narrowest and most fundamental social sphere (explanations and
proofs) 206
VI. The moral content of the clan life is eternal, the form
of the clan is broken up by the historical process.--The
general course of this breaking up.--Transition from the clan
through the tribe to the nation and the state.--The profound
significance of the word ‘fatherland’ 207
VII. When a new and wider social whole (the fatherland) is
formed, the clan becomes the family (explanation).--The
significance of the individual element in the transition from
the clan to the state 210
VIII. Every social group has only a relative and conditional
claim on man.--Social organisation, even of a comparatively
high type--_e.g._ the state--has no right at all over the
eternal moral content which is present even in the relatively
lower forms of life--in the clan life, for instance (detailed
explanation out of Sophocles’s _Antigone_) 213
CHAPTER II
THE CHIEF MOMENTS IN THE HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF
THE INDIVIDUALLY-SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS.
I. Moral progress (on its religious and altruistic side)
corresponds to the social progress (explanatory remarks) 220
II. Achievements of civilisation as a condition of progress
for ascetic morality, which is not the work of individuals
taken as such, but of man as an individually-social being
(historical explanation and confirmation).--Conditions which
render consciousness of spiritual independence possible 222
III. Recognition by the human personality of its purely
negative or formal infinity without any definite content.--The
religion of Awakening: “I am above all this; all this is
_empty_.”--Buddhist confession of the ‘three treasures’: “I
believe in Buddha, I believe in the doctrine, I believe in
the community”--_i.e._ all is illusion with the exception of
three things worthy of belief: the man who is spiritually
awake, the words of awakening, and the brotherhood of the
awakened.--Buddhism as the first extant stage of human
universalism rising above the exclusive nationally-political
structure of pagan religion and society.--The moral essence of
the Buddhist doctrine: reverence for the first awakened, the
commandment of will-lessness and of universal benevolence 227
IV. Criticism of Buddhism: its inner contradictions 230
V. Final definition of the Buddhist doctrine as religious
and moral nihilism (in the strict sense), which denies in
principle every object and every motive for reverence, pity,
and spiritual struggle 233
VI. Logical transition from Hindu nihilism to Greek
idealism.--Greeks no less than Hindus felt the emptiness
of sensuous being: the pessimism of Greek poetry and
philosophy.--But from sensuous emptiness Greeks passed to the
intelligible fulness of the Ideas.--Statement of the Ideal
theory (historical instances and explanations) 236
VII. The impossibility of consistently contrasting the two
worlds.--Three relative and analogous wrongs (anomalies) of
the phenomenal world: the psychological (the subjection of
reason to passions), the social (the subjection of the wise
man to the mob), and the physical (the subjection of the
living organic form to the inorganic forces of substance in
death).--Idealism attempts to combat the first two anomalies
but is blind and dumb to the third.--The whole of our world
(not only the mental and the political but the physical
as well) is in need of salvation, and the Saviour is not
the Hindu ascetic or the Greek philosopher but the Jewish
Messiah--not one who rejects life in the name of non-being or
in the name of abstract Ideas, but one who makes life whole
and raises it up for eternity 240
VIII. Comparison between Buddhism, Platonism, and
Christianity: negative universalism, one-sided universalism,
and positive, complete, or perfect universalism.--The weakness
of Platonism from the moral point of view.--Preparatory
significance of Buddhism and Platonism; their fruitlessness
when they are taken to be doctrines complete in
themselves.--Christianity as an absolute _event_, an absolute
_promise_, and an absolute _task_ 244
CHAPTER III
ABSTRACT SUBJECTIVISM IN MORALITY.
I. The erroneous view which denies as a matter of principle
that morality has an objective task or is the work of the
collective man.--Statement of the question 248
II. The insufficiency of morality as subjective feeling
only.--Historical confirmation 250
III. The insufficiency of morality which addresses its demands
to individuals only.--Historical confirmation 254
IV. The demand for organised morality (theoretical
explanation).--The degree of the individual’s subordination to
society must correspond to the degree to which society itself
is subordinate to the moral good. Apart from its connection
with the moral good, social environment has no claim whatever
upon the individual. 258
CHAPTER IV
THE MORAL NORM OF SOCIAL LIFE.
I. The error of social realism, according to which social
institutions and interests have a supreme and decisive
significance in themselves.--Man is not merely a social
animal.--The conception of a social being is poorer in
intension but wider in extension than the conception of
man.--Description of the social life of ants 261
II. The unconditional value of the individual for society.--No
man under any circumstances and for any reason may be regarded
as _merely_ a means or an instrument--neither for the good of
another person, nor for the good of a group of persons, nor
for the so-called ‘common good’ (explanations).--Religion,
family, and property in relation to the unconditional moral
norm 264
III. Rights of man wrongly understood as the privilege
of the one (eastern monarchies) or of the few (classical
aristocracies) or of the many (democracies).--The three
chief anomalies of the ancient society--the denial of
human dignity to the external enemies, to slaves, and to
criminals.--Progress of social morality in the consciousness
of the ancient world.--The absolute affirmation of human
dignity in Christianity 268
IV. The task of the present is to make all social institutions
conformable to the unconditional moral norm and to struggle
with the collective evil 272
CHAPTER V
THE NATIONAL QUESTION FROM THE MORAL POINT OF VIEW.
The collective evil as a threefold immoral relation: between
different nations, between society and the criminal, between
different classes of society 276
I. Nationalism and cosmopolitanism.--Moral weakness of
nationalism 277
II. The absence of strictly national divisions in the ancient
world.--Eastern monarchies and western city states did not
coincide with nations (historical references) 279
III. Jews have never been _merely_ a nation.--Christianity is
not negative cosmopolitanism, but positive super-national and
all-national universalism. It can as little demand absence
of nationality as absence of individuality (explanation and
historical instances) 282
IV. Universalism of new European nations.--Historical survey:
Italy, Spain, England, France, Germany, Poland, Russia,
Holland, Sweden 286
V. Deduction from the historical survey: a nation as a
particular form of existence derives its meaning and
its inspiration solely from its connection and its
harmony with what is universal.--Moral weakness of
cosmopolitanism.--Positive duty involved in the national
question: love (in the ethical sense) all other nations as
your own (explanation) 295
CHAPTER VI
THE PENAL QUESTION FROM THE MORAL POINT OF VIEW.
Statement of the question 299
I. To be ethically right the opposition to crime must give
moral help to both parties.--The duty to defend the injured
and to bring the injurer to reason.--The two prevalent
erroneous doctrines deny either the one or the other aspect of
the matter 300
II. The conception of punishment as _retribution_.--Its
root is in the custom of blood vengeance of the patriarchal
stage.--The transformation of this custom into legal justice,
and the transference of the duty of vengeance from the clan to
the State 302
III. The genesis of legal justice is wrongly taken to be its
moral justification.--Absurd arguments in favour of the savage
conception of punishment as revenge or retribution 306
IV. Immoral tendency to preserve cruel penalties.--Since
the absurdity of retribution is universally recognised,
cruel penalties are justified upon the principle
of intimidation.--The essential immorality of this
principle.--Fatal inconsistency of its adherents. 310
V. The chaotic state of modern justice.--The doctrine
of non-resistance to evil as applied to the penal
question.--Detailed analysis and criticism of this doctrine 314
VI. The moral principle admits neither of punishment as
intimidating retribution, nor of an indifferent relation
to crime and of allowing to commit crimes unhindered.--It
demands real opposition to crime as a just means of active
pity, which legally and compulsorily limits certain external
manifestations of the evil will not only for the sake of the
safety of the community and of its peaceful members, but also
in the interest of the criminal himself.--Normal justice in
dealing with crime must give, or at any rate aim at, equal
realisation of three rights: of the right of the injured
person to be protected, of the right of society to be safe,
and of the right of the injurer to be brought to reason and
reformed.--Temporary deprivation of liberty as the necessary
preliminary condition for carrying out this task.--The
consequences of the crime for the criminal must stand in a
natural inner connection with his actual condition.--The
necessity of reforming the penal laws in a corresponding
way: ‘conditional sentences’ as the first step towards such
reformation 322
VII. The possibility of reforming the criminal; the right and
the duty of society to care about it.--The necessary reform of
penal institutions 324
CHAPTER VII
THE ECONOMIC QUESTION FROM THE MORAL POINT OF VIEW.
I. The connection of criminality and national hostility with
the economic conditions.--The simple nature of the economic
problem.--Theoretically wrong solutions of it on the part of
the orthodox economists and of the socialists 326
II. Erroneous and immoral isolation of the economic sphere
of relations as though it were independent of the moral
conditions of human activity in general.--Free play of
chemical processes can only take place in a dead and
decomposing body, while in the living organism these
processes are connected together and determined by biological
purposes.--There is not, and there never has been, in human
society a stage so low that the material necessity for
obtaining means of livelihood was not complicated by moral
considerations (explanations) 327
III. In its economic life, too, society must be an organised
realisation of the good.--The peculiarity and independence
of the economic sphere lies not in the fact that it has
inexorable laws of its own, but in the fact that from its
very nature it presents a special and peculiar field for the
application of the one moral law.--The ambiguous beginning and
the bad end of socialism.--The principle of the St. Simonists:
the rehabilitation of matter.--The true and important meaning
of this principle: matter has a right to be spiritualised by
man.--This meaning soon gave way to another: matter has the
right to dominate man.--Gradual degeneration of socialism
into economic materialism, which is inwardly and essentially
identical with plutocracy (explanation) 332
IV. The true solution of the economic question is in man’s
moral relation to material nature (earth), conditioned by his
moral relation to men and to God.--The commandment of labour:
with effort to cultivate material nature for oneself and
one’s own, for all humanity, and for the sake of the material
nature itself.--The insufficiency of the ‘natural harmony’ of
personal interests.--Criticism of Bastiat’s doctrine 336
V. The duty of society to recognise and to secure to each
the right of worthy human existence.--The immorality of
certain conditions of labour (instances, confirmations, and
explanations) 340
VI. The main conditions which render human relations in the
sphere of material labour moral: (1) material wealth must not
be recognised as the independent purpose of man’s economic
activity; (2) production must not be at the expense of the
human dignity of the producers, and not a single one of them
must become merely a means of production; (3) man’s duties
to the earth (material nature in general) must be recognised
(explanations).--The rights of the earth.--Man’s triple
relation to the material nature: (1) subjection to it; (2)
struggle with it and its exploitation; (3) looking after it
for one’s own and its sake.--Without loving nature for its
own sake one cannot organise the material life in a moral
way.--The connection between moral relation to the external
nature and the relation to one’s body 345
VII. It is insufficient to study the producing and the
material causes of labour.--Full definition of labour from the
moral point of view: labour is the interrelation of men in the
physical sphere, which interrelation must, in accordance with
the moral law, secure to all and each the necessary means of
existing worthily and of perfecting all sides of one’s being,
and is finally destined to transform and spiritualise material
nature 348
VIII. Analysis of the conception of property.--The relativity
of its grounds 349
IX. The right of each to earn sufficient wages and to
save.--The normal origin of capital.--The right and the duty
of society to limit the misuse of private property.--The
striving of socialism for an undesirable extension of this
public right and duty.--The moral meaning of the handed down
or inherited (family) property.--The special significance
of family inheritance with regard to landed property: it is
necessary not to limit it, but, as far as possible, to secure
it to each family.--Objections answered 354
X. Exchange and fraud.--Commerce as public service which
cannot have private gain for its sole or even its main
object.--The right and duty of society compulsorily to limit
abuses in this sphere.--Transition to the morally-legal
question 358
CHAPTER VIII
MORALITY AND LEGAL JUSTICE.
I. The unconditional moral principle, as a commandment of
or demand for perfection, contains in its very nature a
recognition of the relative element in morality, namely,
of the real conditions necessary for the attainment of
perfection.--Comparative predominance of this relative element
constitutes the legal sphere of relations and comparative
predominance of the unconditional side--the moral sphere in
the strict sense 362
II. Alleged contradiction between legality and morality
(examples and explanations) 364
III. The different grades of moral and legal
consciousness.--The unchangeable legal norms or the natural
right.--Legal conservatism.--Progress in legality or the
steady approximation of the legal enactments to the norms of
legality conformable to, though not identical with, the moral
norms 365
IV. The close connection between morality and legal justice,
vitally important for both sides.--Verbal and etymological
confirmation of it 367
V. Difference between legal and moral justice: (1) the
unlimited character of the purely moral and the limited
character of the legal demands--in this respect legal justice
is the lowest limit or a _definite minimum_ of morality; (2)
legal justice chiefly demands an objective _realisation_ of
this minimum of good, or the actual abolition of a certain
amount of evil; (3) in demanding such realisation legal
justice admits of _compulsion_ 369
VI. A general definition: legal justice is a compulsory
demand for the realisation of a definite minimum of good, or
for an order which does not allow of certain manifestations
of evil.--The moral ground for this: interests of morality
demand personal freedom as a condition of human dignity and
moral perfection; but man can exist and consequently be free
and strive for perfection in society only; moral interest,
therefore, demands that the external manifestations of
personal liberty should be consistent with the conditions of
the existence of society, _i.e._ not with the ideal perfection
of some, but with the real security of all.--This security is
not safeguarded by the moral law itself, since for immoral
persons it does not exist, and is ensured by the compulsory
juridical law which has force for the latter also 371
VII. Positive legal justice as the historically-movable
definition of the necessary and compulsory balance between
the two moral interests of personal liberty and of the
common good.--The moral demand that each _should be free
to be immoral_; this freedom is secured by positive laws
(explanations).--The necessary limit to the compulsion
exercised by all collective organisations 374
VIII. The legal view of crime 378
IX. From the very definition of legal justice it follows that
the interest of the common good can in each case only limit
personal liberty, but can never abolish it altogether.--Hence
capital punishment and imprisonment for life is
impermissible 379
X. The three essential characteristics of law (publicity,
concreteness, real applicability).--The sanction of the
law.--Public authority.--The three kinds of authority
(legislative, juridical, executive).--The supreme
authority.--The state as the embodiment of legal
justice.--Limits to the legal organisation of humanity 380
CHAPTER IX
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF WAR.
I. Three questions are involved in the question of
war: the generally moral, the historical, and the
personally-moral.--The answer to the first question is
indisputable: war is an anomaly or an evil 385
II. War as a relative evil (explanations).--Transition to the
question as to the historical meaning of war 387
III. Wars between clans naturally led to treaties and
agreements as guarantees of peace.--The formation of the
state.--The organisation of war in the state as an important
step towards the coming of peace.--‘The world empires’--their
comparative characteristic.--_Pax Romana._--Wars in
which ancient history abounds increased the sphere of
peace.--Military progress in the ancient world was at the same
time a great social and moral progress, since it enormously
decreased the proportion of lives sacrificed in war 389
IV. Christianity has abolished war in principle; but until
this principle really enters human consciousness, wars are
inevitable, and may, in certain conditions, be the lesser
evil, _i.e._ a relative good.--The Middle Ages.--In modern
history three general facts are important with reference to
the question of war: (1) Most nations have become independent
political wholes or ‘perfect bodies’; (2) international
relations of all kinds have been developed; (3) European
culture has spread throughout the globe (explanations).--The
war-world of the future 394
V. The general historical meaning of all wars is the struggle
between Europe and Asia--first local and symbolical (the
Trojan war), finally extending to the whole of the globe.--The
end of external wars will make clear the great truth that
external peace is not as such a real good, but becomes a good
only in connection with the inner (moral) regeneration of
humanity 399
VI. The subjectively moral attitude to war.--False
identification of war and military service with murder.--War
as the conflict between collective organisms (states) and
their collective organs (armies) is not the affair of
individual men who passively take part in it; on their part
possible taking of life is accidental only.--Refusal to
perform military service required by the state is of necessity
a greater moral evil, and is therefore impermissible.--Moral
duty of the individual to take part in the defence of his
country.--It is grounded on the unconditional principle of
morality (explanatory instances).--Unquestionable dangers
of militarism are not an argument against the necessity of
armaments.--Biblical illustration 402
VII. It is our positive duty not merely to defend or protect
our fatherland, but also to bring it to greater perfection,
which is inseparable from the general moral progress of
humanity.--To approach a good and lasting peace one must act
against the evil root of war, namely, against hostility and
hatred between the parts of the divided humanity.--In history
war has been the direct means of the external and the indirect
means of the internal unification of humanity; reason forbids
us to throw up this means so long as it is necessary, and
conscience commands us to strive that it should cease to be
necessary, and that the natural organisation of humanity,
divided into hostile parts, should actually become a moral or
spiritual unity 406
CHAPTER X
THE MORAL ORGANISATION OF HUMANITY AS A WHOLE.
I. Differences between the natural and the moral human
solidarity, which Christianity puts before us as a historical
task, demanding that all should freely and consciously strive
for perfection in the one good.--The true subject of this
striving is _the individual man together with and inseparably
from the collective man_.--The three permanent embodiments
of the subject striving for perfection, or the three natural
groups which actually give completion to the individual life:
the family, the fatherland, humanity.--Corresponding to them
in the historical order we have the three stages--the tribal,
the nationally political, and the spiritually universal;
the latter may become actually real only on condition that
the first two are spiritualised.--The concrete elements
and forms of life as conditional data for the solution of
an unconditional problem.--The given natural bond between
three generations (grandparents, parents, children) must be
transformed into the unconditionally moral one through the
spiritualisation of the family religion, of marriage, and
education 409
II. Homage paid to the forefathers.--Its eternal significance
recognised even in the savage cults.--Christian modification
of the ancient cult 411
III. Marriage.--It unites man with God through the present,
just as religious regard for the forefathers unites man with
God through the past.--In true marriage the natural sexual
tie is not abolished but transubstantiated.--The necessary
data for the moral problem of such transubstantiation are
the natural elements of the sexual relation: (1) carnal
desire; (2) being in love; (3) child-bearing.--Marriage
remains the satisfaction of the sexual desire, but the
object of that desire is no longer the satisfaction of the
animal organism, but the restoration of the image of God in
man.--Marriage as a form of asceticism, as holy exploit and
martyrdom.--Child-bearing, unnecessary and impossible in a
perfect marriage, is necessary and desirable in a marriage
which strives after perfection; it is a necessary consequence
of the perfection not yet attained, and a natural means of
attaining it in the future 415
IV. The purpose of the bringing up of children in a
spiritually organised family is to connect the temporary life
of the new generation with the eternal good, which is common
to all generations, and restores their essential unity 418
V. True education must at one and the same time be both
_traditional_ and _progressive_.--Transferring to the new
generation all the spiritual heritage of the past, it must
at the same time develop in it the desire and the power to
make use of this heritage as of a living moving power for
a new approach to the supreme goal.--Fatal consequences of
separating the two aspects.--The moral basis of education is
to inspire the descendants with a living concern for _the
future of their ancestors_ (explanation).--Moral progress
can only consist in carrying out further and better the
duties which follow from tradition.--The supreme principle of
pedagogy is the indissoluble bond between generations which
support one another in carrying out progressively the one
common task of preparing for the manifestation of the kingdom
of God and for universal resurrection 421
VI. The normal _family_ is the immediate restoration of
the moral wholeness of man in one essential respect--that
of succession of generations (the order of temporal
sequence).--This wholeness must be also restored in the wider
order of coexistence--first of all within the limits of the
_nation_ or the fatherland.--In accordance with the nature of
moral organisation, the nation does not abolish either the
family or the individual, but fills them with a vital content
in a definite national form, conditioned by language.--This
form must be peculiar but not exclusive: the normal
multiplicity of different languages does not necessitate
their isolation and separateness. The Babylonian principle of
the division of humanity through identity in confusion and
the Sion principle of gathering mankind together through
unanimity in distinctness.--The true universal language means
the community and understandability of many separate languages
which, though divided, do not divide 423
VII. The unity of mankind.--All the grounds which justify
us in speaking of the unity of a people have still greater
force when applied to humanity.--The unity of origin; the
unity of language, irrespective of the number of different
tongues; the unity of universal history apart from which there
can be no national history (proofs and explanations).--The
indivisibility of the moral good.--The evil of exclusive
patriotism.--Humanity as the _subject_ of moral
organisation.--Transition to the discussion of the universal
_forms_ of the moral order 426
VIII. The universal Church as the organisation of piety
(explanation).--The essence of the Church is the unity
and holiness of the Godhead in so far as it remains and
positively acts in the world through humanity (or, what is
the same thing, the Church is the creation gathered together
in God).--The _unity_ and _holiness_ of the Church in the
order of coexistence is its _catholicity_ or wholeness
and, in the order of succession, is the _apostolic_
succession.--Catholicity abolishes all divisions and
separations, preserving all the distinctions and
peculiarities 432
IX. Participation in the absolute content of life through the
universal Church positively _liberates and equalises_ all,
and unites men in a perfect _brotherhood_ which presupposes a
perfect _fatherhood_ 435
X. The religious principle of fatherhood is that the spiritual
life does not spring _from ourselves_.--Hence messengership or
_apostleship_ in contradistinction to imposture.--Christ ‘sent
of God’ and doing the will of the Father who sent Him and not
His own will is the absolute prototype of apostleship.--Its
continuation in the Church: “As my Father sent me, so I send
you.”--Since filial relation is the prototype of piety, the
only-begotten Son of God--the Son by pre-eminence--being the
embodiment of piety is the way, the truth, and the life of
His Church, as of an organisation of piety in the world.--The
way of piety is the way of hierarchy--it is from above (the
significance of ordination and consecration).--The truth
of the Church is not, at bottom, either scientific, or
philosophical, or even theological, but simply contains _the
dogmas of piety_; the general meaning of the seven Œcumenical
Councils.--The life of piety; the meaning of the seven
sacraments 437
XI. The question as to the relation of the Church to the state
or the problem of _the Christian state_.--Important instance
in the New Testament (the story of Cornelius the centurion) 440
XII. Moral necessity of the state.--Explanations with regard
to Christianity 443
XIII. The state as collectively-organised pity.--Vladimir
Monomakh and Dante (explanation) 447
XIV. Analysis of the objection generally urged against the
definition of the normal state 449
XV. Analysis of legal misunderstandings 451
XVI. In addition to the general conservative task of every
state--to preserve the essentials of common life, without
which humanity could not exist--the _Christian state_ has also
a progressive task of improving the conditions of that life
by furthering the free development of all human powers
destined to bring about the coming of the kingdom of
God (explanation) 455
XVII. The normal relation between the Church and the
state.--From the Christian (the divinely-human) point of view
both the independent activity of man and his whole-hearted
devotion to God are equally necessary; but the two can only
be combined if the two spheres of life (the religious and the
political) and its two immediate motives (piety and pity) are
clearly distinguished--corresponding to the difference in
the immediate objects of action, the final purpose being one
and the same.--Fatal consequences of the separation of the
Church from the state and of either usurping the functions of
the other.--The Christian rule of social progress consists
in this, that the state should as little as possible coerce
the inner moral life of man, leaving it to the free spiritual
activity of the Church, and at the same time secure as
certainly and as widely as possible the external conditions in
which men can live worthily and become more perfect 457
XVIII. The special moral task of the economic life is to be
the collectively-organised abstinence from the evil carnal
passions, in order that the material nature--individual and
universal--could be transformed into a free form of the human
spirit.--The separation of the economic life from its object
at the present time and historical explanation of that fact 460
XIX. Moral significance of the law of conservation of
energy.--The value of the collectively-organised abstinence
depends upon the success of the collective organisations of
piety and pity.--The unity of the three tasks 465
XX. Individual representatives of the moral organisation of
humanity.--The three supreme callings--that of the priest, the
king, and the prophet.--Their distinctive peculiarities and
mutual dependence 467
CONCLUSION
THE FINAL DEFINITION OF THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE AND
THE TRANSITION TO THEORETICAL PHILOSOPHY 470
INTRODUCTION
MORAL PHILOSOPHY AS A SCIENCE
I
The subject-matter of moral philosophy is the idea of the _good_; the
purpose of this philosophical inquiry is to make clear the content that
reason, under the influence of experience, puts into this idea, and
thus to give a definite answer to the essential question as to what
_ought to be_ the object or the meaning of our life.
The capacity of forming rudimentary judgments of value is undoubtedly
present in the higher animals, who, in addition to pleasant and
unpleasant _sensations_, possess more or less complete _ideas_ of
desirable or undesirable objects. Man passes beyond single sensations
and particular images and rises to a universal rational _concept_ or
idea of good and evil.
The universal character of this idea is often denied, but this is
due to a misunderstanding. It is true that every conceivable kind of
iniquity has at some time and in some place been regarded as a good.
But at the same time there does not exist, nor ever has existed, a
people which did not attribute to its idea of the good (whatever that
idea might be) the character of being a universal and abiding _norm_
and ideal.[3] A Red Indian who considers it a virtue to scalp as many
human heads as possible, takes it to be good and meritorious, not for
one day merely but for all his life, and not for himself alone, but
for every decent man. An Esquimo whose idea of the highest good is the
greatest possible supply of putrid seal and cod-fish fat, undoubtedly
regards his ideal as of universal application; he is convinced that
what is good for him is also good for all times and all people, and
even for the world beyond the grave; and if he be told of barbarians
to whom putrid fat is disgusting, he will either disbelieve that they
exist or will deny that they are normal. In the same way, the famous
Hottentot who maintained that it is good when _he_ steals a number
of cows and bad when they are stolen _from him_, did not intend this
ethical principle for himself only, but meant that for _every_ man the
good consisted in successful appropriation of other people’s property,
and evil in the loss of one’s own.
Thus even this extremely imperfect application of the idea of the good
undoubtedly involves its formal universality, _i.e._ its affirmation
as a norm for all time and for all human beings, although the content
of the supposed norm (_i.e._ the particular answers to the question,
What is good?) does not in any way correspond to this formal demand,
being merely accidental, particular, and crudely material in character.
Of course the moral ideas even of the lowest savage are not limited
to scalped heads and stolen cows: the same Iroquois and Hottentots
manifest a certain degree of modesty in sexual relations, feel pity for
those dear to them, are capable of admiring other people’s superiority.
But as long as these rudimentary manifestations of true morality are
found side by side with savage and inhuman demands, or even give
precedence to the latter, as long as ferocity is prized above modesty,
and rapacity above compassion, it has to be admitted that the idea of
the good, though preserving its universal form, is devoid of its true
content.
The activity of reason which gives rise to ideas is inherent in
man from the first, just as an organic function is inherent in the
organism. It cannot be denied that alimentary organs and their
functions are _innate_ in the animal; but no one takes this to mean
that the animal is born with the food already in its mouth. In the same
way, man is not born with ready-made ideas, but only with a ready-made
faculty of being conscious of ideas.
The rational consciousness in virtue of which man possesses from the
first a universal idea of the good as an absolute norm, in its further
development gradually supplies this formal idea with a content worthy
of it. It seeks to establish such moral demands and ideals as would in
their very essence be universal and necessary, expressing the inner
development of the universal idea of the good and not merely its
external application to particular material motives foreign to it. When
this work of human consciousness developing a true content of morality,
attains a certain degree of clearness and distinctness, and is carried
on in a systematic way, it becomes _moral philosophy_ or _ethics_.
The different ethical systems and theories exhibit various degrees of
completeness and self-consistency.
II
In its essence moral philosophy is most intimately connected with
religion, and in its relation to knowledge with the theoretical
philosophy. It cannot at this stage be explained what the nature of the
connection is, but it is both possible and necessary to explain what
_it is not_. It must not be conceived of as a one-sided _dependence_ of
ethics on positive religion or on speculative philosophy--a dependence
which would deprive the moral sphere of its special content and
independent significance. The view which _wholly_ subordinates morality
and moral philosophy to the _theoretical_ principles of positive
religion or philosophy is extremely prevalent in one form or another.
The erroneousness of it is all the more clear to me because I myself at
one time came very near it, if indeed I did not share it altogether.
Here are some of the considerations which led me to abandon this point
of view; I give only such as can be understood before entering upon an
exposition of moral philosophy itself.
The opponents of independent morality urge that “only true religion can
give man the strength to realise the good; but the whole value of the
good is in its realisation; therefore apart from true religion ethics
has no significance.” That true religion does give its true followers
the strength to realise the good, cannot be doubted. But the one-sided
assertion that such strength is given _by religion alone_, though it
is supposed to be made in the higher interests of religion, in truth,
directly contradicts the teaching of the great defender of faith, St.
Paul, who admits, it will be remembered, that the heathen can do good
according to the natural law. “For when the Gentiles,” he writes,
“which have not the law, do by nature the things contained in the law,
these, having not the law, are a law unto themselves: which show the
work of the law written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing
witness, and their thoughts the meanwhile accusing or else excusing one
another.”[4]
In order to receive the power for realising the good, it is necessary
to have a conception of the good--otherwise its realisations will be
merely mechanical. And it is not true that the whole value of good is
in the fact of its realisation: the _way_ in which it is realised is
also important. An unconscious automatic accomplishment of good actions
is below the dignity of man and consequently does not express the human
good. The human realisation of the good is necessarily conditioned
by a consciousness of it, and there can be consciousness of the good
apart from true religion as is shown both by history and by everyday
experience, and confirmed by the testimony of so great a champion of
the faith as St. Paul.[5]
Further, though piety requires us to admit that the power for the
realisation of the good is given from God, it would be impious to
limit the Deity with regard to the means whereby this power can be
communicated. According to the witness both of experience and of the
Scriptures, such means are not limited to _positive_ religion, for even
apart from it some men are conscious of the good, and practise it. So
that from the religious point of view also, we must simply accept this
as true, and consequently admit that in a certain sense morality is
independent of the positive religion and moral philosophy of a creed.[6]
A third consideration leads to the same conclusion. However great our
certainty of the truth of our own religion may be, it does not warrant
our overlooking the fact that there exists a number of religions,
and that each of them claims for itself to be the only true one. And
this fact creates in every mind that is not indifferent to truth a
desire for an objective justification of our own faith--for such
proof in favour of it, that is, as would be convincing not only to
us but also to others, and, finally, to all. But all the arguments
in favour of religious truth which are universally applicable amount
to a single fundamental one--the ethical argument, which affirms
that our faith is morally superior to others. This is the case even
when the moral interest is completely concealed by other motives.
Thus in support of one’s religion one may point to the beauty of its
church services. This argument must not be dismissed too lightly. Had
not the beauty of the Greek service in the cathedral of St. Sophia
impressed the envoys of prince Vladimir of Kiev as much as it did,
Russia would probably not have been Orthodox now. But whatever the
importance of this side of religion may be, the question is in what
precisely does the æsthetic value of one service as compared with
another consist? It certainly does not lie in the fact that its form
and setting should be distinguished by any kind of beauty. Beauty of
form as such (_i.e._ the perfection of the sensuous expression of
anything) may attach to the most diverse objects. A ballet, an opera,
a military or an erotic picture, a firework, may all be said to have
a beauty of their own. But the introduction of such manifestations of
the beautiful, in however small a degree, into a religious cult, is
rightly censured as incompatible with its true dignity. The æsthetic
value of a religious service does not then lie merely in the perfection
of its sensuous form, but in its expressing as clearly and as fully
as possible the spiritual contents of true religion. These contents
are largely dogmatic, but chiefly ethical (in the wide sense)--the
holiness of God, His love for men, the gratitude and the devotion of
men to their Heavenly Father, their brotherhood with one another.
This ideal essence, embodied in the persons and events of sacred
history, finds, through this sacred historical prism, new artistic
incarnation in the rites, the symbols, and the anthems of the Church.
The spiritual essence of religion appeals to some men only as thus
embodied in the cult, while other men (whose number increases as
consciousness develops) are able, in addition, to apprehend it directly
as a doctrine; and in this case again the moral side of religious
beauty clearly predominates over the dogmatic side. The metaphysical
dogmas of true Christianity, in spite of all their inward certainty,
are undoubtedly above the level of ordinary human reason, and therefore
have never been, nor ever can be, the _original_ means of convincing
non-Christians of the truth of our religion. In order to realise the
truth of these dogmas by faith, one must already be a Christian; and
in order to realise their meaning in the sphere of abstract thought,
one must be a philosopher of the school of Plato or of Schelling.
And as this cannot be possible for every one, all that remains for
persuading people belonging to other religions of the truth of our
faith is its moral superiority.[7] And indeed, in the disputes between
the different branches of one and the same religion, as well as between
different religions, each side seeks to justify its own faith by means
of moral and practical arguments. Thus Roman Catholics most readily
quote in their own favour the solidarity and the energetic work of
their clergy, united by the religious and moral power of the papal
monarchy, the unique moral influence of their clergy on the masses
of the people, the part the Pope plays as the defender of universal
justice and the supreme judge and peacemaker; and they especially
point to the multitude of _works of charity_ in their missions at home
and abroad. Protestants, who originally separated off from the Roman
Church precisely on the ground of _moral_ theology, claim in their turn
as their essential advantage the moral loftiness and purity of their
doctrine which liberates the individual conscience and the life of
the community from many practical abuses and from slavery to external
observances and to traditions, in their view, senseless. Finally, the
champions of Orthodoxy in their polemic against Western Christianity
generally have recourse to moral accusations. They accuse the Roman
Catholics of pride and love of power, of striving to appropriate for
the head of their Church that which belongs to God as well as that
which belongs to Caesar; they accuse the Roman Catholic clergy of
fanaticism, of loving the world and of cupidity, make it responsible
for the sin of persecuting heretics and infidels. Like the Protestants
they lay stress on three main charges--the Inquisition, Indulgences,
and Jesuit morality; and finally, independently of the Protestants,
they bring against the Roman Catholics the charge of moral fratricide
which found expression in the arbitrary adoption by the latter (without
the knowledge of the Eastern Church) of the local Western traditions.
The moral charges they bring against Protestantism are less striking
but just as serious. They accuse it of individualism which does away
with the Church as a concrete moral whole, they reproach it with
destroying the bond of love not only between the present and the past
of the historical Church (by rejecting the traditions), but also
between the visible and the invisible Church (by rejecting prayers for
the dead, etc.).
Without going into theology or pronouncing on the value of or the need
for such disputes[8] I would only draw attention to the fact that
neither of the disputants rejects the moral principles proclaimed by
the other side, but simply tries to turn them to his own account. Thus
when the Roman Catholics boast of works of charity which especially
characterise their Church, neither their Protestant nor their
Greco-Russian opponents would say that charity is a bad thing; they
would merely argue that the Roman Catholic charitable institutions
serve the purposes of ambition, and, being thus vitiated by extraneous
elements, more or less lose their moral worth. In answer to this, the
Roman Catholics, for their part, would not say that ambition is a
good thing or that Christian charity must be subordinate to worldly
considerations, but would, on the contrary, repudiate the charge of
ambition and argue that power is not for them an end in itself, but
only a necessary means for carrying out their moral duty. Similarly
when the Orthodox--as well as the Roman Catholics--reproach the
Protestants with their lack of filial piety and their contempt for the
Patristic tradition, no sensible Protestant would urge that tradition
ought to be despised, but would, on the contrary, try to prove that
Protestantism is a return to the most honourable and ancient traditions
of Christianity, freed from any false and pernicious admixture.
It is clear, then, that the disputing parties stand on one and the same
moral ground (which alone renders dispute possible), that they have the
same moral principles and standards, and that the dispute is merely
about their application. These principles do not as such belong to any
denomination, but form a general tribunal to which all equally appeal.
The representative of each side says in fact to his opponent simply
this: “I practise better than you the moral principles which you, too,
wish to follow; therefore you must give up your error and acknowledge
that I am right.” The ethical standards, equally presupposed by all
denominations, cannot themselves, then, depend upon denominational
differences.
But morality proves to be just as independent of the more important
religious differences. When a missionary persuades a Mahomedan or a
heathen of the moral superiority of the Christian teaching he evidently
presupposes that his listener has the same moral standards as his own,
at least, in a potential form.
This means that the norms which are common both to the Christian and to
the heathen, and are ‘written’ in the latter’s heart, are altogether
independent of positive religion. Besides, in so far as all positive
religions, including the absolutely true one, appeal in the disputes
to the universal moral norms, they admit that in a certain sense they
are dependent upon the latter. Thus during a judicial trial both the
right and the wrong party are equally subordinate to the law; and
inasmuch as they have both appealed to it, they have acquiesced in such
subordination.
III
Moral philosophy has then a subject-matter of its own (the moral norms)
independent of particular religions, and even in a sense presupposed
by them; thus on its objective or real side it is self-contained.
The question must now be asked whether on its formal side--as a
science--moral philosophy is subordinate to theoretical philosophy,
especially to that part of it which examines the claims and the
limitations of our cognitive faculty. But in working out a moral
philosophy, reason simply unfolds, on the ground of experience, the
implications of the idea of the good (or, what is the same thing,
of the ultimate fact of moral consciousness) which is inherent in
it from the first. In doing this, reason does not go beyond its own
boundaries; in scholastic language its use here is _immanent_, and is
therefore independent of this or of that solution of the question as to
the _transcendent_ knowledge of things in themselves. To put it more
simply, in moral philosophy we are concerned with our inward relation
to our own activities, i.e. with something that can _unquestionably_ be
known by us, for it has its source in ourselves. The debatable question
as to whether we can know that which belongs to other realms of being,
independent of us, is not here touched upon. The ideal content of
morality is apprehended by reason which has itself created it; in this
case, therefore, knowledge coincides with its object (is adequate
to it) and leaves no room for critical doubt. The progress and the
results of this process of thought answer for themselves, presupposing
nothing but the general logical and psychological conditions of all
mental activity. Ethics makes no claim to a theoretical knowledge of
any metaphysical essences and takes no part in the dispute between the
dogmatic and the critical philosophy, the first of which affirms, and
the second denies, the reality, and consequently the possibility, of
such knowledge.
In spite of this formal and general independence of ethics of the
theoretical philosophy, there are two metaphysical questions which may
_apparently_ prove fatal to the very existence of morality.
The first question is this. The starting point of every serious
speculation is the doubt as to the objective validity of our knowledge:
Do things exist as they are known to us? The doubt about our knowledge
gradually leads us to doubt the very existence of that _which is
known_, _i.e._ of the world and all that is in it. This world is made
up of our sense perceptions which the understanding unites into one
coherent whole. But is not the perceived merely our sensation and
the connectedness of things merely our thought? And if this be so,
if the world as a whole be only my presentation, then all the beings
to whom I stand in the moral relation prove also to be nothing but
my presentations, for they are inseparable parts of the presented
world, given in knowledge like everything else. Now moral rules, or
at least a considerable number of them, determine my right relation
to other people. If other people do not exist, do not these moral
rules themselves become objectless and unrealisable? This would be
the case if the non-existence of other human beings could be known
with the same indubitable certainty which attaches to moral precepts
in their sphere. If while my conscience definitely compelled me to
act morally in relation to certain objects, theoretical reason proved
with _equal definiteness_ that these objects did not exist at all, and
that therefore rules of action relating to them were meaningless--if
practical certainty were thus undermined by _equal_ theoretical
certainty, and the categoric character of the precept were negated by
the indubitable knowledge of the impossibility of carrying it out--then
indeed the position would be hopeless. But in truth there is no such
conflict between two _equal_ certainties, and there cannot be. Doubt as
to the independent existence of external things is not, and can never
become, certainty of their non-existence. Suppose it were proved that
our senses and our understanding are untrustworthy witnesses as to
the existence of other beings, the untrustworthiness of the witnesses
merely makes their testimony doubtful, but does not make the opposite
true. Even if it were positively proved that a given witness had
falsely testified to a fact which in reality he had not witnessed at
all, it would be impossible to conclude from this that the fact itself
never existed. _Other_ witnesses might vouch for it, or indeed it
might not have been witnessed by any one and yet be a fact. Our senses
and our intellect tell us of the existence of human beings other than
ourselves. Suppose that investigation were to show that this is false,
and that these means of knowledge warrant the existence of objects
as _our presentations_ only and not their existence as independent
realities--which we consequently begin to doubt. But to go further
and replace our former certitude of the existence of other beings by
the certitude of the opposite and not merely by doubt would only be
possible on the supposition that whatever is not actually contained in
our senses and our thought cannot exist at all. This, however, is quite
an arbitrary assumption, for which there is neither logical ground nor
any reasonable foundation.
If we cannot in relation to the existence of other selves go further
than doubt, we may rest satisfied about the fate of moral principles;
for theoretical doubt is evidently insufficient to undermine moral and
practical certainty. It must also be remembered that critical doubt is
not the final point of view of philosophy, but is always overcome in
one way or another. Thus Kant draws the distinction between phenomena
and noumena (appearances and things in themselves), restoring to the
objects of moral duty as noumena the full measure of independent
existence which as phenomena they do not possess. Other thinkers
discover new and more trustworthy witnesses of the existence of the
external world than sense and thought (Jacobi’s immediate _faith_,
Schopenhauer’s _Will_ which is experienced as the root of our own
reality, and, by analogy, of that of other beings), or they work
out a system of a new and more profound speculative dogmatism which
re-establishes the objective significance of all that is. (Schelling,
Hegel, and others.)
But however great the force and the significance of the critical doubt
as to the existence of other beings may be, it has bearing merely on
one aspect of morality. Every ethical precept as such touches upon the
object of the action (other men) only with its outer end, so to speak;
the real root of it is always within the agent and cannot therefore be
affected by any theory--whether positive or negative--of the external
world. And the external aspect of the moral law which links it to the
object belongs, properly speaking, to the sphere of legal justice and
not of morality in the narrow sense. As will be shown in due course
legal justice depends upon morality and cannot be separated from it,
but this does not prevent us from clearly distinguishing the two
spheres. When one and the same action, _e.g._ murder, is condemned
equally by a criminologist and by a moralist, they both refer to
one and the same totality of psychological moments resulting in the
material fact of taking life, and the conclusions are identical,
but the starting point and the whole train of reasoning is entirely
different and opposed in the two cases. From the legal point of view,
what is of primary significance is the objective fact of murder--an
action which violates another person’s rights and characterises the
culprit as an abnormal member of society. To make that characteristic
full and complete, the inner psychological moments must also be taken
into account, first and foremost among them being the presence of
criminal intention, the so-called _animus_ of the crime. But the
subjective conditions of the action are of interest solely in their
relation to the fact of murder, or in causal connection with it. If a
man breathed vindictiveness and murder all his life, but his subjective
mental state found no expression in actual murder nor attempt at one,
nor in any violence, that person in spite of all his diabolical malice
would not come within the range of the criminologist as such. On the
contrary, from the moral point of view, the slightest emotion of malice
or anger, even though it never expressed itself in action or speech,
is in itself a direct object of ethical judgment and condemnation; and
the fact of murder from this point of view has significance not on its
material side, but simply as an expression of the extreme degree of
the evil feeling which throughout all its stages is deserving of moral
condemnation. For a criminologist murder is an infringement of right or
a loss unlawfully inflicted upon the victim and upon the social order.
But from the purely moral point of view, being deprived of life is not
necessarily a loss, and may even be a gain for the victim; murder is an
unquestionable loss for the murderer alone, not as a fact, but as the
culminating point of the malice which is in itself a loss to a man in
so far as it lowers his dignity as a rational being. Of course, from
the ethical point of view, too, murder is worse than a mere outburst
of anger. But this is simply because the former involves a greater
degree of the same evil passion than the latter, and it is certainly
not because one is a harmful action and the other merely a feeling. If
with the firm intention of causing death to his enemy a man stabs a wax
effigy, he is from the moral point of view a full-fledged murderer,
though he has killed no one and interfered with no one’s rights; but
for this very reason, from the legal point of view his action is not
even remotely akin to murder, and is at most an insignificant damage to
another person’s property.
Extreme idealism which recognises the subject’s inner states as alone
real does not deny that there exist qualitative differences between
these states, expressing a greater or lesser degree of activity in the
self. Therefore from this point of view also our actions, in spite
of the illusory character of their object, preserve their full moral
significance as indicative of our spiritual condition. Thus the feeling
of anger or malice, _e.g._, indicates like every other _passion_ the
_passivity_ of the spirit or its inward subordination to the illusory
appearances, and is in that sense immoral. It is clear that the degree
of immorality is directly proportionate to the strength of the passion
or to the degree of our passivity. The stronger the passion, the
greater passivity of the spirit does it indicate. Therefore a passion
of anger leading to premeditated murder is more immoral than a passing
irritability, quite apart from the theoretical question as to the
illusory character of external objects. Even from the point of view
of subjective idealism, then, bad actions are worse than bad emotions
which do not lead to actions.
The conclusion that follows from this is clear. If the universe were
merely my dream, this would be fatal only to the objective, the
external side of ethics (in the broad sense), and not to its own inner
sphere; it would destroy my interest in jurisprudence, politics,
in social questions, in philanthropy, but it would not affect the
individually moral interests or the duties to myself. I should cease
to care about safeguarding the rights of others, but would still
preserve my own inner dignity. Not feeling any tender compassion for
the phantoms surrounding me, I should be all the more bound to refrain
from evil or shameful passions in relation to them. If it be opposed
to moral dignity to bear malice against a living human being, it is
all the more so against a mere phantom; if it be shameful to fear
that which exists, it is still more shameful to fear that which does
not exist; if it be shameful and contrary to reason to strive for the
material possession of real objects, it is no less shameful and far
more irrational to entertain such a desire with regard to phantoms
of one’s own imagination. Quite apart from the theory that all that
exists is a dream, when in the ordinary way we dream of doing something
immoral we feel ashamed of it even after awakening. Of course if I
dream that I have killed some one, on waking I am not so much ashamed
of my action as pleased at its having been only a dream; but of the
vindictive feeling experienced in the dream I am ashamed even when
awake.
In view of all these considerations, the following general conclusion
seems inevitable. Theoretical philosophy (namely, the critique of
knowledge) may engender doubt as to the existence of the objects
of morality, but it certainly cannot create a conviction of their
non-existence. The doubt (which, however, is disposed of, in one way
or another, by the theoretical philosophy itself) cannot outweigh the
certainty which attaches to the deliverances of conscience. But even if
it were possible to be certain of the non-existence of other beings (as
objects of moral activity), this would only affect the objective side
of ethics, leaving its own essential sphere altogether untouched. This
conclusion sufficiently safeguards the independence of moral philosophy
with regard to the first point raised by the critique of knowledge. The
second difficulty arises in connection with the metaphysical question
of the freedom of will.
IV
It is often maintained that the fate of moral consciousness depends
upon this or that view of the freedom of will. It is urged that either
our actions are free or they are determined, and then it is affirmed
that the second alternative, namely, determinism, or the theory that
all our actions and states happen with necessity, makes human morality
impossible and thus deprives moral philosophy of all meaning. If, they
say, man is merely a wheel in the world machine, it is impossible to
speak of moral conduct. But the whole force of the argument depends
upon an erroneous confusion between mechanical determinism and
determinism in general--a confusion from which Kant himself is not
altogether free. Determinism in general merely affirms that everything
that happens, and therefore all human conduct, is _determined_
(_determinatur_--hence the name of the theory) _by sufficient reasons,
apart_ from which it _cannot_ take place, and _given_ which it happens
with _necessity_. But although the general concept of necessity
is always identical with itself, necessity as actual fact varies
according to the sphere in which it is realised; and corresponding
to the three chief kinds of necessity (with reference to events and
actions) there may be distinguished three kinds of determinism: (1)
_mechanical determinism_, which certainly is exclusive of morality; (2)
_psychological determinism_, which allows for some moral elements but
is hardly compatible with others; (3) _rationally ideal determinism_,
which gives full scope to the demands of morality.
Mechanical necessity is undoubtedly present in phenomena, but the
assertion that it is the only kind of necessity that exists is simply
a consequence of the materialistic metaphysics which would reduce all
that is to mechanical movements of matter. This view, however, has
nothing to do with the conviction that everything that happens has a
sufficient reason which determines it with necessity. To regard man as
a wheel in the world machine, one must at least admit the existence
of such a machine, and by no means all determinists would agree to
this. Many of them regard the material world merely as a presentation
in the mind of spiritual beings, and hold that it is not the latter
who are mechanically determined by real things, but that phenomena are
mentally determined in accordance with the laws of the inner life of
the spiritual beings, of which man is one.
Leaving metaphysics for the present on one side and confining ourselves
to the limits of general experience, we undoubtedly find already in
the animal world inner psychological necessity essentially irreducible
to mechanism. Animals[9] are determined in their actions not merely
externally, but also from within, not by the push and pressure of
things, but by impelling motives, _i.e._ by their own ideas. Even
granting that these motives are caused by outer objects, they
nevertheless arise and act in the animal’s mind in accordance with its
own nature. This psychological necessity is of course not freedom,
but it cannot be identified with mechanical necessity. Where Kant
attempts to identify the two, the erroneousness of his contention is
betrayed by a curiously unfortunate comparison he makes. In his words
the freedom of being determined by one’s own ideas is in truth no
better than the freedom of a roasting-jack which being once set going
produces its movements by itself. Not only Kant, who was opposed to
any kind of hyloism (animation of matter), but the most poetically
minded _Natur-philosoph_ would certainly not ascribe to such an
object as a roasting-jack the power of spontaneously producing its
movements. When we say that it turns by itself we simply mean that,
owing to the force of the impetus it has received, it continues to
move alone. The words “by itself” mean here “without the help of any
new additional agent”--the same as the French _tout seul_[10]--and
in no way presupposes that the object moved contributes anything of
itself to the movement. But when we say of an animal that it moves
by itself, we mean precisely its inward participation in producing
movements. It flees from an enemy or runs towards food, not because
these movements have been externally communicated to it beforehand,
but because at that moment it experiences fear of the enemy or desire
for food. Of course these psychological states are not free acts of
will, nor do they immediately produce bodily movements; they merely
set going a certain mechanism which is already there, fitted for the
execution of certain actions. But the special peculiarity which does
not allow of animal life being reduced to mere mechanism is that, for
the normal interaction between the animal organism and the external
environment to take place, the latter must take for the animal the form
of a motive and determine the animal’s movements in accordance with
its own pleasant or unpleasant feelings. The presence or absence of
the capacity for feeling which is inseparably connected with the two
other faculties of willing and of representing--_i.e._ the presence or
absence of an inner life--is the most important difference that we can
conceive. And if we grant the presence of this inner life in the animal
and deny it to a mechanical automaton, we have no right to identify the
two as Kant does.[11]
The psychical life as manifested in the different species and in
individual animals (and in man) presents qualitative differences which
enable us, for instance, to distinguish between the ferocious and the
meek, the brave and the cowardly, etc. Animals are not aware of these
qualities as either good or bad; but in human beings the same qualities
are regarded as indicating a good or a bad nature. There is a moral
element involved here, and experience unquestionably proves that good
nature may develop and bad be suppressed or corrected; we already
have here a certain object for moral philosophy and a problem of its
practical application, though of course there is as yet no question
as to the freedom of will. The final independence of ethics of this
metaphysical problem is, however, to be discovered not within the
sphere of psychical life which is common to man and animal, but within
the sphere of human morality proper.
V
Just as in the animal world psychological necessity is superadded to
the mechanical without cancelling the latter or being reduced to it,
so in the human world to these two kinds of necessity is added the
ideally rational or _moral necessity_. It implies that the motives
or sufficient reasons of human actions are not limited to concrete
particular ideas which affect the will through the pleasant or
unpleasant sensations, but may be supplied by the universal rational
idea of the good acting upon the conscious will in the form of
absolute duty or, in Kant’s terminology, in the form of a categorical
imperative. To put it more plainly, man may do good apart from and
contrary to any self-interested considerations, for the sake of the
good itself, from reverence for duty or the moral law. This is the
culminating point of morality, which is, however, quite compatible
with determinism and in no way requires the so-called freedom of
will. Those who affirm the contrary ought first to banish from the
human mind and language the very term “moral necessity,” for it would
be a _contradictio in adjecto_ if morality were possible only on
condition of free choice. And yet the idea expressed by this term is
not only clear to every one, but follows from the very nature of the
case. Necessity in general is the absolute dependence of an action
(in the broad sense, _effectus_) upon a ground which determines it,
and is therefore called sufficient. When this ground is a physical
blow or shock, the necessity is mechanical; when a mental excitation,
the necessity is psychological; and when the idea of the good, it is
moral. Just as there have been futile attempts to reduce psychology to
mechanics, so now an equally futile attempt is made to reduce morality
to psychology, _i.e._ to show that the true motives of human action can
only be mental affections and not a sense of duty--in other words, to
prove that man never acts for conscience’ sake alone. To prove this is,
of course, impossible. It is no argument to say that the moral idea is
comparatively seldom a sufficient ground for action. Plants and animals
are only an insignificant quantity as compared with the inorganic
mass of the earth; but no one could conclude from this that there is
no fauna and flora on the earth. Moral necessity is simply the finest
flower on the psychological soil of humanity, and for this reason it is
all the more important for philosophy.
Everything that is higher or more perfect presupposes by its very
existence certain freedom from the lower, or, to speak more exactly,
from the exclusive domination by the lower. Thus the capacity of
being determined to action by means of ideas or motives means freedom
from the exclusive domination by material impact and pressure--_i.e._
psychological necessity means freedom from mechanical necessity. In
the same way moral necessity, while wholly retaining its necessary
character, means freedom from the lower, psychological necessity. If
a person’s actions can be determined by the pure idea of the good or
by the absolute demands of moral duty, it means that he is free from
the overpowering influence of emotions and may successfully resist
the most powerful of them. But this _rational freedom_ has nothing in
common with the so-called freedom of will which means that the will is
determined by nothing except itself, or, according to the incomparable
formula of Duns Scotus, “nothing except the will itself causes the
act of willing in the will” (_nihil aliud a voluntate causat actum
volendi in voluntate_). I do not say that there is no such freedom of
will; I only say that there is none of it in moral actions. In such
actions will is determined by the idea of the good or the moral law
which is universal and necessary, and independent of will both in its
content and in its origin. It may be thought, however, that the act
itself of accepting or not accepting the moral law as the principle of
one’s will depends on that will alone, and that this explains why one
and the same idea of the good is taken by some as a sufficient motive
for action and is rejected by others. The different effects are due,
however, in the first place, to the fact that one and the same idea has
for different people a different degree of clearness and completeness,
and secondly, to the unequal receptivity of different natures to moral
motives generally. But then all causality and all necessity presupposes
a _special_ receptivity of given objects to a certain kind of stimuli.
The stroke of a billiard cue which moves a billiard ball has no effect
whatever on a sun ray; juicy grass which excites irrepressible longing
in a deer is not, as a rule, a motive of willing in a cat, and so on.
If the indifference of the sun ray to the strokes of a cue or the
dislike of vegetable food by a carnivorous animal be regarded as a
manifestation of free will, then, of course, man’s good or bad actions
must also be considered arbitrary. But this is simply a gratuitous
introduction of misleading terminology.
For the idea of the good as duty to become a sufficient reason or
motive for action, a union of two factors is necessary: sufficient
clearness and fulness of the idea itself in consciousness and
sufficient moral receptivity of the subject. Whatever the one-sided
schools of ethics may say, it is clear that the presence of one of
these factors in the absence of the other is insufficient for producing
the moral effect. Thus, to use a Biblical example, Abraham, who had
the greatest moral receptivity but an insufficient knowledge of what
is contained in the idea of the good, decided to kill his son. He
was fully conscious of the imperative form of the moral law as the
expression of the higher will, and accepted it implicitly; he was
simply lacking in the conception of what may and what may not be
a good or an object of God’s will--a clear proof that even saints
stand in need of moral philosophy. In the Bible Abraham’s decision
is regarded in two ways--(1) as an act of religious devotion and
self-sacrifice, which brought to the patriarch and his posterity the
greatest blessings, and (2) as involving the idea that God’s will is
qualitatively indifferent--an idea so erroneous and so dangerous that
interference from above was necessary in order to prevent his intention
being carried out. (I need not here touch upon the connection of
the event with heathen darkness nor upon its mysterious relation to
Christian light.) In contradistinction to Abraham, the prophet Balaam,
in spite of his being fully conscious of the right course, was led
by his vicious heart to prefer the king’s gifts to the decree of the
Divine will and to curse the people of God.
When the moral motive is defective in the one respect or the other,
it does not operate; and when it is sufficient in both respects it
operates with necessity like any other cause. Suppose I accept the
moral law as a motive for action solely for its own sake, out of
reverence for it and without any admixture of extraneous motives. This
very capacity to respect the moral law so highly and so disinterestedly
as to prefer it to all else is itself a quality of mind and is not
arbitrary, and the activity that follows from it, though rationally
_free_, is entirely subject to moral _necessity_ and cannot possibly be
arbitrary or accidental. It is free in the relative sense, free from
the lower mechanical and psychological necessity, but it is certainly
not free from the inner higher necessity of the absolute good. Morality
and moral philosophy are entirely based upon rational freedom or
moral necessity, and wholly exclude from their sphere the irrational
unconditional freedom or the arbitrary choice.
In order that the conscious choice of man might be determined by the
idea of the good with full inward necessity and have a _sufficient_
motive, the content of this idea must be sufficiently developed; the
intellect must present the idea to the will in its full force--and to
do this is precisely the function of moral philosophy. Thus ethics is
not only compatible with determinism, but renders the highest form of
necessity possible. When a man of high moral development consciously
subordinates his will to the idea of the good, which is completely
known to him and has been fully thought out, it is clear that there is
no shadow of arbitrariness in his submission to the moral law, but that
it is absolutely necessary.
And yet there is such a thing as an absolute freedom of choice. It
is found not in the moral self-determination, not in the acts of the
practical reason where Kant sought it, but just at the opposite pole
of the inner life. At present I can only indicate my meaning partially
and imperfectly. As already said, the good cannot be the direct object
of arbitrary choice. Granted the requisite degree of understanding
and of receptivity on the part of the subject, its own excellence is
quite a sufficient reason for preferring it to the opposite principle,
and there is here no room for arbitrary choice. When I choose the
good, I do so not because of my whim but because it is good, because
it has value, and I am capable of realising its significance. But
what determines the opposite act of rejecting the good and choosing
the evil? Is such choice entirely due to the fact that, as a certain
school of ethics supposes, I do not know evil and mistakenly take it
for the good? It is impossible to prove that this is _always_ the case.
A sufficient knowledge of the good in combination with a sufficient
receptivity to it _necessarily_ determines our will in the moral sense.
But the question still remains whether an insufficient receptivity to
the good and a receptivity to evil is merely a natural fact, or whether
it depends on the will, which in this case, having no rational motive
to determine it in the bad direction (for to submit to evil rather
than to good is contrary to reason), is itself the ultimate cause of
its own determination. For a rational being there can be no objective
reason for loving evil as such, and the will therefore may only choose
it arbitrarily--on the condition, of course, that there be full, clear
consciousness of it; for when there is only half-consciousness, the
bad choice is sufficiently explained by a mistake of judgment. The good
determines my choice in its favour by all the infinite fulness of its
positive content and reality. This choice is therefore _infinitely_
determined; it is absolutely necessary, and there is no arbitrariness
in it at all. In the choice of evil, on the contrary, there is no
determining reason, no kind of necessity, and therefore infinite
arbitrariness. The question then assumes the following form: given a
full and clear knowledge of the good, can a rational being prove to be
so unreceptive to it as to reject it utterly and unconditionally and
choose the evil? Such lack of receptivity to the good that is perfectly
known would be something absolutely irrational, and it is only an
irrational act of this description that would truly come under the
definition of absolute freedom or of arbitrary choice. We have no right
_a priori_ to deny its possibility. Definite arguments for or against
it may only be found in the obscurest depths of metaphysics. But in
any case, before asking the question whether there can exist a being
who, with a full knowledge of the good, may yet arbitrarily reject it
and choose the evil, we must first make clear to ourselves all that
the idea of the good contains and involves. This is the task of moral
philosophy which is thus seen to be presupposed by the metaphysical
question as to the freedom of will (if this question is to be treated
seriously), and certainly not to depend upon it.[12] Before going into
any metaphysics we can and must learn what our reason finds to be the
good in human nature, and how it develops and expands this natural
good, raising it to the significance of absolute moral perfection.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] In these _preliminary_ remarks, which are merely introductory, I
intentionally take the idea of the good in its original complexity,
_i.e._ not merely in the sense of the moral worth of our actions, but
also in the sense of objects which are generally regarded as desirable
to possess or to enjoy (“all one’s goods,” etc.). Some doctrines deny
that there is any such distinction, and I cannot presuppose it before
the matter has been subjected to a philosophical analysis.
[4] Ὅταν γἁρ ἔθνη τὰ μὴ νόμον ἕχοντα φύσει τὰ τοῦ νόμου ποιῇ, οὖτοι
νόμον μὴ ἔχοντες ἑαυτοῖς εἰσι νόμος· οἴτινες ἐνδείκνυνται τὸ ἔργον
τοῦ νόμου γραπτὸν ἐν ταῖς καρδίαις αὐτῶν, συμμαρτυρούσης αὐτῶν τῆς
συνειδήσεως καὶ μεταξὺ ἀλλήλων τῶν λογισμῶν κατηγορούντων ἢ καὶ
ἀπολογουμένων.--ROM. ii. 14-15.
[5] What St. Paul says of the Gentiles of his time is no doubt
applicable to men who in the Christian era were unable to accept
Christianity either because they had not heard of it or because it had
been misrepresented to them. And when they do good they do it according
to the natural law “written in their hearts.”
[6] Of course, what is here denied is dependence in the strict sense,
_i.e._ such a relation between two objects that one of them is entirely
presupposed by the other and cannot exist apart from it. All I maintain
so far is that ethics is not in _this sense_ dependent upon _positive_
religion, without at all prejudging the question as to the actual
connection between them or their mutual dependence _in concreto_. As
to the so-called natural or rational religion, the very conception of
it has arisen on the ground of moral philosophy and, as will be shown
in its due course, has no meaning apart from it. At present I am only
concerned with the view which has, of late, become rather prevalent,
that the moral life is wholly determined by the dogmas and institutions
of a positive religion and must be entirely subordinate to them.
[7] One of my critics--heaven judge him!--took me to mean that that
religion is true to which the greatest number of good people belong. I
wish he had suggested some method for such moral statistics!
[8] Concerning the reproach in ‘moral fratricide’ see my article in
_Dogmatitcheskoe Razvitie Tserkvi_ (_The Dogmatic Development of the
Church_) in the _Pravoslavnoe Obozrenie_ for 1885.
[9] In a certain sense of course the same may be said of plants and
even of the different parts of the inorganic world, for there does
not exist in nature pure mechanism or absolute soullessness; but in
these preliminary remarks I wish to keep to what is indisputable and
generally understood. Concerning the different kinds of causality
or necessity in connection with the problem of the freedom of will
see in particular Schopenhauer, _Grundprobl. des Ethik_ and _Wille
in der Natur_. I have given the essence of his views in my _Kritika
otvletchonnih natchal_ (_Critique of Abstract Principles_), chap. ix.
[10] In the Polish language the word _sam_ has kept only this negative
sense--alone without the others (the derivative _samotny_ = lonely);
in the Russian and the German languages both meanings are possible,
and if the positive (the inner, spontaneous causality) is given the
negative (absence of any other cause) is presupposed, but not _vice
versa_. Thus the word _samouchka_ (self-taught) denotes a man who has
himself been the cause of his education and who studied alone without
the help of others. The two meanings are here combined as in similar
words in other languages, _e.g._ the German _Selbsterziehung_ or the
English _self-help_. But when we say that a roasting-jack moves (_sam_)
by itself (_Selbst_), the word has merely the negative meaning that
at the present moment nothing external is pushing the object. But it
is certainly not meant that the jack is the spontaneous cause of its
movements; the cause is wholly contained in the previous impetus,
external to the object.
[11] The logical right to doubt the presence of a mental life in
animals must be based upon the same grounds upon which I doubt the
existence of minds other than my own (see above). An exact solution of
this purely theoretical problem is impossible in the domain of ethics
and is not necessary for it; it is a question for epistemology and
metaphysics.
[12] A considerable part of my theoretical philosophy will be devoted
to the inquiry into the problem of free will. So far, it is sufficient
for me to show that this problem has no immediate bearing upon moral
philosophy which is concerned with the conception of the good, whether
the good be regarded as an object of arbitrary choice or as a motive
which necessarily determines the acts of rational and moral beings. In
what follows I shall always mean by human freedom, individual freedom,
etc., either moral freedom which is an ethical _fact_, or political
freedom which is an ethical _postulate_, without any more referring to
the absolute freedom of choice which is merely a metaphysical _problem_.
PART I
THE GOOD IN HUMAN NATURE
CHAPTER I
THE PRIMARY DATA OF MORALITY
I
However convincing or authoritative a moral teaching may be, it
will remain fruitless and devoid of power unless it finds a secure
foundation in the moral nature of man. In spite of all the differences
in the degree of spiritual development in the past and in the present,
in spite of all the individual variations and the general influences
of race, climate, and historical conditions, there exists an ultimate
basis of universal human morality, and upon it all that is of
importance in ethics must rest. The admission of this truth does not
in any way depend upon our metaphysical or scientific conception of
the origin of man. Whether the result of a long evolution of animal
organisms or an immediate product of a higher creative act, human
nature, with all its characteristic features--the most important among
them being the moral features--is in any case a fact.
The distinctive character of the psychical nature of man is not denied
by the great representative of the evolutionary theory. “No doubt the
difference in this respect (between man and other animals) is enormous,
even if we compare the mind of one of the lowest savages, who has no
words to express any number higher than four, and who uses hardly any
abstract terms for common objects or for the affections, with that of
the most highly organised ape. The difference would, no doubt, still
remain immense, even if one of the higher apes had been improved or
civilised as much as a dog has been in comparison with its parent-form,
the wolf or jackal. The Fuegians rank amongst the lowest barbarians,
but I was continually struck with surprise how closely the three
natives on board H.M.S. _Beagle_, who had lived some years in England,
and could talk a little English, resembled us in disposition and in
most of our mental faculties.”[13]
Further on Darwin declares that he entirely agrees with the writers
who hold that the greatest difference between man and animals consists
in the moral sentiment,[14] which he, for his part, regards as innate
and not as acquired.[15] But carried away by his desire--within
certain limits a legitimate one--to fill up the ‘immense’ distance by
intermediary links, Darwin makes one fundamental error. He regards all
human morality as in the first instance _social_, thus connecting it
with the social instincts of animals. Personal or individual morality
has, according to Darwin, merely a derivative significance, and is
a later result of historical evolution. He maintains that the only
virtues which exist for savages are those that are required by the
interests of their social group.[16] But one simple and universal fact
is sufficient to disprove this contention.
There exists one feeling which serves no social purpose, is utterly
absent in the highest animals, but is clearly manifested in the lowest
of the human races. In virtue of this feeling the most savage and
undeveloped man is _ashamed_ of--_i.e._ recognises as _wrong_--and
conceals a physiological act which not only satisfies his own desire
and need, but is, moreover, useful and necessary for the preservation
of the species. Directly connected with this is the reluctance to
remain in primitive nakedness; it induces savages to invent _clothes_
even when the climate and the simplicity of life make them quite
unnecessary.
This moral fact more sharply than any other distinguishes man from all
the other animals, for among them we find not the slightest trace of
anything approaching to it. Darwin himself, discussing as he does the
religious instinct of dogs, etc., never attempts to look to animals
for any rudiments of shame. And indeed, not to speak of the lower
creatures, even the highly-endowed and well-trained domestic animals
are no exception. The noble steed afforded the prophet in the Bible a
suitable image for depicting the shamelessness of the dissolute young
men of the Jerusalem nobility; the loyal dog has of old been rightly
considered a typical example of utter shamelessness; and among the
wild animals, the creature which in certain respects is still more
developed, the monkey, affords a particularly vivid instance of
unbridled cynicism, all the more apparent because of the monkey’s
external likeness to man, and its extremely lively intelligence and
passionate temperament.
As it is utterly impossible to discover shame among animals,
naturalists of a certain school are compelled to deny it to man. Not
having discovered any modest animals, Darwin talks of the shamelessness
of the savage peoples.[17] From the man who went round the world on his
ship _Beagle_ we might expect the positive and definite evidence of an
eye-witness; but instead he merely makes a few brief and unsupported
remarks, convincing to no one. Not only savages but even the civilised
peoples of Biblical or Homeric times may strike us as shameless, in
the sense that the feeling of shame which they undoubtedly possessed
did not always express itself in the same way, nor extend to all the
details of everyday life with which it is associated in our case.
So far as this goes, however, there is no need to appeal to distant
places and times: people who live side by side with us, but belong
to a different class, often consider permissible things of which we
are ashamed. And yet no one would contend that the feeling of shame
was unknown to them. Still less is it possible to make any general
deductions from cases of absolute moral deficiency which are found in
the annals of crime. Headless monsters are sometimes born into the
human world, but nevertheless a head remains an essential feature of
our organism.
To prove his contention that primitive man is devoid of shame, Darwin
also briefly refers to the religious customs of the ancients, _i.e._ to
the phallic cult. But this important fact is rather an argument against
him. Intentional, exaggerated shamelessness--shamelessness made into a
religious principle--evidently presupposes the existence of shame. In
like manner the sacrifice by the parents of their children to the gods
certainly does not prove the absence of pity or of parental love, but,
on the contrary, presupposes it. The main point about these sacrifices
is that the _loved_ children were killed: if that which was sacrificed
were not dear to the person who gave it, the sacrifice would be of no
value and would lose its character of sacrifice. (It is only later, as
the religious feeling became weaker, that this fundamental condition
of all sacrifice came to be avoided by means of different symbolical
_substitutes_.) No religion at all, not even the most savage one,
could be based upon a mere absence of shame, any more than upon a mere
absence of pity. False religion as much as the true presupposes the
moral nature of man, and does so in the very demand for its perversion.
The demoniac powers, worshipped in the bloody and dissolute cults of
ancient heathendom, were nurtured and lived by this real perversion, by
this positive immorality. These religions did not require merely the
natural performance of a certain physiological act. No, their essence
was the intensification of depravity, the overstepping of all bounds
imposed by nature, society, and conscience. The religious character of
the orgies proves the extreme importance of this circumstance. If they
involved nothing beyond natural shamelessness, what could be the source
of the strained, the perverted, the mystical element in them?
It is obvious that it would not be necessary for Darwin to use such
unconvincing indirect arguments in support of his view could he produce
any trustworthy facts to show the presence of even rudimentary modesty
among animals. But there are no such facts, and shame undoubtedly
remains, even from the external and empirical point of view, the
distinguishing characteristic of man.
II
The feeling of shame (in its fundamental sense) is a fact which
absolutely distinguishes man from all lower nature. No other animal has
this feeling in the least degree, while in man it has been manifested
from time immemorial and is subject to growth and development.
But that which is involved in this fact gives it a further and a far
deeper significance. The feeling of shame is not merely a distinctive
feature whereby man is separated off for external observation from the
rest of the animal world; in it man actually separates himself from
material nature, his own as well as that external to him. In being
ashamed of his own natural inclinations and organic functions, man
proves that he is not merely a material being, but is something other
and higher. That which is ashamed separates itself in the very mental
act of shame from that of which it is ashamed. But material nature
cannot be foreign to or external to itself. Hence if I am ashamed of my
material nature, I prove by that very fact that I am not identical with
it. And it is precisely at the moment when man falls under the sway
of the material nature and is overwhelmed by it that his distinctive
peculiarity and inner independence assert themselves in the feeling of
shame, in and through which he regards the material life as something
other, as something foreign to himself, which must not dominate him.
Even if individual cases of sexual shame were to be found among
animals, it would simply be a premonition of the _human_ nature. For
in any case it is clear that a being who is ashamed of his animality
_in that very fact_ proves himself to be more than a mere animal. No
one who believes the story of the speaking ass of Balaam ever denied,
on that ground, that the gift of rational speech is a characteristic
peculiarity of man as distinct from other animals. But still more
fundamental in this sense is the meaning of sexual shame.
This fundamental fact of history and of anthropology--unnoticed or
intentionally omitted in the book of the great modern scientist--had
been noted three thousand years before in an inspired passage in a
book of far more authority: “And the eyes of them both were opened (at
the moment of fall) and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed
fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons. And they heard the
voice of the Lord God ... and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the
presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. And the Lord
God called unto Adam, and said unto him, _Where art thou?_ And he said,
I heard Thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked;
and I hid myself. And He said, Who told thee that thou wast naked?”
At the moment of fall a higher voice speaks in the depth of the human
soul, asking: Where art thou? where is thy moral dignity? Man, lord of
nature and the image of God, dost thou still exist? And the answer is
at once given: I heard the Divine voice and I was afraid of laying bare
my lower nature. _I am ashamed, therefore I exist_; and not physically
only, but morally--I am ashamed of my animality, therefore I still
exist as man.
It is by his own action and by testing his own being that man attains
to moral self-consciousness. Materialistic science would attempt in
vain to give, from its point of view, a satisfactory answer to the
question asked of man long ago: “Who told thee that thou wast naked?”
The independent and ultimate meaning of the sense of shame would
be explained away if this moral fact could be connected with some
material gain for the individual or for the species in the struggle for
existence. In that case shame could be accounted for as a form of the
instinct of animal self-preservation--individual or social. But there
is no such connection.
The feeling of shame associated with the sexual act might be useful to
the individual and to the species as a preventive against the abuse of
this important organic function. In the case of animals which follow
their instincts we do not find any injurious excesses; but in the case
of man, owing to a superior development of the individual consciousness
and will, excesses become possible; and against the most dangerous of
them--the abuse of the sexual instinct--a useful check is provided
in the feeling of shame which develops under the general conditions
of natural selection. This is a plausible argument, but it is not
really valid. To begin with, it involves an inner contradiction. If
the strongest and the most fundamental of instincts--the instinct of
self-preservation--is powerless to prevent man from dangerous excesses,
how could this be done by a new and derivative instinct of shame?
And if the instinctive promptings of shame do not have sufficient
influence over man, which is really the case, no specific utility can
attach to shame, and it remains inexplicable from the utilitarian and
materialistic point of view. Instead of checking the excesses, which
are a violation of the normal order, it itself simply proves to be
an additional object of such a violation--_i.e._ an utterly useless
complication. Connected with this is another consideration which
contradicts the utilitarian view of shame,--the fact, namely, that
this feeling manifests itself most clearly before entering upon sexual
relations: shame speaks most clearly and emphatically _virginibus
puerisque_, so that if shame had a direct practical significance, so
far from being useful, it would be detrimental both to the individual
and to the species. But if shame has no practical effect even when it
is felt most, no subsequent effect can be expected from it. So long as
shame is felt there can _as yet_ be no question of sexual abuse; and
when there is abuse, it is _too late_ to speak of shame. The normal
person is sufficiently safeguarded from dangerous excesses by the
simple feeling of satisfied desire, and an abnormal person or one with
perverted instincts is least of all noted for his sense of shame. Thus,
speaking generally, where shame might, from the utilitarian point of
view, be useful, it is absent, and where it is present it is of no use
at all.
In truth the feeling of shame is excited not by the abuse of a certain
organic function, but by the simple exercise of that function:
the natural fact is itself experienced as shameful. If this is a
manifestation of the instinct of self-preservation, it is so in quite
a special sense. What is being safeguarded here is not the subject’s
material welfare, but his highest human dignity; or rather that dignity
evinces itself as still safe in the depths of our being. The strongest
manifestation of the material organic life calls forth a reaction
on the part of the spiritual principle which reminds the personal
consciousness that man is not merely a natural fact, that he must not
as a passive instrument serve the vital purposes of nature. This is
only a _reminder_, and it rests with the personal rational will to
take advantage of it. As I have already said, this moral feeling has
no direct real effect, and if its promptings are in vain, shame itself
gradually disappears and is at last completely lost.
It is clear, then, that even if it were true that individual persons
or entire tribes are devoid of shame, this fact would not have the
significance ascribed to it. The unquestionable shamelessness of
individual persons as well as the questionable shamelessness of entire
peoples, can only mean that in these particular cases the spiritual
principle in man which lifts him above material nature is either still
undeveloped or is already lost--that this particular man or this
particular group of men have either not yet risen above the bestial
stage or have once more returned to it. But the hereditary or acquired
animality of this or that person or persons cannot destroy or weaken
the significance of the moral dignity of man, which with the enormous
majority of people clearly asserts itself in the feeling of shame--a
feeling absolutely unknown to any animal. The fact that infants at the
breast, or the mute, are, like animals, unable to speak, does not in
any way diminish the significance of language as the expression of a
distinctive, purely human rationality, not found in other animals.
III
Apart from all empirical considerations as to the genesis of the
feeling of shame in humanity, the significance of that feeling lies
in the fact that it determines man’s ethical relation to his material
nature. Man is ashamed of being dominated or ruled by it (especially in
its chief manifestation), and thereby asserts his inner independence
and his superior dignity in relation to it, in virtue of which he must
possess and not be possessed by it.
Side by side with this fundamental moral feeling determining the right
attitude to the lower, material principle in each of us, there exists
in human nature another feeling which serves as a basis for a moral
relation to other human, or, speaking generally, to other living beings
that are like us--namely, the feeling of _pity_.[18] The essence of it
lies in the fact that a given subject is conscious in a corresponding
manner of the suffering or the want of others, _i.e._ responds to it
more or less painfully, thus more or less exhibiting his solidarity
with the others. The ultimate and innate character of this moral
feeling is not denied by any serious thinker or scientist, if only
because the feeling of pity or compassion--in contradistinction to that
of shame--is present, in its rudimentary stage, in many animals,[19]
and consequently from no point of view can be regarded as a later
product of human development. Thus if a shameless man reverts to the
brute stage, a pitiless man falls lower than the animal level.
The close connection of the feeling of pity with the social instincts
of men and animals cannot be doubted owing to the very nature of that
feeling. In its essence, however, it is an individual moral state, and
even in the case of animals it is not reducible to social relations,
much less so in the case of man. If the need for a social unit were the
only foundation of pity, that feeling could only be experienced towards
the creatures that belong to one and the same social whole. This is
generally but by no means always the case, at any rate not among the
higher animals. Numerous facts of the tenderest love[20] between
animals (both wild and domestic) belonging to different and sometimes
remote zoological groups are well known. It is very strange that in
the face of this fact Darwin should maintain--without adducing any
evidence to prove his contention--that among savage peoples sympathetic
feelings are limited to members of one and the same narrow group. Of
course among the cultured nations, too, most people show real sympathy
chiefly towards their own family and most intimate friends, but the
individual moral feeling in all races may transcend--and did do so of
old--not only these narrow limits, but all empirical limits altogether.
To accept Darwin’s contention unconditionally would be to admit that
a human savage cannot attain to the moral level sometimes reached by
dogs, monkeys, and even lions.[21]
The sympathetic feeling can grow and develop indefinitely, but its
ultimate essence is one and the same among all living beings. The first
stage and the fundamental form of all solidarity in the animal kingdom
and in the human world is parental (and in particular maternal) love.
This is the simple root from which springs all the complexity and
multiplicity of the internal and external social relations; and it
is here that we see most clearly that the individually-psychological
essence of the moral bond is no other than pity. For no other mental
state can express the original solidarity of the mother with her weak,
helpless, _piteous_ offspring wholly dependent upon her.
IV
The feelings of shame and of pity essentially determine our moral
attitude in the first place to our own material nature, and in the
second to all other living beings. In so far as a man is modest and
pitiful he stands in a moral relation ‘to himself and to his neighbour’
(to use the old terminology); shamelessness and pitilessness, on the
contrary, undermine the very roots of his character. Apart from these
two feelings there exists in us a third one, irreducible to the first
two, and as ultimate as they; it determines man’s moral attitude not
to his own lower nature and not to the world of beings similar to
him, but to something different recognised by him as the _higher_; as
that which he can be neither _ashamed_ of, nor feel _pity_ for, but
which he must _revere_. This feeling of reverence (_reverentia_), or
of awe (piety, _pietas_), before _the higher_ forms in man the moral
basis of religion, and of the religious order of life. When abstracted
by philosophical reflection from its historic manifestations, it
constitutes the so-called ‘natural religion.’ The ultimate and the
innate character of this feeling cannot be denied for the same reason
that the innateness of pity is not seriously denied by any one. In a
rudimentary form both the feeling of pity and of reverence are found
among animals. It is absurd to expect to find among them religion in
our sense of the term. But the general elementary feeling upon which
human religion is ultimately based--namely, the feeling of reverence
and awe in the presence of something higher--may unconsciously spring
up in creatures other than man. In this sense the following remarks
must be said to be true: “The feeling of religious devotion is a
highly complex one, consisting of love, complete submission to an
exalted and mysterious superior, a strong sense of dependence, fear,
reverence, gratitude, hope for the future, and perhaps other elements.
No being could experience so complex an emotion until advanced in his
intellectual and moral faculties to at least a moderately high level.
Nevertheless, we see some distant approach to this state of mind in the
deep love of a dog for his master, associated with complete submission,
some fear, and perhaps other feelings. The behaviour of a dog when
returning to his master after an absence, and, as I may add, of a
monkey to his beloved keeper, is widely different from that towards
their fellows. In the latter case the transports of joy appear to be
somewhat less, and the sense of equality is shown in every action.”[22]
The representative of the scientific evolutionary view admits then
that in the quasi-religious relation of the dog or of the monkey to
a higher being (from their point of view) there is, in addition to
fear and self-interest, a moral element and one quite distinct from
the sympathetic feelings which these animals exhibit in relation to
their equals. This specific relation to the higher is precisely what I
call reverence; and if one admits it in dogs and monkeys it would be
strange to deny it to man, and to deduce human religion from fear and
self-interest alone. These lower feelings undoubtedly contribute to the
formation and the development of religion. But the ultimate basis of it
is the distinctive religiously moral feeling of man’s reverent love to
what is more excellent than himself.
V
The fundamental feelings of _shame_, _pity_, and _reverence_ exhaust
the sphere of man’s possible moral relations to that which is below
him, that which is on a level with him, and that which is above
him. _Mastery_ over the material senses, _solidarity_ with other
living beings, and inward voluntary _submission_ to the superhuman
principle--these are the eternal and permanent foundations of the moral
life of humanity. The degree of mastery, the depth and the extent of
solidarity, the completeness of the inward submission vary in the
course of history, passing from a lesser to a greater perfection, but
the principle in each of the three spheres of relation remains one and
the same.
All other phenomena of the moral life, all the so-called virtues, may
be shown to be the variations of these three essentials or the results
of interaction between them and the intellectual side of man. _Courage_
and _fortitude_, for instance, are undoubtedly exemplifications--though
in a more external and superficial form--of the same principle,
the more profound and significant expression of which is found in
shame,--the principle, namely, of rising above and dominating the
lower material nature. Shame (in its typical manifestation) elevates
man above the animal instinct of _generic_ self-preservation; courage
elevates him above another animal instinct--that of _personal_
self-preservation. But apart from this distinction in the object or
the sphere of application, these two forms of one and the same moral
principle differ more profoundly in another respect. The feeling of
shame necessarily involves a condemnation of that with which it is
associated: that of which I am ashamed is declared by me, in and
through the very act of being ashamed, to be bad or wrong. But a
courageous feeling or action, on the contrary, may simply express the
nature of a given individual, and, as such, contains no condemnation of
its opposite. For this reason courage is found among animals, having
in their case no moral significance. As the function of obtaining
and assimilating food gets more complex and developed it becomes in
some animals the destructive predatory instinct which may sometimes
outweigh the instinct of self-preservation. This domination of one
instinct over another is precisely what is meant by animal courage. Its
presence or absence is simply a natural fact, not inwardly connected
with any self-valuation. No one would think of saying that hares or
hens are ashamed of their timidity; courageous animals when they happen
to be afraid are not ashamed of it either--nor do they boast of their
courage. In man, too, the quality of courage as such is essentially of
that character. But owing to our higher nature and to the intervention
of the intellectual elements this quality acquires a new meaning which
connects it with the root of the distinctly human morality--with
shame. Man is conscious of courage not merely as of the predominance
of the predatory instinct, but as the power of the spirit to rise
above the instinct of personal self-preservation. The presence of
this spiritual power is recognised as a virtue, and the absence of it
is condemned as _shameful_. Thus the essential kinship between shame
and courage is seen in the fact that the absence of the second virtue
is condemned in accordance with the standard set by the first: a lack
of courage becomes the subject for shame. This does not apply with
the same force to other virtues (charity, justice, humility, piety,
etc.); their absence is generally condemned in a different way. And,
when judging other people’s feelings and actions, malice, injustice,
haughtiness, impiety strike us rather as hateful and revolting than as
shameful; the latter definition is specially restricted to cowardice
and voluptuousness,[23] _i.e._ to such vices which violate the dignity
of the human personality as such, and not its duties to others or to
God.
The inner dependence of other human virtues upon the three ultimate
foundations of morality will be shown in due course.
VI
Of the three ultimate foundations of the moral life, one, as we have
seen, belongs exclusively to man (shame), another (pity) is to a large
extent found among animals, and the third (awe or reverence for the
higher) is in a small degree observed in some animals. But although the
rudiments of moral feeling (of the second and third kind) are found
in the animal world, they differ essentially from the corresponding
feelings in man. Animals may be good or bad, but the distinction
between good and evil as such does not exist for their consciousness.
In the case of man this knowledge of good and evil is given immediately
in the feeling of shame that is distinctive of him, and, gradually
developing from this first root and refining its concrete and sensuous
form, it embraces the whole of human conduct in the form of conscience.
We have seen that within the domain of man’s moral relation to himself
or to his own nature, the feeling of shame (which has at first a
distinctly sexual character) remains identical in form whether it is
opposed to the instinct of generic or of individual self-preservation:
a cowardly attachment to the mortal life is as _shameful_ as giving
oneself up to the sexual desire. When from the relation to oneself as
a separate individual and a member of a genus we pass to the relations
to other people and to God--relations infinitely more complex, varied,
and changeable,--the moral self-valuation can no longer remain a
simple concrete sensation. It inevitably passes through the medium of
abstract thought and assumes the new form of _conscience_. But the two
facts are no doubt essentially the same.[24] Shame and conscience use
different language and on different occasions, but the meaning of their
deliverances is one and the same: _this is not good_, _this is wrong_,
_this is unworthy_.
This is the meaning of shame; conscience adds to it the analytic
explanation, “if you do this wrong or unlawful thing, you will be
guilty of evil, sin, crime.”
The voice of conscience, in determining as good or as evil our
relations to our neighbours and to God, alone gives them a moral
significance which otherwise they would not possess. And as conscience
is simply a development of shame, _the whole_ moral life of man in all
its three aspects springs, so to speak, _from one root_--a root that is
distinctly human and essentially foreign to the animal world.
If the ultimate foundation of conscience is the feeling of shame,
it is clear that animals which are devoid of this more elementary
feeling cannot possess the more complex development of it--conscience.
The presence of conscience in them is sometimes deduced from the
fact that animals which have done something wrong look guilty. But
this conclusion is based on a misunderstanding--on a confusion,
namely, between two facts which, as we know from our own experience,
are essentially distinct. The moral state of being reproached by
conscience, or the state of repentance, has an analogy in the
intellectual sphere in the consciousness of mistake or miscalculation,
_i.e._ of an act which from the utilitarian or the practical point of
view is purposeless or _unprofitable_ and is followed by a feeling of
dissatisfaction with oneself. These two facts are similar in form,
and both express themselves externally as _confusion_ (physiologically
as the flushing of the face). But although they sometimes coincide,
their nature is so different that often they exist separately and even
directly exclude one another. Thus, for instance, when the town-captain
in Gogol’s _Inspector General_ is terribly indignant with himself for
having been deceived by Hlestakov and not having deceived the latter
instead, or when a card-sharper in sudden confusion curses himself
for not having been clever enough at cheating, such self-condemnation
obviously has nothing to do with the awakening of conscience, but
rather proves an inveterate absence of conscience. Intellectual
self-condemnation is undoubtedly present in the higher animals. When
a well-brought-up dog is so keenly conscious of its own misdemeanours
that it actually tries to conceal them, this certainly proves its
intelligence, but has no relation whatever to its conscience.
VII
The highest moral doctrine can be no other than a complete and correct
development of the ultimate data of human morality, for the universal
demands involved in them cover the whole sphere of possible human
relations. But it is precisely the _universality_ of these relations
that forbids us to stop at establishing their existence as simply given
in our nature and renders a further development and justification of
them necessary.
The primitive, natural morality we have been considering is no
other than the reaction of the spiritual nature against the lower
forces--fleshly lust, egoism, and wild passions--which threaten to
submerge and overpower it. The capacity for such a reaction makes man
a moral being; but if the actual force and the extent of the reaction
is to remain indefinite, it cannot, as such, be the foundation of the
moral order in the human world. All the actual manifestations of our
moral nature are merely particular and accidental in character. Man may
be _more or less_ modest, compassionate, religious: the universal norm
is not given as a fact. The voice of conscience itself speaks _more or
less_ clearly and insistently, and can (in so far as it is _a fact_) be
binding only to the extent to which it is heard in each given case.
But reason, which is as innate in man as the moral feelings, from
the first puts to his moral nature its demand for universality and
necessity. Rational consciousness cannot rest content with the
accidental existence of relatively good feelings from which no general
rule can be deduced. The primary distinction between good and evil
already implies an idea of the good _free from any limitations_,
containing in itself an _absolute_ norm of life and activity. In the
form of a postulate the idea of the good is inherent in human reason,
but its actual content is determined and developed only through the
complex work of thought.
From the ultimate data of morality we inevitably pass to the general
principles which reason deduces from them, and which have in turn
played the foremost part in the different ethical theories.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_ (beginning of chap. iii.).
[14] _Ibid._ chap. iii.
[15] _Ibid._, the answer to Mill.
[16] _Ibid._, on social virtues.
[17] _The Descent of Man._ When dealing with savages even serious
scientists sometimes show remarkable thoughtlessness. The other day I
saw an amusing instance of it in the writings of the anthropologist
Brocke. He affirms that the aborigines of the Andaman Islands wear no
clothes; for, he says, one cannot regard as such a thin belt with a
piece of leather attached to it. I think one could with more ground
deny the essential function of clothes to the European dress-coat.
[18] I use the simplest term, the most usual in technical works on the
subject being the terms _sympathy_ or _compassion_.
[19] A number of facts showing this are to be found in works of
descriptive zoology (particularly in Brehm’s _Life of Animals_), and
also in the literature on animal psychology that has of late been
considerably developed.
[20] Love in the purely psychological sense (apart from the materially
sexual and the æsthetic relation) is firmly established, permanent pity
or compassion (sympathy). Long before Schopenhauer the Russian people
identified these two things in their language: “to love” and “to pity”
is one and the same for them. One need not go so far, but it cannot be
disputed that the fundamental subjective manifestation of love as a
moral feeling is pity.
[21] It is obvious, of course, that such cases with regard to wild
animals can only be properly observed when the animals are in
captivity. It is very probable indeed that the sympathetic feelings in
question are awakened chiefly in captivity.
[22] Darwin, _op. cit._, end of ch. iii. Darwin had been speaking
before of the intellectual side of religion--of the acknowledgment of
an invisible cause or causes for unusual events. He finds this too
among the animals.
[23] A complex wrong-doing like treason is recognised both as revolting
and as shameful for the same reason, in so far as treason includes
cowardice which prefers secret treachery to open enmity.
[24] The expressions _mnie stydno_ (‘I am ashamed’) and _mnie
soviestno_ (‘I am conscience-stricken’) are used in the Russian
language as synonymous, and, indeed, from the nature of the case it is
impossible to draw a sharp line of demarcation between the two mental
states.
CHAPTER II
THE ASCETIC PRINCIPLE IN MORALITY
I
The fundamental moral feeling of shame psychologically contains man’s
negative relation to the animal nature which seeks to overpower him.
To the strongest and most vivid manifestation of that nature the human
spirit, even at a low stage of development, opposes the consciousness
of its own dignity: I am ashamed to submit to the desire of the flesh,
I am ashamed to be like an animal, the lower side of my nature must not
dominate me--such domination is shameful and evil. This self-assertion
of the moral dignity--half-conscious and unstable in the simple feeling
of shame--is worked up by reason into the _principle of asceticism_.
The object of condemnation in asceticism is not material nature as
such. From no point of view can it be rationally maintained that
nature considered objectively--whether in its essence or in its
appearances--is evil. It is usually supposed that the so-called
Oriental religions, which are noted for extreme asceticism, are
specially characterised by their identification of the principle of
evil with physical matter, in contradistinction to true Christianity,
which finds the source of evil in the moral sphere. But, strictly
speaking, such identification is not to be found in any system of
Oriental philosophy or religion. It is sufficient to mention the three
most typical systems of India, the classical country of asceticism--the
orthodox Brahmin Vedanta,[25] the independent Sankhya, and, finally,
Buddhism.
According to the Vedanta, evil is illusion of the mind, which takes
material objects for entities separate from one another and from
the self, and takes the self to be an entity separate from the one
absolute Being. The cause of this illusion is the one ultimate Spirit
itself (Paramâtman) which suddenly, in a moment of incomprehensible
blindness or ignorance (Avidya), conceived the possibility of something
other than itself, desired that other, and thus fell into an illusory
duality, from which sprang the world. This world does not exist on its
own account (as external to the One) but is erroneously taken so to
exist--and therein lies the deception and the evil. When a traveller
in the wood takes the chopped-off branch of a tree for a snake, or,
_vice versa_, a snake for a branch of a tree, neither the image of the
snake nor of the branch is in itself evil: what is evil is the one
being taken for the other, and both being taken for something external
to the self. The ignorant think that their evil works are distinct
from the one Reality. But the evil deed, the evil doer himself, and
the false thought about their separateness are all part of the one
absolute and ultimate Spirit in so far as it _partly_[26] is in _the
state of ignorance_. Its self-identity is re-established in the thought
of the wise ascetics who by mortifying the flesh have conquered in
themselves the illusion of separateness and learnt that _all is one_.
According to such a system of thought evil clearly cannot belong to
material nature, for that nature is regarded as non-existent. Its
reality is acknowledged in another important Indian system--in the
independent or atheistic Sankhya. In it the pure spirit (Purusha),
existing only in the multitude of separate entities, is opposed to
first matter or nature (Prakriti). But the latter is not as such the
principle of wrong or of evil: evil (and that only in the relative
sense) is in the abiding connection of the spirit with it. These two
elements _must_ be connected, but only in a _transient_ fashion: nature
must be the temporal means, and not the purpose, of the spirit. The
paralysed man who can see (the spirit) must make use of the blind
athlete (nature), on whose shoulders he can attain the end of his
journey; but once the end is reached, they must part. The end of the
spirit is self-knowledge--that is, knowledge of itself as distinct
from nature. But if the spirit is to learn that it is distinct from
nature, it must first know nature--and this is the only justification
of the connection between the two. Nature is the dancer, spirit the
spectator. She has shown herself, he has seen her, and they may part.
The ascetic who resists natural inclinations is simply the wise man
who refrains from using means which are no longer necessary once the
end has been reached. Orthodox Brahmanism affirms that only the One
exists, and that there is no other (the principle of _Advaiti_--of
unity or indivisibility). The Sankhya philosophy admits the existence
of ‘the other’--_i.e._ of nature--but maintains that it is foreign to
the spirit, and, once a knowledge of it has been attained, unnecessary.
Buddhism reconciles this duality in a general indifference: spirit and
nature, the One and its other are equally illusory. ‘All is empty’;
there is no object for will; the desire to merge one’s spirit in
the absolute is as senseless as the desire for physical enjoyment.
Asceticism is here reduced to a mere state of _not willing_.
Turning from the Hindu systems to a different type of philosophy
developed in Egypt, we find that the striking and original form it
finally received in the gnosticism of Valentine’s school, involved
a conception of the natural world as mixed and heterogeneous in
character. The world is, in the first place, the creation of the
evil principle (Satan), secondly, the creation of the neutral and
unconscious Demiurgus who is neither good nor evil, and thirdly, it
contains manifestations of the heavenly Wisdom fallen from higher
spheres. Thus, the visible light of our world was taken by the thinkers
in question to be the smile of Sophia remembering the celestial
radiance of the Pleroma (the absolute fulness of being) she had
forsaken. Materiality as such was not, then, regarded by the Gnostics
as evil; light is material and yet it is a manifestation of the good
principle. Matter is not created by Satan because it is in itself
evil, but, on the contrary, it is evil only in so far as it is created
by Satan, _i.e._ in so far as it manifests or externally expresses
the inward nature of evil--in so far as it is darkness, disorder,
destruction, death--or, in a word, chaos.
The Persian system of thought (Manicheism), which is more pronouncedly
dualistic, no more identifies material nature with evil than does the
Egyptian gnosis. The natural world contains the element of light,
which proceeds from the divine kingdom of the good; this element is
manifested in the phenomena of light and is also present in vegetable
and animal life. The highest godhead is imagined by the Manicheans in
no other form than that of light.
None of these ‘Oriental’ systems, then, are guilty of the meaningless
identification of evil with material nature as such. But the contention
that _there is evil in the material nature of the world and of man_
would be granted by all the earnest thinkers both of the East and the
West. This truth does not depend upon any metaphysical conception of
matter and nature. We ourselves share in material nature and can know
from our own inner experience in what respect nature can, and in what
respect it cannot, satisfy the demands of the spirit.
II
In spite of Plotinus’s well-known assertion to the contrary, the normal
man of the highest degree of spiritual development is not in the least
ashamed of being a corporeal or material entity. No one is ashamed of
having an extended body of a definite shape, colour, and weight; that
is, we are not ashamed of all that we have in common with a stone, a
tree, a piece of metal. It is only in relation to characteristics we
have in common with beings which approach us most nearly and belong to
the kingdom of nature contiguous to us, that we have the feeling of
shame and of inner opposition. And this feeling shows that it is when
we are essentially in contact with the material life of the world and
_may_ be actually submerged by it, that we must wrench ourselves away
from and rise above it. The feeling of shame is excited neither by
that part of our corporeal being which has no direct relation to the
spirit at all (such as the above-mentioned material qualities which
the spirit has in common with inanimate objects), nor by that part
of the living organism which serves as the chief expression of the
specifically human rational life--the head, the face, the hands, etc.
The object of shame is only that part of our material being which,
though immediately related to the spirit, since it can inwardly affect
it, is not an expression or an instrument of the spiritual life, but
is, on the contrary, a means whereby the processes of purely animal
life seek to drag the human spirit down into their sphere, to master
and overpower it. The reaction of the spiritual principle, which finds
an immediate expression in the feeling of shame, is evoked by material
life thus encroaching upon the rational being of man and seeking to
make him into a passive instrument of or a useless appendage to the
physical process. The rational affirmation of a certain moral norm
assumes psychologically the form of fear to violate it or of sorrow
at having violated it already. The norm logically presupposed by the
feeling of shame, is, when expressed in its most general form, as
follows: _the animal life in man must be subordinate to the spiritual_.
This judgment is apodictically certain, for it is a correct deduction
from fact and is based on the logical law of identity. The very fact
of man’s shame at being merely animal proves that he _is not_ a mere
animal, but is also something else and something higher; for if he
were on the same or on a lower level, shame would be meaningless.
Looking at the matter from the formal side alone it cannot be doubted
that clear consciousness is better than blind instinct, that spiritual
self-control is better than the surrender to the physical process. And
if man unites in himself two different elements related as the higher
and the lower, the demand for the subordination of the latter to the
former follows from the very nature of the case. The fact of shame is
independent of individual, racial, and other peculiarities; the demand
contained in it is of a _universal_ character; and this, in conjunction
with the logical _necessity_ of that demand, makes it in the full sense
of the term a moral _principle_.
III
Man, like the animals, participates in the life of the universe. The
essential difference between the two lies simply in the manner of the
participation. The animal, being endowed with consciousness, shares
inwardly and psychically in the processes of nature which hold it
under their sway. It knows which of them are pleasant or unpleasant,
it instinctively feels what is detrimental to itself or to the
species. But this is true only with reference to the environment which
immediately affects the animal at a given time. The world process as a
_whole_ does not exist for the animal soul. It can know nothing of the
reasons and ends of that process, and its participation in it is purely
passive or instrumental. Man, on the other hand, passes judgment on
the part he takes in the world process, both with reference to the
given events that affect him as _psychological motives_, and to the
general principle of all activity. That principle is the idea of worth
or of lack of worth, of good or of evil, and it can itself become the
ground or the motive of human activity. This higher consciousness or
inward self-valuation places man in a definite relation to the world
process as a _whole_, the relation, namely, of actively participating
in its _purpose_; for in determining all his actions by the idea of the
good, man shares in the universal life _only in so far as its purpose
is the good_. But since this higher consciousness as a fact grows out
of the material nature and exists, so to speak, at its expense, that
lower nature or the animal soul in man is naturally opposed to it.
There thus arise two conflicting tendencies in our life--the spiritual
and the carnal.[27] The spiritual principle, as it immediately appears
to our present consciousness, is a distinct tendency or process in our
life, directed towards realising in the whole of our being the rational
idea of the good. Likewise the carnal principle with which in our inner
experience we are concerned, is not the physical organism nor even the
animal soul as such, but merely a tendency excited in that soul, and
opposed to the higher consciousness, seeking to overpower and to drown
in the material process the beginnings of spiritual life.
In this case material nature is indeed evil, for it tries to destroy
that which is worthy of being and which contains the possibility of
something different from and better than the material life. Not in
itself, but only in this bad relation to the spirit, man’s material
nature is what in scriptural terminology is called _the flesh_.
The idea of ‘flesh’ must not be confused with the idea of ‘body.’ Even
from the ascetic point of view body is the temple of the spirit; bodies
may be ‘spiritual,’ ‘glorified,’ ‘heavenly,’ but ‘flesh and blood
cannot inherit the kingdom of heaven.’[28] Flesh is excited animality,
animality that breaks loose from its bounds and ceases to be the
matter or the hidden (potential) foundation of the spiritual life--as
the animal life ought to be both on its physical and on its mental side.
At the elementary stages of his development man is a spiritual being
potentially rather than actually; and it is just this potentiality
of a higher spiritual life, manifested as self-consciousness and
self-control in opposition to blind and uncontrolled physical nature,
that is endangered by fleshly lust. Flesh, _i.e._ matter which has
ceased to be passive and is striving for independence and infinity,
seeks to attract the spiritual power to itself, to drag it in and
absorb it in itself, increasing its own power at its expense. This
is possible because, as incarnate, as actually _manifested_ in
the concrete man, spirit, or rather the life of spirit, is only
a transformation of material existence (more immediately, of the
animal soul), although in their ideal essence spirit and matter are
heterogeneous. Regarded concretely, spiritual and material being are
two kinds of energy which can be transformed into one another--just as
mechanical motion can be transformed into heat and _vice versa_. The
flesh (_i.e._ the animal soul as such) is strong only in the weakness
of the spirit and lives only by its death. Therefore, for the spirit to
preserve itself and to increase in power, the flesh must be subdued and
transferred from the actual to the potential state. This is the real
meaning of the moral law that flesh must be subordinate to the spirit,
and the true basis of all moral asceticism.
IV
The moral demand to subordinate the flesh to the spirit conflicts with
the actual striving of the flesh to subject the spirit to itself.
Consequently the ascetic principle has a double aspect. It requires in
the first place that the spiritual life should be safeguarded from the
encroachments of the flesh, and secondly, that the animal life should
be made merely the potentiality or the matter of the spirit. Owing to
the intimate inner connection and constant interaction between the
spiritual and the carnal aspects of the human being as a whole, these
two demands--the preservation of the spirit from the flesh and the
realisation of the spirit in the flesh--cannot be fulfilled separately,
but inevitably pass into one another. In actual life spirit can defend
itself against the encroachments of the flesh only at the expense of
the latter, that is, by being partially realised in it; at the same
time the realisation of the spirit is only possible on the condition of
its constantly defending itself against the continued attempts of the
flesh to destroy its independence.
The three chief moments in this process are: (1) the _distinction_
which the spirit inwardly draws between itself and the flesh; (2) the
struggle of the spirit for its _independence_; (3) the _supremacy_
achieved by the spirit over nature or the annihilation of the evil
carnal principle as such. The first moment, which is characteristic of
man in contradistinction to animals, is directly given in the feeling
of shame. The third, being the consequence of the moral perfection
already attained, cannot at the present stage be the direct object of
the moral demand or rule. It is useless to confront even a moral man,
while he is still imperfect, with the categorical imperative “become
at once immortal and incorruptible!” Thus only the second moment is
left for ethics, and our moral principle may be more closely defined
as follows: _subordinate the flesh to the spirit, in so far as it is
necessary for the dignity and the independence of the latter. Hoping
finally for a complete mastery over the physical forces in yourself and
in nature as a whole, take for your immediate and binding purpose not
to be, at any rate, the bondman of rebellious matter or chaos._
Flesh is existence that is not self-contained, that is wholly directed
outwards; it is emptiness, hunger, and insatiability; it is lost
in externality and ends in actual disruption. In contradistinction
to it, spirit is existence determined inwardly, self-contained and
self-possessed. Its outward expression is due to its own spontaneity,
and does not cause it to become external or to be lost and dissolved
in externality. Hence self-preservation of the spirit is, above all
things, the preservation of its _self-control_. This is the main point
of all asceticism.
The human body, in its anatomic structure and physiological functions,
has no moral significance of its own. It may be the expression and
the instrument both of the flesh and of the spirit. Hence the moral
struggle between these two aspects of our being takes place in the
domain of the bodily or the organic life as well, and assumes the form
of a struggle for the mastery over the body.
V
With regard to the corporeal life our moral task consists in not being
passively determined by fleshly desires, especially in reference
to the two most important functions of our organism--nutrition and
reproduction.
By way of preliminary exercise, which in itself, however, has no moral
value, it is important for the spirit to acquire power over such
functions of our animal organism as are not directly related to the
‘lusts of the flesh’--namely, over _breathing_ and _sleep_.[29]
Breathing is the fundamental condition of life and the constant means
of communication between our body and its environment. For the power
of the spirit over the body it is desirable that this fundamental
function should be under the control of the human will. Consequently
there arose long ago and everywhere different ascetic practices with
regard to breathing. The practice and theory of breathing exercises is
found among the Indian hermits, among the sorcerers of ancient and more
recent times, among the monks of Mount Athos and similar monasteries,
in Swedenborg, and, in our own day, in Thomas Lake-Harris and Laurence
Oliphant. The mystical details of the matter have nothing to do with
moral philosophy. I will therefore content myself with a few general
remarks. A certain control of the will over breathing is required by
ordinary good manners. For ascetic purposes one merely goes further in
this direction. By constant exercise it is easy to learn not to breathe
through the mouth either when awake or when asleep; the next stage
is to learn to suppress breathing altogether for a longer or shorter
time.[30] The power acquired over this organic function undoubtedly
increases the strength of the spirit and gives it a secure foundation
for further ascetic achievements.
Sleep is a temporal break in the activity of the brain and of the
nervous system--the direct physiological instruments of the spirit--and
it therefore weakens the tie between the spiritual and the bodily
life. It is important that the spirit should not in this case play a
purely passive part. If sleep is caused by physical causes, the spirit
must be able, for motives of its own, to ward it off, or to interrupt
sleep that has already begun. The very difficulty of this task, which
is undoubtedly a possible one, shows its importance. The power to
overcome sleep and to wake at will is a necessary demand of spiritual
hygiene. Moreover, sleep has another aspect, which distinguishes it
from breathing and other organic functions that are in the moral sense
indifferent, and connects it with nutrition and reproduction. Like
the two latter functions sleep may be misused to the advantage of the
carnal and to the detriment of the spiritual life. The inclination to
excessive sleep in itself shows the predominance of the material or the
passive principle; a surrender to this inclination and actual abuse of
sleep undoubtedly weaken the spirit and strengthen the lusts of the
flesh. This is the reason why in the history of ascetic practices--for
instance in Christian monasticism--struggle with sleep plays so
important a part. Of course, the loosening of the bond between the
spiritual and the corporeal life (or more exactly between the conscious
and the instinctive life) may be of two kinds: sleepers must be
distinguished from dreamers. But as a general rule a special faculty to
dream significant and prophetic dreams indicates a degree of spiritual
power that has been already developed by ascetic practices--struggle
with the pleasure of carnal sleep among them.
VI
In animals the predominance of matter over form is due to excess
of food, as can be clearly seen in caterpillars among the lower,
and fattened pigs among the higher, animals.[31] In man the same
cause (excess of food) leads to a predominance of the animal life,
or the flesh, over the spirit. This is why abstinence in food and
drink--fasting--has always and everywhere been one of the fundamental
demands of ethics. Abstinence has reference, in the first place, to
the quantity--with regard to which there can be no general rule--and
secondly, to the quality of food. In this last respect the rule has
always and everywhere been abstinence from animal food and especially
from meat (_i.e._ from the flesh of warm-blooded animals). The reason
is that meat is more easily and completely converted into blood, and
increases the energy of the carnal life more powerfully and rapidly
than other foods do.[32] Abstinence from flesh food can unquestionably
be affirmed as a universal rule. Objections to it cannot stand the test
of criticism, and have long ago been disposed of both by ethics and by
natural science. There was a time when eating raw or cooked _human_
flesh was regarded as normal.[33] From the ascetic point of view
abstinence from meat (and animal food in general) is doubly useful,
first, because it weakens the force of the carnal life, and secondly,
because the hereditary habit has developed a natural craving for such
food, and abstinence from it exercises the will at the expense of
material inclinations and thus heightens the spiritual energy.
As to drinking, the simplest good sense forbids excessive use of
strong drinks that leads to the loss of reason. The ascetic principle
requires, of course, more than this. Speaking generally, wine heightens
the energy of the nervous system, and, through it, of the psychical
life. At our stage of spiritual development the soul is still dominated
by carnal motives, and all that excites and increases the nervous
energy in the service of the soul goes to strengthen this predominant
carnal element, and is therefore highly injurious to the spirit; so
that here complete abstinence from wine and strong drink is necessary.
But at the higher stages of moral life which were sometimes attained
even in the pagan world--for instance by Socrates (see Plato’s
_Symposium_)--the energy of the organism serves the spiritual rather
than the carnal purposes. In that case the increase of nervous energy
(of course within the limits compatible with bodily health) heightens
the activity of the spirit and therefore, in a certain measure, may
be harmless or even directly useful. There can be here only one
absolute and universal rule _to preserve spiritual sobriety and a clear
mind_.[34]
The most important and decisive significance in the struggle of the
spirit with the flesh in the physiological sphere belongs to the sexual
function. The element of moral wrong (the sin of the flesh) is not to
be found of course in the physical fact of childbirth (and conception)
which is, on the contrary, a certain redemption of the sin--but only in
the unlimited and blind desire (lust of the flesh, _concupiscentia_)
for an external, animal, and material union with another person
(in reality or imagination), a union taken to be an end in itself,
an independent object of enjoyment. The predominance of flesh over
spirit expresses itself most strongly, clearly, and permanently in the
carnal union of two persons. It is not for nothing that the immediate
feeling of shame is connected precisely with this act. To stifle or
to pervert its testimony; after many thousands of years of inward and
outward development, and from the heights of a refined intelligence
to pronounce good that which even the simple feeling of the savage
acknowledges to be wrong--this is, indeed, a disgrace to humanity and a
clear proof of our demoralisation. The actual or the supposed necessity
of a certain act for other purposes cannot be a sufficient reason for
judging of its essential quality as such. In some diseases it may be
necessary to take poison, but that necessity is itself an anomaly from
the hygienic point of view.
The moral question with regard to the sexual function is in the
first place the question of one’s _inner_ relation to it, of passing
judgment upon it as such. How are we inwardly to regard this fact from
the point of view of the final norm, of the absolute good--are we to
approve of it or to condemn it? _Which path_ must we choose and follow
in respect to it: to affirm and develop or to deny, limit, and finally
to abolish it? The feeling of shame and the voice of conscience in
each concrete case definitely and clearly give the second answer, and
all that is left for the moral philosophy to do is to give it the form
of a universal rational principle. The carnal means of reproduction
is for man an evil; it expresses the predominance of the senseless
material process over the self-control of the spirit; it is contrary
to the dignity of man, destructive of human love and life. Our moral
relation to this fact must be absolutely negative. We must adopt the
path that leads to its limitation and abolition; how and when it will
be abolished in humanity as a whole or even in ourselves is a question
that has nothing to do with ethics. The entire transformation of our
carnal life into spiritual life does not _as an event_ lie within
our power, for it is connected with the general conditions of the
historical and cosmical process. It cannot therefore be the object of
moral duty, rule, or law. What is binding upon us, and what has moral
significance, is our inner relation to this fundamental expression of
the carnal life. We must regard it as an evil, be determined not to
submit to that evil, and, so far as in us lies, conscientiously carry
out this determination. From this point of view we may of course judge
our external actions, but we may only do so because we know their
connection with their inner moral conditions; other people’s actions
in this sphere we may not judge--we may only judge their _principles_.
As a principle the affirmation of the carnal relation of the sexes is
in any case an evil. Man’s final acceptance of the kingdom of death
which is maintained and perpetuated by carnal reproduction deserves
absolute condemnation. Such is the positive Christian point of view
which decides this all-important question according to the spirit and
not according to the letter, and consequently without any _external_
exclusiveness. “He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.”
Marriage is approved and sanctified, child-bearing is blessed, and
celibacy is praised as ‘the condition of the angels.’ But this very
designation of it as _angelic_ seems to suggest a third and higher
path--the _divine_. For man in his ultimate destiny is higher than the
angels.[35]
If the Divine Wisdom, according to its wont, brings forth out of evil
a greater good and uses our carnal sins for the sake of perfecting
humanity by means of new generations, this, of course, tends to its
glory and to our comfort, but not to our justification. It treats in
exactly the same way all other evils, but this fact cancels neither
the distinction between good and evil nor the obligatoriness of
the former for us. Besides, the idea that the preaching of sexual
abstinence, however energetic and successful, may _prematurely_ stop
the propagation of the human race and lead to its annihilation is so
absurd that one may justly doubt the sincerity of those who profess
to hold it. It is not likely that any one can seriously fear this
particular danger for humanity. So long as the change of generations is
necessary for the development of the human kind, the taste for bringing
that change about will certainly not disappear in men. But in any
case, the moment when all men will finally overcome the fleshly lust
and become entirely chaste--even if that moment, _per impossibile_,
came to-morrow--will be the end of the historical process and the
beginning of ‘the life to come’ for all humanity; so that the very idea
of child-bearing coming to an end ‘too soon’ is absolute nonsense,
invented by hypocrites. As if any one, in surrendering to the desire
of the flesh, had ever thought of safeguarding thereby the future of
humanity![36]
VII
All the rules of ascetic morality in the sphere of the bodily life--to
acquire power over breathing and sleep, to be temperate in food and
to abstain from fleshly lust--have essentially an inward and morally
psychological character, as rules for the will; but owing to the
difference in their objects they do not stand in the same relation
to the psychological side of the carnal life. The first and partly
the second rule (with regard to breathing and sleep) have for their
object purely physiological functions which are not, as such, hostile
to the spirit, nor a source of danger to it. The spirit simply wants
to control them for the sake of increasing its own power for the
more important struggle before it. Nutrition and reproduction--and
consequently the ascetic rules with regard to them--have a different
character. The positive feeling of pleasure which accompanies these
functions may become an end for the will, bind the spiritual forces
and draw them into the stream of the carnal life. The latter of the
two functions is particularly incompatible (under ordinary conditions)
with the preservation of spiritual self-control. On the other hand,
breathing and sleep are merely processes in our own organism, while
nutrition and reproduction are connected with external objects
which, apart from their actual existence and relation to us, may, as
subjective _presentations_, dominate the imagination and the will and
encroach on the domain of the spirit; hence the necessity of ascetic
struggle with the inward sins of the flesh, still more shameful
than the outward. An epicure whose mouth waters at the very idea of
_recherché_ dishes, no doubt falls away from human dignity more than a
person who indulges himself at the table without particularly thinking
about the matter.
In this sense the ascetic attitude to the nutritive and the sexual
functions belongs to the psychological and not to the physiological
side of the struggle between the flesh and the spirit. The struggle in
this case is not against the functions of the organism as such, but
against the states of the soul--gluttony, drunkenness, sensuality.
These sinful propensities, which may become passions and vices, are
on a level with evil emotions such as anger, envy, cupidity, etc. The
latter passions, which are _evil_ and not merely _shameful_, fall
within the province of altruistic and not of ascetic morality, for they
involve a certain relation to one’s neighbours. But there are some
general rules for the inner, morally-psychological struggle with sinful
inclinations as such, whether they refer to other men or to our own
material nature.
The inner process in and through which an evil desire takes possession
of the self has three main stages. To begin with, there arises in
the mind the idea of some object or some action which corresponds
to one of the bad propensities of our nature. This idea causes the
spirit to reflect upon it. At that first stage a simple act of will
_rejecting_ such reflection is sufficient. The spirit must simply show
its firmness or impermeability to foreign elements.[37] If this is not
done, the reflection develops into an imaginary picture of this or that
nature--sensual, vindictive, vain, and so on.[38] This picture forces
the mind to attend to it, and cannot be got rid of by a mere negative
act of will; it is necessary to _draw the mind away_ by thinking in
the opposite direction (for instance, by thinking about death). But if
at this second stage the mind, instead of being drawn away from the
picture of sin, dwells upon it and identifies itself with it, then
the third moment inevitably comes when not only the mind, secretly
impelled by the evil desire, but the whole spirit _gives itself up_
to the sinful thought and enjoys it. Neither a rejecting act of will
nor a distracting reflection of the mind can then save the spirit from
bondage--practical moral work is necessary to _re-establish_ the inner
equilibrium in the whole man. Otherwise the victory of the sinful
emotion over the spirit will become a passion and a vice. Man will lose
his rational freedom, and moral rules will lose their power over him.
Ethics is the hygiene and not the therapeutics of the spiritual life.
VIII
The supremacy of the spirit over the flesh is necessary in order to
preserve the moral dignity of man. The principle of true asceticism
is the principle of spiritual self-preservation. But the inner
self-preservation of a _separate_ man, of a being who, though spiritual
(_i.e._ possessing reason and will), is nevertheless _limited_ or
relative in his separateness, cannot be the _absolute good_ or the
supreme and final end of life. The slavery of man to fleshly desires
in the wide sense of the term, _i.e._ to all that is senseless and
contrary to reason, transforms him into the worst species of animal,
and is, no doubt, evil. In this sense no one can honestly argue against
asceticism, that is, against self-restraint as a principle. Every
one agrees that incapacity to resist animal instincts is a weakness
of the spirit, _shameful_ for a human being, and therefore bad. The
capacity for such resistance or self-restraint is then a good, and
must be accepted as a norm from which definite rules of conduct may be
deduced. On this point, as on others, moral philosophy merely explains
and elaborates the testimony of ordinary human consciousness. Apart
from any principles, gluttony, drunkenness, lewdness immediately call
forth disgust and contempt, and abstinence from these vices meets
with instinctive respect, _i.e._ is acknowledged as a good. This
good, however, taken by itself, is _not_ absolute. The power of the
spirit over the flesh, or the strength of will acquired by rightful
abstinence, may be used for immoral purposes. _A strong will may be
evil._ A man may suppress his lower nature in order to boast or to
pride himself on his superior power; such a victory of the spirit is
not a good. It is still worse if the self-control of the spirit and the
concentration of the will are used to the detriment of other people,
even apart from the purposes of low gain. Asceticism has been, and is,
successfully practised by men given to spiritual pride, hypocrisy, and
vanity, and even by vindictive, cruel, and selfish men. According to
the general verdict, such an ascetic is in the moral sense far inferior
to a simple-hearted drunkard or glutton or to a kind profligate.
Asceticism in itself is not necessarily a good, and cannot therefore
be the supreme or the absolute principle of morality. The true (the
moral) ascetic acquires control over the flesh, not simply for the
sake of increasing the powers of the spirit, but for furthering the
realisation of the Good. Asceticism which liberates the spirit from
shameful (carnal) passions only to attach it more closely to evil
(spiritual) passions is obviously a false or immoral asceticism.[39]
Its true prototype, according to the Christian idea, is the devil, who
does not eat or drink and remains in celibacy. If, then, from the moral
point of view we cannot approve of a wicked or a pitiless ascetic, it
follows that the principle of asceticism has only a relative moral
significance, namely, that it is _conditioned_ by its connection with
the principle of altruism, the root of which is pity. I now pass to
consider this second moral principle.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] It assumed its present form only about the time when Buddhism
disappeared from India (VIII. and XIII. c.a.d.), but the fundamental
conceptions involved in it are to be found as early as the ancient
Upanishads.
[26] Some Hindu books determine the ‘part’ of ignorance arithmetically
as forming one-fourth (or, according to others, one-third) of the
Absolute. Probably in order that the relation may remain unaltered the
birth of the ignorant is equalised by the enlightenment of the wise.
[27] This is a fact of our inner experience, and neither its
psychological reality nor its ethical significance depend upon the
metaphysical or any other view which may be taken of the essence of
spirit and matter.
[28] Sometimes in the Scriptures the word ‘flesh’ is used in the wide
sense of material being in general: _e.g._ ‘The word became flesh,’
_i.e._ became a physical event, which did not prevent the incarnate
Word from being a purely spiritual and sinless God-man. But usually the
terms flesh and fleshly are used in the Scriptures in the bad sense
of material nature which violates its due relation to the spirit, is
opposed to and exclusive of it. Such terminology is found both in the
New and in the Old Testament; _e.g._ “My spirit shall not dwell in
these men for they are flesh.”
[29] I mean normal sleep; abnormal will be dealt with further on.
[30] The so-called ‘nostril breathing,’ and also complete stoppage
of breathing, used to be, and in places still is zealously practised
by Orthodox ascetics, as one of the conditions of the so-called
‘meditation.’
[31] See _Krasota v prirodie_ (_Beauty in Nature_) by the present
author.
[32] Another moral motive for abstaining from meat food is not ascetic
but altruistic, namely, the extension to animals of the law of love
or pity. This motive is predominant in the ethics of Buddhism and the
ascetic one in the Christian Church.
[33] According to the Biblical teaching the food of the normal human
being before the Fall consisted solely of raw fruits and herbs. This
is still the rule for the strictest monastic fast, both in the East
and in the West (the trappists). Between this extreme and the light
Roman Catholic fast for the laity there are many degrees which have a
natural foundation (_e.g._ the distinction between the warm- and the
cold-blooded animals, owing to which fish is regarded as a food to be
taken during fasts) but involve no question of principle and have no
universal significance.
[34] At the present moral level of humanity the mastery of the carnal
desires is the rule, and the predominance of spiritual motives the
exception, and one not to be depended upon; so that total abstinence
from strong drinks and all other stimulants may well be preached
without any practical disadvantage. But this is a pedagogical and
prophylactic question involving no moral principle.
[35] See _Smysl liubvi_ (_The Meaning of Love_) and also _Zhiznennaya
drama Platona_ (_The Drama of Plato’s Life_).
[36] I am not speaking here of the marriage union in its highest
spiritual sense, which has nothing to do either with the sin of the
flesh or with child-bearing, but is the pattern of the most perfect
union between beings: “This is a great mystery; but I speak concerning
Christ and the Church.” Concerning this mystical meaning of marriage
see _The Meaning of Love_.
[37] Ecclesiastical writers describe this rule as “dashing the babes
of Babylon against the stones,” following the allegorical line in the
Psalms: “O daughter of Babylon who art to be destroyed; happy shall he
be that taketh and dashes thy little ones against the stones” (Babylon
= the kingdom of sin; a babe of Babylon = a sin conceived in thought
and as yet undeveloped; stone = the firmness of faith).
[38] When one is young and has a lively imagination and little
spiritual experience, the evil thought develops very rapidly, and,
reaching absurd proportions, calls forth a strong moral reaction.
Thus you think of a person you dislike, and experience a slight
emotion of injury, indignation, and anger. If you do not immediately
dash this ‘babe of Babylon’ against the stones, your imagination,
obedient to the evil passion, will immediately draw a vivid picture
before you. You meet your enemy and put him into an awkward position.
All his worthlessness is exposed. You experience the _velleitas_ of
magnanimity, but the passion is roused and overwhelms you. At first
you keep within the limits of good breeding. You make subtly stinging
remarks which, however, soon become more stinging than subtle; then
you ‘insult him verbally,’ and then you ‘assault him.’ Your devilishly
strong fist deals victorious blows. The scoundrel is felled to the
ground, the scoundrel is killed, and you dance on his corpse like a
cannibal. One can go no further--nothing is left but to cross oneself
and renounce it all in disgust.
[39] If the suppression of the flesh is taken not as a means for good
or evil but as an end in itself, we get a peculiar kind of false
asceticism which identifies flesh with the physical body, and considers
every bodily torment a virtue. Although this false asceticism of
self-laceration has no evil purpose to begin with, in its further
development it easily becomes an evil: it either proves to be a slow
suicide or becomes a peculiar kind of sensuality. It would be unwise,
however, thus to condemn all cases of self-laceration. Natures that
have a particularly strong material life may require heroic means
for its suppression. One must not therefore indiscriminately condemn
Stylitism, fetters, and other similar means of mortifying the flesh
that were in use in the heroic times of asceticism.
CHAPTER III
PITY AND ALTRUISM
I
It has for a long time been thought--and many are beginning to think so
again--that the highest virtue or holiness is to be found in asceticism
and ‘mortification of the flesh,’ in suppressing natural inclinations
and affections, in abstinence and freedom from passions. We have seen
that this ideal undoubtedly contains some truth, for it is clear that
the higher or the spiritual side of man must dominate the lower or the
material. The efforts of will in this direction are acts of spiritual
self-preservation and are the first condition of all morality. The
_first condition_, however, cannot be taken to be _the ultimate end_.
Man must strengthen his spirit and subordinate his flesh, not because
this is the purpose of his life, but because it is only when he is free
from the bondage to blind and evil material desires that he can serve
truth and goodness in the right way and attain real perfection.
The rules of abstinence strengthen the spiritual power of the man
who practises them. But in order that the strong spirit may have
moral worth--_i.e._ that it may be good and not evil--it must unite
the power over its own flesh with a rightful and charitable attitude
to other beings. History has shown that, apart from this condition,
the supremacy of the ascetic principle, even when combined with a
true religion, leads to terrible consequences. The ministers of
the Mediaeval Church, who used to torture and burn heretics, Jews,
sorcerers and witches, were for the most part men irreproachable from
the ascetic point of view. But the one-sided force of the spirit and
the absence of pity made them devils incarnate. The bitter fruits of
mediaeval asceticism sufficiently justify the reaction against it,
which, in the sphere of moral philosophy, has led to the supremacy of
the _altruistic_ principle in morality.
This principle is deeply rooted in our being in the form of the
feeling of pity which man has in common with other living creatures.
If the feeling of shame differentiates man from the rest of nature
and distinguishes him from other animals, the feeling of pity, on the
contrary, unites him with the whole world of the living. It does so in
a double sense: in the first place because man shares it with all other
living creatures, and secondly because all living creatures can and
must be the _objects_ of that feeling to man.
II
That the natural basis of our moral relation to others is the feeling
of pity or compassion, and not the feeling of unity or solidarity
in general, is a truth which is independent of any system of
metaphysics[40] and in no way involves a pessimistic view of the world
and of life. As is well known, Schopenhauer maintains that the ultimate
nature of the universe is Will, and will is essentially a state of
dissatisfaction (for satisfaction implies that there is nothing to
wish for). Hence dissatisfaction or suffering is the fundamental and
positive determination of all existence in its inward aspect, and the
inner moral bond between beings is compassion. But altogether apart
from this doubtful theory--and the equally doubtful calculations of
Hartmann, who tries to prove that the amount of pain in humanity is
incomparably greater than the amount of pleasure--we find that from the
nature of the case the only basis of the moral relation to other beings
is, _as a matter of principle_, to be found in pity or compassion, and
certainly not in co-rejoicing or co-pleasure.
Human delight, pleasure, and joy may of course be innocent and even
positively good--and in that case sharing in them has a positive moral
character. But, on the other hand, human pleasures may be, and often
are, immoral. A wicked and vindictive man finds pleasure in insulting
and tormenting those near him, rejoices in their humiliation, delights
in the harm he has done. A sensual man finds the chief joy of life
in profligacy; a cruel man in killing animals or even human beings; a
drunkard is happy when he is stupefying himself with drink, etc. In all
these cases the feeling of pleasure cannot be separated from the bad
actions which produce it, and sometimes, indeed, the pleasure gives an
immoral character to actions which would in themselves be indifferent.
Thus when a soldier in war kills an enemy at the word of command from
no other motive than ‘his duty as a soldier,’ no one would accuse him
of immoral cruelty, whatever our attitude to war might be. But it
is a different thing if he finds _pleasure_ in killing and bayonets
a man with relish. In more simple cases the thing is clearer still;
thus it is obvious that the immorality of drunkenness consists not
in the external action of swallowing certain drinks but in the inner
_pleasure_ which a man finds in artificially stupefying himself.
But if a certain pleasure is in itself immoral, the participation in it
by another person (co-rejoicing, co-pleasure) also receives an immoral
character. The fact is that positive participation in a pleasure
implies the _approval_ of that pleasure. Thus in sharing the drunkard’s
delight in his favourite pleasure I approve of drunkenness; in sharing
somebody’s joy at successful revenge I approve of vindictiveness. And
since these pleasures are bad pleasures, those who sympathise with
them approve of what is evil, and consequently are themselves guilty
of immorality. Just as participation in a crime is itself regarded
as a crime, so sympathy with vicious pleasure or delight must itself
be pronounced vicious. And indeed sympathy with an evil pleasure not
only involves an approval of it, but also presupposes the same bad
propensity in the sympathiser. Only a drunkard delights in another
person’s drunkenness, only a vindictive man rejoices in another’s
revenge. Participation in the pleasures or joys of others may then be
good or bad _according to their object_; and if it may be immoral, it
cannot _as such_ be the _basis_ of the moral relation.
The same thing cannot be said about suffering and compassion. According
to the very idea of it, suffering is a state in which the will of the
one who suffers has no direct and positive part. When we speak of
‘voluntary suffering,’ we mean, not that suffering is desired as such,
but that the object of will is that which makes suffering necessary,
in other words, that the object of will is the good which is attained
by suffering. A martyr undergoes torments, not for their own sake, but
because in the circumstances they are a necessary consequence of his
faith and a means to higher glory and to the kingdom of heaven. On
the other hand, suffering may be deserved, _i.e._ its cause may lie
in bad actions; but the suffering as such is distinct from its cause
and contains no moral guilt; on the contrary, it is regarded as its
expiation and redemption. Though drunkenness is a sin, no moralist,
however stern, would pronounce the headache that results from drinking
to be a sin also. For this reason participation in the suffering of
others (even when they deserve it)--_i.e._ pity or compassion--can
never be immoral. In commiserating with one who suffers I do not in
the least approve of the evil cause of his suffering.[41] Pity for the
criminal’s suffering does not mean approval or justification of his
crime. On the contrary, the greater my pity for the sad consequences of
a man’s sin, the greater my _condemnation_ of the sin.
Participation in the pleasures of others may always have an element
of self-interest. Even in the case of an old man sharing the joy of
a child doubt may be felt with regard to the altruistic nature of
his sentiment; for in any case it is pleasant for the old man to
refresh the memory of his own happy childhood. On the contrary, all
genuine feeling of regret at the suffering of others, whether moral
or physical, is painful for the person who experiences that feeling,
and is therefore opposed to his egoism. This is clear from the fact
that sincere grief about others disturbs our personal joy, damps our
mirth, that is, proves to be incompatible with the state of selfish
satisfaction. Genuine compassion or pity can have no selfish motives
and is purely _altruistic_, while the feeling of co-rejoicing or
co-pleasure is, from the moral point of view, a mixed and indefinite
feeling.
III
There is another reason why participation in the joys or pleasures
of others cannot in itself have the same fundamental importance for
ethics as the feeling of pity or compassion. The demand of reason is
that morality should only be _based_ upon such feelings as always
contain an impulse for definite action and, being generalised, give
rise to a definite moral principle or principles. But pleasure or joy
is the _end_ of action; in it the purpose of the activity is reached,
and participation in the pleasure of others as well as the experience
of one’s own pleasure contains no impulse and no ground for further
action. Pity, on the contrary, directly urges us to act in order to
help a fellow-being and to save him from suffering. The action may be
purely inward--thus pity for my enemy may prevent me from insulting
or injuring him--but in any case it is an action, and not a passive
state like joy or pleasure. Of course, I may find inward satisfaction
in the fact that I did not hurt my neighbour, but this can only
happen after the act of will has taken place. Similarly in the case
of rendering help to a fellow-being who is in pain or in need, the
pleasure or joy resulting therefrom, both for him and for the person
who helps him, is only the final consequence and the culmination of
the altruistic act, and not its source or its ground. If I see or hear
that some one is suffering, one of two things happens. Either that
other person’s suffering calls forth in me also a certain degree of
pain and I experience pity--in which case _that_ feeling is a direct
and sufficient reason for me to render active help. Or, if another’s
suffering does not rouse pity in me, or does not rouse it sufficiently
to incite me to act, the idea of the pleasure which would ensue from my
action would obviously be still less likely to do so. It is clear that
an abstract and conditioned thought of a future mental state cannot
possibly have more effect than the immediate contemplation or concrete
representation of actual physical and mental states which call for
direct action. Therefore the true ground or the producing cause (_causa
efficiens_) of every altruistic action is the perception or the idea
of another person’s suffering as it actually exists at the moment, and
not the thought of the pleasure which may arise in the future as the
result of the benevolent act. Of course, if a person decides out of
pity to help a fellow-being in distress, he may, if he have time to do
so, imagine--especially on the ground of the remembered experiences in
the past--the joy he will thereby give to himself and to that other
person. But to take this concomitant and accidental thought for the
true motive of action is contrary both to logic and to psychological
experience.
On the one hand, then, participation in the actual joys and pleasures
of others cannot from the very nature of the case contain either
a stimulus for action or a rule of conduct, for in these states
satisfaction is already attained. On the other hand, a conditional
representation of future pleasures, which are supposed to follow upon
the removal of the suffering, can only be a secondary and an indirect
addition to the actual feeling of compassion or pity which moves us to
do active good. Consequently it is this feeling alone which must be
pronounced to be the true ground of altruistic conduct.
Those who pity the sufferings of others will certainly participate in
their joys and pleasures when the latter are harmless and innocent.
But this natural consequence of the moral relation to others cannot be
taken as the _basis_ of morality. That alone is truly good which is
good in itself, and therefore _always_ preserves its good character,
never becoming evil. Therefore the morality (or the good) in any given
sphere of relations can only be based upon such data from which a
_general_ and absolute rule of conduct may be deduced. Such precisely
is the nature of pity towards our fellow-beings. To pity all that
suffers is _always_ and _unconditionally good_; it is a rule that
requires no reservations. But participation in the joys and pleasures
of others may be approved conditionally only, and even when it is
laudable it contains, as we have seen, no rule of conduct.
IV
The unquestionable and familiar fact that a distinct individual being
may, as it were, transcend in feeling the limits of his individuality,
and respond painfully to the suffering of others, experiencing it as
if it were his own pain, may appear to some minds mysterious and
enigmatic. It was regarded as such by the philosopher who found in
compassion the sole foundation of morality.
“How is it possible,” he asks, “that suffering which is not mine
should become an immediate motive of my action in the same way as my
own suffering does?” “This presupposes,” he goes on, “that I have to
a certain extent identified myself with another, and that the barrier
between _the self_ and the _not self_ has been for the moment removed.
It is then only that the position of another, his want, his need, his
suffering, immediately (?) becomes mine. I no longer see him then
as he is given me in empirical perception--as something foreign and
indifferent (?) to me, as something absolutely (?) separate from me.
On the contrary, in compassion it is I who suffer in him, although
his skin does not cover my nerves. Only through such identification
can _his_ suffering, _his_ need, become a motive for _me_ in a way in
which ordinarily only my own suffering can. This is a highly mysterious
phenomenon--it is a real mystery of Ethics, for it is something for
which reason cannot directly account (?!) and the grounds of which
cannot be discovered empirically. And yet it is of everyday occurrence.
Each has experienced it himself and seen it in other people. It
happens every day before our eyes on a small scale in individual cases
every time that, moved by an immediate impulse, without any further
reflection, a man helps another and defends him, sometimes risking his
own life for the sake of a person whom he sees for the first time,
thinking of nothing but the obvious distress and need of that person.
It happens on a large scale when a whole nation sacrifices its blood
and its property for the sake of defending or setting free another,
oppressed, nation. For such actions to deserve unconditional moral
approval, it is necessary that there should be present that mysterious
act of compassion or of inner identification of oneself with another,
without any ulterior motives.”[42]
This discussion of the mysterious character of compassion is
distinguished by literary eloquence more than by philosophic truth. The
mystery is not to be found in the fact itself, but is due to a false
description, which lays exaggerated emphasis on the extreme terms of
the relation, and leaves the connecting links between them entirely out
of account. In his sphere Schopenhauer abused the rhetorical method of
contrast or antithesis quite as much as Victor Hugo did in his. The
matter is described in such a way as if a given being, _absolutely
separate_ from another, all of a sudden _immediately identified_ itself
with that other in the feeling of compassion. This would, indeed, be
highly mysterious. But, in truth, neither the absolute separateness
nor the immediate identification of which Schopenhauer speaks exists
at all. To understand any relation one must take first the earliest
and most elementary instance of it. Take the maternal instinct of
animals. When a dog defends her puppies or suffers at losing them,
where does all the mystery of which Schopenhauer speaks come in? Are
these puppies something ‘foreign and indifferent’ to their mother, and
‘absolutely separate’ from her? Between her and them there was from
the first a real physical and organic connection, clear and obvious
to the simplest observation and independent of all metaphysics. These
creatures were for a time actually a part of her own body, her nerves
and theirs had been covered by one and the same skin, and the very
beginning of their existence involved a change in her organism, and was
painfully reflected in her sensations.[43] At birth this real organic
connection is weakened, becomes looser, so to speak, but it is not
completely severed or replaced by ‘absolute separateness.’ Therefore
the participation of a mother in the sufferings of her children is
as much a natural fact as the pain we feel when we cut a finger or
dislocate a leg. In a sense, of course, this, too, is mysterious--but
not in the sense in which the philosopher of compassion takes it to
be. Now all the other and more complex manifestations of the feeling
of pity have a similar ground. All that exists, and, in particular,
all living beings are connected by the fact of their compresence in
one and the same world, and by the unity of origin; all spring from
one common mother--nature, of which they are a part; nowhere do we
find the ‘absolute separateness’ of which Schopenhauer speaks. The
natural organic connection of all beings as parts of one whole is
given in experience, and is not merely a speculative idea. Hence the
psychological expression of that connection--the inner participation
of one being in the suffering of others, compassion or pity--can be
understood even from the empirical point of view as the expression
of the natural and obvious _solidarity_ of all that exists. This
participation of beings in one another is in keeping with the general
plan of the universe, is in harmony with reason or perfectly rational.
What is senseless or irrational is the mutual estrangement of beings,
their subjective separateness, contradictory of their objective unity.
It is this inner egoism and not the mutual sympathy between the
different parts of one nature that really is mysterious and enigmatic.
Reason can give no direct account of it, and its grounds are not to be
found empirically.
Absolute separateness is merely affirmed but is not established by
egoism; it neither does nor can exist as a fact. On the other hand,
the mutual connection between beings which finds its psychological
expression in sympathy or pity is certainly not of the nature of
immediate identification as Schopenhauer takes it to be. When I am
sorry for my friend who has a headache the feeling of sympathy does not
as a rule become a headache. So far from my being identified with him
even our states remain distinct, and I clearly distinguish my head,
which does not ache, from his, which does. Also, so far as I am aware,
it has never happened that a compassionate man, who jumps into the
water to save another from drowning, should take that other person for
himself or himself for that other. Even a hen--a creature more noted
for her maternal instinct than for intelligence--clearly understands
the distinction between herself and her chicks, and, therefore, behaves
in relation to them in a certain way, which would be impossible if in
her maternal compassion ‘the barrier between the self and the not self
were removed.’ If this were the case, the hen might confuse herself
with her chickens, and, when hungry, might ascribe that sensation to
them and start feeding them, although in reality they were satisfied
and she almost starving; or, another time, she might feed herself at
their expense. In truth, in all these real cases of pity, the barriers
between the being who pities and those whom it pities are not removed
at all; they simply prove not to be so absolute and impermeable as the
abstract reflection of scholastic philosophers would make them.
The removal of barriers between the _self_ and the _not self_ or
immediate identification is merely a figure of speech and not an
expression of real fact. Like the vibration of chords that sound in
unison, so the bond of compassion between living beings is not simply
identity but harmony of the similar. From this point of view, too, the
fundamental moral fact of pity or compassion completely corresponds
to the real nature of things or to the meaning of the universe. For
the indissoluble oneness of the world is not a mere empty unity, but
embraces the whole range of determinate variations.
V
As befits an ultimate moral principle, the feeling of pity has no
external limits for its application. Starting with the narrow sphere of
maternal love, strongly developed even in the higher animals, it may,
in the case of man, as it gradually becomes wider, pass from the family
to the clan and the tribe, to the civic community, the entire nation,
to all humanity, and finally embrace all that lives. In individual
cases, when confronted with actual pain or need, we may actively
pity not only _every_ man--though belonging to a different race or
religion--but even every animal; this is beyond dispute and is, indeed,
quite usual. Less usual is such a breadth of compassion which, without
any obvious reason, at once embraces in a keen feeling of pity all the
multitude of living beings in the universe. It is difficult to suspect
of artificial rhetoric or exaggerated pathos the following description
of _universal pity as an actual mental state_--very unlike the state
of the so-called ‘world-woe’ (_Weltschmerz_). “And I was asked what
is a pitying heart? And I answered: the glow in a man’s heart for
all creation, for men, for birds, for animals, for _demons_, and for
creatures of all kinds. When he thinks of them or looks upon them, his
eyes gush with tears. Great and poignant pity possesses him and his
heart is wrung with suffering, and he cannot bear either to hear or to
see any harm or grief endured by any creature. And hence every hour he
prays with tears even for the dumb beasts, and for the _enemies of
truth_ and those who do him wrong, that God may preserve them and have
mercy on them; and for all of the crawling kind he prays with great
_pity_ which rises up in his heart beyond measure so that in that he is
made like to God.”[44]
In this description of the fundamental altruistic motive in its
highest form we find neither ‘immediate identification’ nor ‘removing
the barriers between the _self_ and the _not self_.’ It differs from
Schopenhauer’s account like living truth from literary eloquence.
These words of the Christian writer also prove that there is no need,
as Schopenhauer mistakenly thought, to turn to Indian dramas or to
Buddhism in order to learn the prayer ‘May all that lives be free from
suffering.’
VI
The universal consciousness of humanity decidedly pronounces _pity to
be a good thing_. A person who manifests this feeling is called _good_;
the more deeply he experiences and the more he acts upon it, the more
good he is considered to be. A pitiless man more than any other is
called _wicked_. It does not follow, however, that _the whole_ of
morality or the essence of _all_ good can be reduced, as it often is,
to compassion or ‘sympathetic feeling.’
“Boundless compassion to all living beings,” observes Schopenhauer,
“is the surest guarantee of moral conduct and requires no casuistry.
The man who is full of that feeling will be certain not to injure any
one, not to cause suffering to any one; all his actions will be sure
to bear the stamp of truth and mercy. Let any one say, ‘This man is
virtuous, but he knows no compassion,’ or ‘He is an unrighteous and
wicked man, but he is very compassionate,’ and the contradiction will
be at once apparent.”[45] These words are only true with considerable
reservations. There is no doubt that pity or compassion is a real basis
of morality, but Schopenhauer’s obvious mistake is in regarding that
feeling as the _only_ foundation of _all_ morality.[46]
In truth it is only one of the three ultimate principles of morality
and it has a definite sphere of application, namely, it determines
our rightful relation to other beings in our world. Pity is the only
true foundation of _altruism_, but altruism and morality are not
identical: the former is only a part of the latter. It is true that
‘boundless compassion for all living beings is the surest and most
secure foundation,’ not of moral action in general, as Schopenhauer
mistakenly affirms, but of moral action in relation to other beings
who are the object of compassion. This relation however, important as
it is, does not exhaust the whole of morality. Besides the relation
to his fellow-men, man stands also in a certain relation to his own
material nature and to the higher principles of all existence, and
these relations, too, require to be morally determined so that the good
in them may be distinguished from the evil. A man who is full of pity
will certainly not injure or cause suffering to any one--that is, he
will not injure _any one else_, but he may very well injure himself by
indulging in carnal passions which lower his human dignity. In spite
of a most compassionate heart one may be inclined to profligacy and
other low vices, which, though not opposed to compassion, are opposed
to morality--and this fact shows that the two ideas do not coincide.
Schopenhauer rightly insists that one cannot say, ‘This man is
malicious and unjust, but he is very compassionate’; curiously enough,
however, he forgets that one may, and often has to say, ‘So and so is
a sensual and dissolute man--a profligate, a glutton, a drunkard--but
he is very kind-hearted’; equally familiar is the phrase, ‘Although
so and so lives an exemplary ascetic life, he is pitiless to his
neighbours.’ This means that on the one hand the _virtue_ of abstinence
is possible apart from pity, and on the other that although strongly
developed sympathetic feelings--pity, kindness--exclude the possibility
of _evil_ actions in the narrow sense of the term, _i.e._ cruel actions
directly hurtful to others, they do not by any means prevent _shameful_
actions. And yet such actions are not morally indifferent even from
the altruistic point of view. A kind drunkard and profligate may be
sorry for other people and never wish to hurt them, yet by his vice he
certainly injures not only himself but his family, which he may finally
ruin without the least intention of doing them harm. If then pity does
not prevent such conduct, our inward opposition to it must be founded
upon another aspect of our moral nature, namely, upon the feeling of
shame. The rules of asceticism[47] spring from it in the same way as
the rules of altruism develop out of the feeling of pity.
VII
The true essence of pity or compassion is certainly not the immediate
identification of oneself with another, but the recognition of the
inherent worth of that other--the recognition of his right to existence
and to possible welfare. When I pity another man or animal, I do not
confuse myself with him or take him for myself and myself for him. I
merely see in him a creature that is akin and similar to me, with a
consciousness like mine, and wishing, like I do, to live and to enjoy
the good things of life. In admitting my own right to the fulfilment
of such a desire, I admit it in the case of others; being painfully
conscious of every violation of this right in relation to me, of
every injury to myself, I respond in like manner to the violation
of the rights of others, to the injury of others. Pitying myself, I
pity others. When I see a suffering creature I do not identify or
confuse it with myself, I merely imagine myself _in its place_ and,
admitting its likeness to myself, compare its states to my own, and,
as the phrase is, ‘enter into its position.’ This _equalisation_ (but
not identification) between myself and another which immediately and
unconsciously takes place in the feeling of pity, is raised by reason
to the level of a clear and distinct idea.
The intellectual content (the idea) of pity or compassion, taken in its
universality, independently of the subjective mental states in which
it is manifested--_i.e._ taken logically and not psychologically,--is
truth and justice. It is true that other creatures are similar to me,
and it is just that I should feel about them as I do about myself.
This position, clear in itself, becomes still more clear when tested
negatively. When I am pitiless or indifferent to others, consider
myself at liberty to injure them and do not think it my duty to help
them, they appear to me not what they really are. A being appears
as merely a thing, something living appears as dead, conscious--as
unconscious, what is akin to me appears as foreign, and what is like
me as absolutely different. The relation in which an object is taken
to be not what it really is is a direct denial of truth; and actions
that follow from it will be unjust. Therefore the opposite relation
which is subjectively expressed as the inner feeling of sympathy, pity,
or compassion is, from the objective point of view, _expressive of
truth_, and actions following from it will be _just_. To measure by a
different measure is acknowledged by all to be an elementary instance
of injustice; but when I am pitiless to others, _i.e._ treat them as
soulless and rightless things, and affirm myself as a conscious being
fully possessed of rights, I evidently measure with different measures
and crudely contradict truth and justice. On the contrary, when I pity
others as I do myself, I measure with one measure and consequently act
in accordance with truth and justice.
In so far as it is a constant quality and a practical principle,
pitilessness is called _egoism_. In its pure and unmixed form
consistent egoism does not exist, at any rate not among human beings.
But in order to understand the general nature of egoism as such, it is
necessary to characterise it as a pure and unconditional principle.
Its essence consists in this: an absolute opposition, an impassable
gulf is fixed between one’s own self and other beings. I am everything
to myself and must be everything to others, but others are nothing in
themselves and become something only as a means for me. My life and
welfare is an end in itself, the life and welfare of others are only
a means for my ends, the necessary environment for my self-assertion.
I am the centre and the world only a circumference. Such a point of
view is seldom put forward, but with some reservations it undoubtedly
lies at the root of our natural life. Absolute egoists are not to be
found on earth: every human being appears to feel pity at least for
some one, every human being sees a fellow-creature in some one person
at least. But restricted within certain limits--usually very narrow
ones--egoism manifests itself all the more clearly in other, wider
spheres. A person who does not take up the egoistic attitude towards
his own relatives, _i.e._ who includes his family within his self,
all the more mercilessly opposes this widened self to all that is
external to it. A person who extends his self--quite superficially as
a rule--to include his whole nation, adopts the egoistic point of view,
with all the greater fierceness, both for himself and for his nation,
in relation to other nations and races, etc. The fact that the circle
of inner solidarity is widened and the egoism is transferred from the
individual to the family, the nation, and the state is unquestionably
of great moral significance to the life of humanity, for within a
given circle selfishness is restricted, outweighed, or even completely
replaced by humane and moral relations. But this does not destroy _the
principle_ of egoism in humanity, which consists in the absolute inner
opposition of oneself and one’s own to what is other than it--in fixing
a gulf between the two. This principle is essentially false, for in
reality there is not, and there cannot be, any such gulf, any absolute
opposition. It is clear that exclusiveness, egoism, pitilessness is
essentially the same thing as untruth. Egoism is in the first place
fantastic and _unreal_, it affirms what does not and cannot exist. To
consider oneself (in the narrow or in the wide sense) as the exclusive
centre of the universe is at bottom as absurd as to believe oneself to
be a glass seat or the constellation of Ursa Major.[48]
If, then, egoism is condemned by reason as a senseless affirmation
of what is non-existent and impossible, the opposite principle of
altruism, psychologically based upon the feeling of pity, is entirely
justified both by reason and by conscience. In virtue of this principle
the individual person admits that other beings are, just like himself,
relative centres of being and of living force. This is an affirmation
of truth, an admission of what truly is. From this truth, to which the
feeling of pity, roused by other beings akin and alike to us, inwardly
bears witness in every soul, reason deduces a principle or a law with
regard to all other beings: _Do unto others as you would they should do
unto you_.
VIII
The general rule or principle of altruism[49] naturally falls into
two more particular ones. The beginning of this division may be
seen already in the fundamental altruistic feeling of pity. If I am
genuinely sorry for a person, in the first place I would not myself
cause him harm or suffering, would not _injure_ him, and secondly,
when, independently of me, he suffers pain or injury, I would _help_
him. Hence follow two rules of altruism, the negative and the positive:
(1) _Do not to others what you do not wish others to do to you_. (2)
_Do to others what you would wish others to do to you._ More briefly
and simply, these two rules, which are usually joined together, are
expressed as follows: _Do not injure any one, and help every one so far
as you are able_ (_Neminem laede, imo omnes, quantum potes, juva_).
The first, negative, rule is, more particularly, called the rule of
justice, and the second the rule of mercy. But this distinction is not
quite correct, for the second rule, too, is founded upon justice: if
I want others to help me when in need, it is just that I, too, should
help them. On the other hand, if I do not wish to injure any one, it
is because I recognise others to be living and sentient beings like
myself; and in that case I will, of course, as much as in me lies, save
them from suffering. I do not injure them because I pity them, and if
I pity them, I will also help them. Mercy presupposes justice, and
justice demands mercy--they are merely different aspects or different
manifestations of one and the same thing.[50]
There is a real distinction between these two sides or degrees of
altruism, but there is not, and there cannot be, any opposition or
contradiction. Not to help others means to injure them; a consistently
just man will inevitably do works of mercy, and the truly merciful man
cannot at the same time be unjust. The fact that the two altruistic
rules, in spite of all the difference between them, are _inseparable_,
is very important as providing the foundation for the inner connection
between legal justice and morality, and between the political and the
spiritual life of the community.
The general rule of altruism--‘do unto others as you would they should
do unto you’--by no means presupposes the material or the qualitative
equality of all the individuals. There exists no such equality in
nature, and it would be meaningless to demand it. It is not a question
of equality, but simply of the equal right to exist and to develop the
good potentialities of one’s nature. A wild man of the Bush has as much
right to exist and to develop in his way, as St. Francis of Assisi
or Goethe had in theirs. And we must respect _this_ right equally in
all cases. The murder of a savage is as much a sin as the murder of a
genius or a saint. But this does not imply that they are, therefore,
of the same value in other respects, and must be treated equally
outside the scope of this universal human right. Material equality, and
therefore equality of rights, does not exist either between different
beings or in one and the same being whose particular and definite
rights and duties change with the changes in age and position; they
are not the same in children and in adults, in mental disease or in
health. And yet a person’s fundamental or universally human rights and
his moral value as an individual remain the same. Nor is it destroyed
by the infinite variety and inequality of separate persons, tribes, and
classes. In all these differences there must be preserved something
identical and absolute, namely, _the significance of each person as an
end in himself_, that is to say, his significance as something that
cannot be _merely a means_ for the ends of others.
The logical demands of altruism are all-embracing, reason shows no
favours, knows no barriers; in this respect it coincides with the
feeling upon which altruism is psychologically based. Pity, as we have
seen, is also universal and impartial, and through it man may be
‘made like to God,’ for his compassion equally embraces all, without
distinction--the good and ‘the enemies of truth,’ men and demons, and
even ‘all of the crawling kind.’[51]
FOOTNOTES:
[40] Such as the doctrine of Buddhism or Schopenhauer’s ‘Philosophy of
the Will.’
[41] An _apparent_ instance to the contrary is the case of a person
sympathising with another who is grieved at the failure of his crime.
But, in truth, even in this case in so far as sympathy arises solely
out of pity it does not in the least refer to the bad cause of the
grief, in no way presupposes an approval of it, and therefore is good
and innocent. But if, in being sorry for the murderer who missed his
aim, I also deplore his failure, the immorality will lie not in my pity
for the criminal, but in my _lack of pity_ for his victim. Speaking
generally, when several persons prove to be at one in some wrong, the
moral condemnation refers not to the fact of their solidarity, but only
to the bad object of it.
[42] Schopenhauer, _Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik_, 2nd ed.,
Leipzig, 1860, p. 230.
[43] Certain animals, like human mothers, have been observed to suffer
from _nausea a conceptu_. The maternal feeling established on the
physical basis may afterwards, like all feelings, be diverted from its
natural object and transferred to the young of _another_ animal that
have been substituted for her own.
[44] _The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian, Hermit and
Ascetic, Bishop of the City of Ninevy_, p. 277.
[45] _Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik_, 2nd ed., p. 23.
[46] It is all the more necessary for me to indicate this important
error of the fashionable philosopher as I myself was guilty of it when
I wrote my dissertation _Kritika otvletchonnih natchal_ (_The Critique
of Abstract Principles_).
[47] It is curious that Schopenhauer admitted and even greatly
exaggerated the importance of asceticism, but for some reason he
completely excluded it from his moral teaching. It is one of the
instances of the incoherent thinking of the famous writer.
[48] Theoretical proof of the reality of the external world and of
the inner conscious life of beings is offered in metaphysics. Moral
philosophy is concerned only with a general consciousness of this
truth, which even the extreme egoist involuntarily accepts. When for
his selfish purposes he wants the help of other people not dependent on
him, he treats them, contrary to his fundamental principle, as actual,
independent persons fully possessed of rights; he tries to persuade
them to side with him, takes their own interests into consideration.
Thus egoism contradicts itself, and is in any case a _false_ point of
view.
[49] This term, introduced by the founder of Positivism, Auguste
Comte, is the exact expression of the logical antithesis to egoism and
therefore answers to a real need of philosophical language (altruism,
from _alter_, other, like egoism, from _ego_, self). Our violent
opponents of foreign words ought to be consistent, and if they object
to altruism, they should also renounce the word egoism. Instead of
these terms they may use the words ‘_yatchestvo_’ (‘selfness’) and
‘_druzhatchestvo_’ (‘otherism’); the former term, I believe, has
already been used. If it were a question of merely _psychological_
definitions, the words _self-love_ and _love of others_ could be
substituted, but including as they do the idea of love, they are
unsuitable for the designation of ethical _principles_ which are
concerned not with feelings but with rules of action. One may love
oneself far more than others, and yet, on principle, work for the good
of others as much as for one’s own. Such a person would undoubtedly be
an altruist, but it would be equally absurd to speak of him as ‘a lover
of self’ or ‘a lover of others.’
[50] In Hebrew _sedek_ means ‘just,’ and the noun derived from it,
_sedeka_, means ‘benevolence.’
[51] The question as to our moral duties to animals will be considered
in a special appendix at the end of the book, in addition to special
references to it in Part II. and Part III.
CHAPTER IV
THE RELIGIOUS PRINCIPLE IN MORALITY
I
Although the moral rules of justice and mercy, psychologically based
upon the feeling of pity, include in their _extension_ the whole realm
of living creatures, their _intension_ does not exhaust the moral
relations that hold even between human beings. Take, in the first
place, the moral relation of children--young, but already able to
understand the demands of morality--to their parents. It undoubtedly
contains a peculiar, specific element, irreducible either to justice or
to kindness and underivable from pity. A child immediately recognises
his parents’ _superiority_ over himself, his _dependence_ upon them;
he feels _reverence_ for them, and there follows from it the practical
duty of obedience. All this lies outside the boundaries of simple
altruism, the logical essence of which consists in my recognising
another as my equal, as a being like myself and in attaching the same
significance to him as I do to myself. The moral relation of children
to their parents, so far from being determined by equality, has quite
the opposite character--it is based upon the recognition of that in
which the two are _unequal_. And the ultimate psychological basis of
the moral relation in this case cannot be the participation in the
sufferings of others (pity), for the parents immediately appear to the
child not as needing the help of others, but as being able to help it
in its needs.
This relation is not, of course, opposed to justice, but it contains
something in addition to it. The general principle of justice requires
that our relation to others should be what we wish their relation to
be to us. It may logically include the moral relation of children to
parents: in loving its mother or father, the child, of course, wants
them to love it. But there is an essential difference between these two
forms of love--that which the child feels for its parents, and that
which it wants them to feel for it--and the difference does not spring
from the general principle itself. The first relation is characterised
by the feeling of admiration for the higher and by the duty of
obedience to it, while no such reverence and submission is required by
the child from the parents. Of course, formal reflection may be pursued
further, and it may be affirmed that the children (when they reach the
years of discretion, of course), in revering their parents and obeying
them, wish to be treated in the same way by their own children in the
future. This circumstance, however, merely establishes the abstract
relation between the general idea of justice and filial love; it
certainly does not account for the peculiar nature of that love. Apart
from all problematic thought of future children, the moral feeling of
a real child to its parents has _a sufficient basis_ in the actual
relationship between this child and its parents--namely, in its _entire
dependence_ upon them as its Providence. This fact inevitably involves
the admission of their essential superiority, and from it logically
follows the duty of obedience. Thus filial love acquires quite a
peculiar character of respect or reverence (_pietas erga parentes_),
which carries it beyond the general limits of simple altruism.
It may be observed that parental (especially maternal) love, or
pity, which is the first and the most fundamental expression of the
altruistic attitude, presupposes the same inequality, but in the
opposite direction. Here, however, the inequality is not essential.
When parents pity their helpless children and take care of them, they
_know_ from their own experience the pain of hunger, cold, etc.,
which rouse their pity, so that this is really a case of comparing or
equalising the states of another person with one’s own states of the
same kind. A child, on the contrary, has never experienced for itself
the advantages of mature age, which call forth in it a feeling of
respect or reverence for its parents, and make it see _higher beings_
in them. Parents pity their children because of their _likeness_ to
themselves, because of their being the same, though, as a matter of
fact, unequal. Inequality, in this case, is purely accidental. But
the specific feeling of children to their parents is essentially
determined by the superiority of the latter, and is therefore directly
based upon inequality.
If one carefully observes a child who tries to defend its mother from
an actual or imaginary insult, it will be easily seen that its dominant
feelings are anger and indignation at the blasphemer. It is not so much
sorry for the offended as angry with the offender. The child’s feelings
are essentially similar to those that animate the crowd defending its
idol. “Great is Diana of the Ephesians! death to the ungodly!”
All manifestations of pity and of altruism that follow from it are
essentially conditioned by _equality_. Inequality is merely an
accidental and transitory element in them. In pitying another, I
assimilate myself to him, imagine myself in his place, get, so to
speak, into his skin--and this in itself presupposes my equality with
him as a fellow-creature. In recognising another as equal to himself,
the person who experiences pity, compares the state of that other to
similar states of himself, and from the likeness between them deduces
the moral duty of sympathy and help.
_Non ignara mali miseris succurrere discor._[52] To pity another, I
must compare myself to him or him to me. The assumption of essential
inequality or heterogeneity, excluding as it does the thought of
_similar_ states, destroys the very root of pity and of all altruistic
relation. ‘The twice born’ Hindu is pitiless to the Sûdras and Pariahs.
His relation to them is based on inequality, _i.e._ precisely on the
impossibility of comparing himself with them. He cannot put himself in
their place, assimilate their states to his, and cannot, therefore,
sympathise with them. In this case, just as in the case of the white
planters’ attitude to the negroes, or of our old serf-owners to ‘the
brood of Ham,’ it was sought to justify the cruel relation which
existed as a fact by the conception of a fundamental inequality or
heterogeneity.
Such recognition of inequality is purely negative; it severs the bond
of union between beings and generates or justifies all kinds of immoral
relations. A different character attaches to that positive inequality
which we find in filial love or piety. The inequality between a Brahmin
and a Pariah, or between a planter and a negro, destroys the unity of
feeling and of interests between them; but the superiority of the
parents over the children is, on the contrary, the condition of their
unity and the basis of a particular kind of moral relation. This is
the natural root of _religious morality_, which forms a distinct and
important part in the spiritual life of man, independently of all
particular religions and systems of metaphysics.
II
Since the appearance of De Brosses’s book in the last century the
theory of the ‘gods-fetishes’ began to gain ground, and of late has
become extremely popular under the influence of Auguste Comte’s
positive philosophy. According to this view, the primitive form of
religion is _fetishism_, _i.e._ the deification of material objects,
partly natural (stones, trees) and partly artificial, which have
accidentally drawn attention to themselves or have been arbitrarily
chosen. The beginnings or the remains of such a material cult are
undoubtedly found in all religions; but to regard fetishism as the
fundamental and primitive religion of humanity is contrary both to
the evidence of history and sociology and to the demands of logic.
(Fetishism may, however, have a deeper meaning, as the founder of
positivism himself began to suspect in the second half of his career.)
In order to recognise a stone, a bit of tree, or a shell as a god,
_i.e._ as a being of superior power and importance, one must already
possess the idea of a higher being. I could not mistake a rope for a
snake did I not already possess the idea of the snake. But what could
the idea of the deity be derived from? The material objects which
are made into fetishes and idols have in themselves, in their actual
sensuous reality, no attributes of a higher being. The idea, therefore,
cannot be derived from them. To call it innate is not to give an answer
to the question. All that takes place in man is in a sense innate in
him. There is no doubt that man is by nature capable of forming an
idea of a higher being, for otherwise he would not have formed it. The
question is asked not about the existence of this capacity but about
its original _application_, which must have some immediate sufficient
reason. In order to pass into _actual_ consciousness every idea, even
when potentially present in the human intellect, and in this sense
innate, requires that certain sensuous impressions or perceptions
should call it forth and give it a living concrete form, which
subsequently undergoes a further process of intellectual modification,
and is made wider and deeper, more complex and more exact. But the
actual impressions from a chunk of wood or a rudely fashioned figure
are not a sufficient ground for calling forth for the first time in
the mind the idea of a higher being, or for helping to fashion that
idea. More suitable in this respect are the impressions from the sun
and the moon, the starry heaven, thunderstorm, sea, rivers, etc. But
long before the mind becomes capable of dwelling on these events and of
judging their significance, it has been given impressions of another
kind--more familiar and more powerful--for generating in it the idea
of a higher being. When dealing with the origin of some fundamental
idea in human consciousness, we must think of the child and not of
the adult. Now it is perfectly certain that the child is far more
conscious of its dependence upon its mother, who feeds and takes care
of it (and later on, on its father), than of its dependence upon the
sun, the thunderstorm, or the river that irrigates the fields of its
native land. The impressions it has from the first of its parents
contain sufficient ground for evoking in it the idea of a higher being
as well as the feelings of reverential love and fear of an immeasurable
power. These feelings are associated with the idea of a higher being
and form the basis of the religious attitude. It is an unquestionable
fact, and a perfectly natural one, that until they reach a certain
age children _pay no attention at all_ to the most important natural
phenomena. The sun appears no more remarkable to them than a simple
lamp, and the thunder produces no more impression upon them than the
rattle of crockery. In my own case the first impression of the starry
sky that I remember refers to my sixth year, and even then it was due
to a special reason (the comet of 1859), while the series of clear and
connected family memories begins in my fourth year. Neither in life
nor in literature have I seen any indications to the reverse order
of development in children; and if we saw a baby of three years old
suddenly develop an interest in astronomical phenomena, I think we
should feel distinctly alarmed.
Not in accidental fetishes and hand-made idols, not in majestic or
terrible phenomena of nature, but in the living image of _parents_
is the idea of Godhead for the first time embodied for humanity in
its childhood. For this reason the moral element--contrary to current
opinion--has from the first an important though not an exclusive
significance for religion. According to the elementary conception of it
the deity has pre-eminently the character of _Providence_.
At first Providence is embodied in the _mother_. At the lower stages
of social development, so long as the marriage relation is not yet
organised, the importance of the mother and the cult of motherhood
predominate. Different peoples, like individual men, have lived through
an epoch of _matriarchy_ or mother-right, the traces of which are still
preserved in history, in ancient customs, and also in the present life
of certain savages.[53] But when the patriarchal type of family comes
to be established, the mother retains the part of Providence only while
the children are materially dependent upon her for food and their
first education. At that period the mother is the only higher being
for the child; but as he reaches the age of reflection he sees that
his mother is herself dependent upon another higher being--his father,
who provides food for and protects all his family; he is the true
Providence, and the religious worship is naturally transferred to him.
III
The religious attitude of children to their parents as to their living
Providence, arising naturally in primitive humanity, expresses itself
most clearly and fully when the children are grown up and the parents
are _dead_. Worship of dead fathers and ancestors unquestionably
occupies the foremost place in the development of the religious,
moral, and social relations of humanity. The immense population of
China still lives by the religion of ancestor-worship, upon which all
the social, political, and family structure of the Middle Kingdom is
founded. And among other peoples of the globe--savage, barbarous, or
civilised, including modern Parisians--there is not one which does
not do homage to the memory of the dead in one form or another. The
relation to living parents, although it is the first basis of religion,
cannot have a purely religious character owing to the intimacy and
constant interaction in everyday life. As a child grows up he hears
from his father about his ancestors who died and are the object of an
already established religious cult; thus the religion of parents who
are still living is naturally merged into the religion of parents who
have gone, and who, clothed in mysterious majesty, are raised above all
that surrounds us. The father in his lifetime is merely a candidate for
deity, and is only the mediator and the priest of the real god--the
dead ancestor. _It is not fear but death that gives humanity its first
gods._ The feeling of dependence and the conception of Providence,
transferred from the mother to the father, become associated with the
idea of the forefathers when the child learns that the parents upon
whom he depends are in a far greater dependence upon the dead, whose
power is not limited by any conditions of the material and corporeal
existence. The idea of Providence and the moral duties of respect,
service, and obedience that follow from it for man are thus transferred
to them. To obey the will of the dead, one must know it. Sometimes
they announce it directly, appearing in a vision or a dream; in other
cases it must be learnt through divination. The mediators between this
higher divine power and ordinary men are, first, the living fathers or
the elders of the tribe, but afterwards, as the social relations become
more complex, there arises a separate class of priests, diviners,
sorcerers, and prophets.
It is only a subjective misanthropic mood that can reduce filial
sentiments even in the primitive races to fear alone, to the exclusion
of gratitude and of a disinterested recognition of superiority. If
these moral elements are unquestionably present in the relation of a
dog to its master in whom it sees its living Providence, they must
_a fortiori_ form part of the feelings of man to his Providence,
originally embodied for him in his parents. When this interpretation
is transferred to the dead ancestors, their cult also carries with
it the moral element of filial love, which is in this case clearly
differentiated from simple altruism and acquires a predominantly
religious character.
According to a well-known theory, whose chief representative is Herbert
Spencer, the whole of religion can be traced to ancestor-worship.
Although this view does not express the complete truth, it is far more
correct and suggestive than the theory of primitive fetishism or the
theories which reduce all religion to the deification of the sun, the
thunder, and other natural phenomena. The objects of religious worship
were always active beings or spirits in the likeness of man. There
can hardly be a doubt that the prototype of spirits were the souls
of the departed ancestors. In Lithuania and Poland the general name
for all spirits is _forefathers_--_dziady_; with us the elementary
spirits are spoken of as _grandfather_ water-sprite, _grandfather_ of
the forest, the _master_ house-spirit. Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_, chiefly
borrowed from the popular beliefs of the Greeks and Romans, are full
of stories of the dead or dying men passing into the elementary, the
zoomorphic, and the phytomorphic (vegetative) deities and spirits. The
most widespread form of fetishism--the _stone_ worship--is undoubtedly
connected with the cult of the dead. Among the Laps, Buriates, and
other peoples, the names of the ancestors or the sorcerers who were
transformed into the sacred stones are remembered after death.[54]
This transformation cannot be understood in the sense that the spirit
of the dead becomes a stone, _i.e._ a soulless thing; on the contrary,
it retains the power that it had in its lifetime, and is indeed more
powerful than it was then. Thus among the Laps the petrified sorcerers
foretell and cause storms and bad weather in all the neighbourhood.
The stone in this case is merely the visible abode of the spirit, the
instrument of its action. Among the Semites sacred stones were called
_beth-el_, that is, ‘house of god.’ The same thing must be said about
sacred trees.
It is a well-known fact that among the Africans and other peoples the
sorcerers are supposed to have for their chief characteristic the power
of controlling atmospheric events, of producing good and bad weather.
This power is ascribed in a still greater degree and more directly to
the _spirits_ of the dead sorcerers, whose living successors serve
merely as their mediators and messengers. Now such a powerful spirit of
a dead sorcerer, who produces at his will thunder and storm, differs in
no way from a thunder god. There is no rational necessity to seek for a
different explanation of _father_ Zeus or of _grandfather_ Percunas.
It is not my object here to expound and explain the history of
religious development, and I will not attempt to solve the question
as to how far a genetic tie may be established between the cult of the
dead and the solar, lunar, and stellar mythology. I will only mention
some suggestive facts. In Egypt the solar deity Osiris reigned over
the unseen world of the dead. In classical mythology Hecate was one
of the deities of Hades. According to an ancient belief preserved
in Manicheism the moon is an intermediate resting-place for the
souls of the departed. I would also like to observe that the end of
the theogonic process is true to its beginning--that the religious
consciousness at its highest stage merely deepens and widens the
content we find at the primitive stages. The religion of a primitive
human family centres round the idea of the father or the nearest
ancestor, first as living, then as dead. Their _own_ particular parent
is the highest principle for the family, the source of its life and
welfare, the object of respect, gratitude, and obedience--in a word,
its Providence. Through a natural historical process there arise the
communal and the tribal gods, until at last the religious consciousness
of humanity, united in thought if not in fact, rises to the idea of the
universal Heavenly Father with His all-embracing Providence.
IV
The development of a religious idea involves a change in its extension,
and also in the nature of the intellectual concepts and practical
rules contained in it. But it does not affect the moral content of
religion, _i.e._ man’s fundamental relation to what he admits as
higher than himself--to what he recognises as his Providence. That
relation remains unchanged in all the forms and at all the stages of
religious development. The _ideas_ of the child about its parents, of
the members of a tribe about the spirit of their first ancestor, the
ideas of entire peoples about their national gods, and finally, the
general human idea of the one all-good Father of all that is, _differ_
essentially from one another, and there is also great difference in
the _forms of worship_. The real tie between father and children
needs no special institutions and no mediation; but the relation with
the _invisible_ spirit of the ancestor must be maintained by special
means. The spirit cannot partake of ordinary human food. It feeds on
the evaporation of blood, and has therefore to be fed by sacrifices.
Family sacrifices to the spirit of the tribe naturally differ from
communal sacrifices to the national gods; the ‘god of war’ has greater
and different requirements than the patron-spirit of the home, and
the all-embracing and all-pervading Father of the universe requires
no material sacrifices at all, but only worship in spirit and in
truth. But in spite of all these differences, the filial relation to
the higher being remains essentially the same at all these different
stages. The crudest cannibal and the most perfect saint in so far
as they are religious agree in that they both equally desire to do
not their own will but the _will of the Father_. This permanent and
self-identical filial relation to the higher (whatever this higher
may be supposed to be) forms that principle of true _pietism_ which
connects religion with morality, and may equally well be described as
the religious element in morality or the moral element in religion.[55]
Can this principle be affirmed as a generally binding moral rule, side
by side with the principles of asceticism and altruism? Apparently the
filial relation to the supreme will depends upon the faith in that
will, and one cannot require such faith from those who have not got it;
when there is nothing to be had, it is no use making demands. But there
is a misunderstanding here. The recognition of what is higher than us
is independent of any definite intellectual ideas, and therefore of
any positive beliefs, and in its _general_ character it is undoubtedly
binding upon every moral and rational being. Every such being, in
trying to attain the purpose of its life, is necessarily convinced that
the attainment of it, or the final satisfaction of will, is beyond the
power of man--that is, every rational being comes to recognise its
_dependence_ upon something invisible and unknown. Such dependence
cannot be denied. The only question is whether that upon which I am
dependent has a meaning. If it has not, my existence, dependent upon
what is meaningless, is meaningless also. In that case there is no
point in speaking of any rational and moral principles and purposes.
They can only have significance on condition that there is a meaning
in my existence, that the world is a rational system, that meaning
predominates over what is meaningless in the universe. If there is no
rational purpose in the world as a whole, there cannot be any in that
_part_ of it which is composed of human actions determined by moral
rules. But in that case these rules too fall to the ground, for they do
not lead to anything and cannot in any way be justified. If my higher
spiritual nature is merely an accident, ascetic struggle with the flesh
may destroy my spiritual being instead of strengthening it; and in that
case why should I observe the rules of abstinence and deprive myself
of real pleasures for the sake of an empty dream? In the same way, if
there is no rational and moral order in the universe, and our work
for the benefit of our neighbours may bring them harm instead of the
intended help, the moral principle of altruism is destroyed by inner
self-contradiction. If, for instance, I suppose, with Schopenhauer,
that the ultimate reality is blind and senseless Will, and that all
existence is essentially pain, why should I try and help others to
support their existence? On such a supposition it would be far more
logical to use every effort to put to death the largest possible number
of living creatures.
I can do good consciously and rationally only if I believe in the good
and in its objective independent significance in the world, _i.e._ in
other words, if I believe in the moral order, in Providence, in God.
This faith is logically prior to all particular religious beliefs and
institutions, as well as to all systems of metaphysics, and in this
sense it forms the so-called natural religion.
V
The natural religion gives rational sanction to all the demands
of morality. Suppose reason directly tells us that it is good to
subordinate the flesh to the spirit, that it is good to help others
and to recognise the rights of other people like our own. Now in order
to obey these demands of reason, one must believe in reason--believe
that the good it requires from us is not a subjective illusion, but has
real grounds and expresses the truth, and that that truth ‘is great
and overcomes.’ Not to have this faith is to disbelieve that one’s own
existence has a meaning--is to renounce the dignity of a rational being.
The absence of a natural religion is often fictitious. A negative
relation to this or that form or degree of religious consciousness,
predominant at a given time and at a given place, is easily taken for
denial of religion as such. Thus the Pagans of the Roman Empire thought
the Christians godless (ἄθεοι), and from their point of view they were
right, for the Christians did reject all their gods. Apart from this,
however, there exist cases of real godlessness or unbelief, _i.e._ of
denying on principle anything higher than oneself--of denying good,
reason, truth. But the fact of such denial, which coincides with the
denial of morality in general, can be no more an argument against the
generally binding character of the religiously-moral principle than the
existence of shameless and carnal, or of pitiless and cruel men is an
argument against the moral duty of abstinence and charity.
Religious morality, as all morality in general, is not a confirmation
of everything that is, but an affirmation of the one thing that ought
to be. Independently of all positive beliefs or of any unbelief,
every man as a _rational_ being _must_ admit that the life of the
world as a whole and his own life in particular _has a meaning_, and
that therefore everything depends upon a supreme rational principle,
in virtue of which this meaning is preserved and realised. And in
admitting this, he must put himself into a filial position in relation
to the supreme principle of life, that is, gratefully surrender himself
to its providence, and submit all his actions to the ‘will of the
Father,’ which speaks through reason and conscience.
Just as the intellectual ideas about the parents and the external
practical relations to them alter according to the age of the children,
while the filial love must remain unchanged, so the theological
conceptions and the forms of worship of the Heavenly Father assume many
forms and undergo many changes with the spiritual growth of humanity;
but the religiously-moral attitude of free subordination of one’s will
to the demands of a higher principle must always and everywhere remain
the same.
VI
Speaking generally, in morality the higher demands do not cancel the
lower, but presuppose and include them. This might seem to be a matter
of course; and yet many have failed, and still fail, to understand
this simple and obvious truth. Thus, according to the teaching of
some Christian sects, both ancient and modern, the higher rule of
celibacy cancels the seventh commandment as inferior, and therefore,
in rejecting marriage, these sectarians readily allow all kinds of
fornication. It is obvious that they are in error. Similarly, it is
thought by many that the higher rule of pitying all living creatures
absolves them from the lower duty of pitying their family and
relatives, although, one would think, there could be no doubt about the
latter also belonging to the class of living creatures.
Still more often such mistakes are made in the domain of religious
morality. The higher stages of spiritual consciousness once reached,
subordinate to themselves and consequently change, but by no means
cancel, the demands which had force on the lower stages. A man who
has a conception of the Heavenly Father cannot, of course, regard his
earthly father in the same way as does a babe for whom the latter is
the only higher being; but it does not follow that the first and the
second commandments cancel the fifth. We cannot now render our dead
ancestors the religious worship which they had in the patriarchal
times; but this does not mean that we have no duties to the departed.
We may well be conscious of our dependence upon the One Father of
the universe, but this dependence is not immediate; our existence
is, without a doubt, closely determined by heredity and environment.
Heredity means the forefathers, and it is by them that our environment
has been made. The supreme Will has determined our existence through
our ancestors, and, bowing down before Its action, we cannot be
indifferent to Its instruments. I know that if I were born among
cannibals I should be a cannibal myself, and I cannot help feeling
gratitude and reverence to men who by their labour and exploits have
raised my people from the savage state and brought them to the level
of culture upon which they are standing now. This has been done by
Providence through men who have been specially called and who cannot
be separated from their providential work. If I praise and value the
fact that it has been given to my native land, with which my existence
is so closely interwoven, to be a Christian and a European country, I
am bound to hold in pious remembrance the Kiev prince who christened
Russia, and that northern giant who with powerful blows shattered the
Muscovo-Mongolian exclusiveness and brought Russia within the circle of
educated nations, as well as all those men who in the different spheres
of life moved us forward along the path opened by those two historical
forefathers of Russia. It is sometimes maintained that individuals
count for nothing in history, and that what has been done by certain
men would have been done just as well by others. Speaking in the
abstract, we might of course have been born of other parents and not
of our actual father and mother; but this idle thought about possible
parents does not cancel our duties to the actual ones.
The providential men who gave us a share in the higher religion and
in human enlightenment did not themselves create these in the first
instance. What they gave us they had themselves received from the
geniuses, heroes, and saints of the former ages, and our grateful
memory must include them too. We must reconstruct as completely as
possible the whole line of our spiritual ancestors--men through whom
Providence has led humanity on the path to perfection. The pious memory
of our ancestors compels us to do service to them actively. The nature
of that service is conditioned by the ultimate character of the world
as a whole, and cannot be understood apart from theoretical philosophy
and æsthetics. Here one can only point to the moral principle involved,
namely, the pious and grateful reverence due to the forefathers.
Such a cult of human ancestors in spirit and in truth does not belittle
the religion of the one Heavenly Father. On the contrary, it makes it
definite and real. It is what He put into these ‘chosen vessels’ that
we revere in them; in these visible images of the unseen, the Deity
Itself is revealed and glorified. A person in whose mind the concrete
images of providential action incarnate in history fail to evoke
gratitude, reverence, and homage will be still less likely to respond
to the pure idea of Providence. A truly religious attitude to the
higher is impossible for one who has never experienced the feelings to
which the poet gives expression:
When, in the drunkenness of crime,
The crowd goes forth in violent rage,
And evil genius through the mire
Drags name of prophet and of sage,
My knees are bent in one desire,
My head is bowed towards the page
Where clear and open for all time
They wrote the message for their age.
I call up their majestic shades
In the dim church where tumult fades,
In clouds of incense learn and glean,
And forgetting the mob and its vulgar noise,
I give my ears to the noble voice
And take full breath of all they mean.
FOOTNOTES:
[52] ‘Having known trouble myself, I learn to help those who suffer’
(the words of Dido in Virgil’s _Aeneid_).
[53] There is a special literature on the subject which first arose
in connection with classical archeology (Bahofen, _Das Mutterrecht_),
and subsequently passed into the domain of comparative ethnography and
sociology.
[54] See, among other things, Harusin’s book on Laplanders, and my
article _Ostatki pervobitnago yazitchestva_ (_The Remains of Primitive
Paganism_).
[55] I am speaking here of pietism in the direct and general sense of
the term as designating the feeling of piety (_pietas_) raised to the
rank of a moral principle. Usually the term ‘pietism’ in a special
historical sense is applied to a certain religious movement among the
Protestants.
CHAPTER V
VIRTUES
I
Each of the moral foundations I have laid down--shame, pity, and the
religious feeling--may be considered from three points of view: as a
_virtue_, as a _rule_ of action, and as the condition of a certain
_good_.
Thus, in relation to shame, we distinguish, first of all, persons
modest or shameless by nature, approving of the former and condemning
the latter; _modesty_, therefore, is recognised as a good natural
quality or as a virtue. But by that very fact it is abstracted from
particular cases and is made _the norm_ or the general rule of action
(and, through this, a basis for passing _judgment_ on actions)
independently of the presence or absence of this virtue in this or in
that individual. If modesty is not sometimes good and sometimes bad
(in the way in which a loud voice is good at a public meeting and bad
in the room of a sleeping invalid); if modesty is a good in itself,
reason requires us in all cases to act in accordance with it, namely,
to _abstain_ from actions that are shameful--_i.e._ that express the
predominance of the lower nature over the higher--and to _practise_
actions of the opposite character. Behaviour in conformity with this
rule leads in the end to permanent self-control, to freedom of the
spirit, and its power over the material existence; that is, it leads to
a state which affords us a certain higher _satisfaction_ and is a moral
good.
In the same way, the capacity for feeling pity or compassion (in
opposition to selfishness, cruelty, and malice) is, in the first place,
a good personal quality or virtue. In so far as it is recognised as
such, or is approved, it provides the norm for altruistic actions in
accordance with the rules of justice and mercy. And such activity leads
to the moral good of true community or oneness with other men, and,
finally, with all living creatures.
In a similar manner, a grateful recognition of that which is higher
than us, and upon which we depend, is the natural foundation of the
virtue of piety, and at the same time provides a rational rule of
religious conduct. It also leads to the moral good of unity with the
first causes and bearers of existence: with our forefathers, with the
departed in general, and with the whole of the invisible world which
conditions our life from this point of view.
Since there is an indissoluble inner connection between any given
virtue, the rules of action corresponding to it, and the moral good
ensuing therefrom, there is no need, in inquiring into the subject more
closely, to adopt every time all the three points of view. It will be
sufficient to take one only, viz. the point of view of virtue, for it
logically contains the other two, and no sharp line of demarcation
can be drawn between them. It would be impossible to deny that the
man who invariably acted in accordance with the rules of virtue was
virtuous, even though he happened to possess but a small degree of the
corresponding natural faculty, or was noted, indeed, by the presence
of the opposite characteristic. On the other hand, that which, in
contradistinction to virtue, I call a moral good, is also a virtue,
though not as originally given but as acquired--it is _the norm of
activity which has become second nature_.
II
A virtuous man is man _as he ought to be_. In other words, virtue is
man’s normal or _due relation_ to everything (for unrelated qualities
or properties are unthinkable). The due relation does not mean the same
relation. In drawing the distinction between the self and the not self,
we necessarily posit or determine the not self in three ways: either
as the _lower_ (by nature), or as _similar_ to us (of the same kind),
or as _higher_ than we. It is obvious that there cannot be a fourth
alternative. Hence it _logically_ follows that the right or the moral
relation must have a threefold character. It is clear that we ought not
to regard the lower (say, an inclination of the material nature) as if
it were the higher (_e.g._ a decree of the divine will); it would be
equally opposed to what is right to regard a being like ourselves--say,
a human being--either as lower than we (_i.e._ regard it as a soulless
thing), or as higher (look upon it as a deity).
Thus, instead of one, we have three right or moral relations, or three
kinds of virtue, corresponding to the three divisions into which
the totality of objects correlated with us necessarily falls. I say
_necessarily_, because man finds himself to be neither the absolutely
supreme or highest being, nor the absolutely subordinate or lowest,
nor, finally, alone of his kind. He is conscious of himself as an
intermediate being and, moreover, _one of the many_ intermediate. The
direct logical consequence of this fact is the threefold character
of his moral relations. In virtue of it, one and the same quality or
action may have quite a different and even opposite significance,
according to the kind of object to which it refers. Thus, belittling
oneself or recognising one’s worthlessness is called _humility_, and is
a virtue when it refers to objects of superior dignity; but in relation
to unworthy objects it is considered base and is immoral.[56] In the
same way, _enthusiasm_, when roused by high principles and ideals, is
no doubt a virtue; in relation to indifferent objects it is an amusing
weakness; and directed upon objects of the lower order it becomes a
shameful mania. Virtues in the proper sense are always and in every one
the same, for they express a quality determined in the right way, and
correspond to the very meaning of one or other of the three possible
spheres of relation. But from these definite and determining virtues
must be distinguished qualities of will and ways of action which are
not in themselves morally determined, and do not permanently correspond
to a definite sphere of duty. These may sometimes be virtues, sometimes
indifferent states, and sometimes even vices; but the change in the
moral significance is not always accompanied by a corresponding change
in the name of the psychological quality in question.
It is clear, then, that even if we did not find in our psychical
experience the three fundamental moral feelings of shame, pity, and
reverence, it would be necessary on logical grounds alone to divide
the totality of moral relations into three parts, or to accept three
fundamental types of virtue, expressing man’s relation to what is lower
than himself, to what is like him, and to what is above him.
III
If in addition to the foundations of morality recognised by us--shame,
pity, and reverence for the higher--we go over all the other qualities
which have, in ancient and modern times, been considered as virtues,
not a single one of them will be found to deserve that name of itself.
Each of these various qualities can only be regarded as a virtue
when it accords with the objective norms of right, expressed in the
three fundamental moral data indicated above. Thus _abstinence_
or _temperance_ has the dignity of virtue only when it refers to
_shameful_ states or actions. Virtue does not require that we should
be abstinent or temperate _in general_ or in everything, but only
that we should abstain from that which is _below_ our human dignity,
and from the things in which it would be a shame to indulge ourselves
unchecked. But if a person is moderate in seeking after truth, or
abstains from goodwill to his neighbours, no one would consider or
call him virtuous on that account; he would, on the contrary, be
condemned as lacking in generous impulses. It follows from this that
temperance is not in itself or essentially a virtue, but becomes or
does not become one according to its right or wrong application to
objects. In the same way, _courage_ or _fortitude_ is only a virtue
in so far as it expresses the right relation of the rational human
being to his lower material nature, the relation, namely, of mastery
and power, the supremacy of the spirit over the animal instinct of
self-preservation.[57] Praiseworthy courage is shown by the man who
does not tremble at accidental misfortunes, who keeps his self-control
in the midst of external dangers, and bravely risks his life and
material goods for the sake of things that are higher and more worthy.
But the _bravest_ unruliness, the most _daring_ aggressiveness, and
the most _fearless_ blaspheming are not praised as virtues; nor is the
horror of sin or the fear of God reckoned as shameful cowardice. In
this case then, again, the quality of being virtuous or vicious depends
upon a certain relation to the object and not on the psychological
nature of the emotional and volitional states.
The third of the so-called cardinal virtues,[58] _wisdom_, _i.e._ the
knowledge of the best ways and means for attaining the purpose before
us, and the capacity to apply these means aright, owes its significance
as a virtue not to this formal capacity for the most expedient action
as such, but necessarily depends upon the moral worth of the purpose
itself. Wisdom as a virtue is the faculty of attaining the _best_
purposes in the _best_ possible way, or the knowledge of applying in
the most expedient way one’s intellectual forces to objects of the
greatest worth. There may be wisdom apart from this condition, but such
wisdom would not be a virtue. The Biblical ‘serpent’ had certainly
justified its reputation as the wisest of earthly creatures by the
understanding he showed of human nature, and the skill with which
he used this understanding for the attainment of his purpose. Since
however the purpose was an evil one, the serpent’s admirable wisdom
was not recognised as a virtue, but was cursed as the source of evil;
and the wisest creature has remained the symbol of an immoral creeping
mind, absorbed in what is low and unworthy. Even in everyday life we
do not recognise as virtue that worldly wisdom which goes no further
than understanding human weaknesses and arranging its own affairs in
accordance with selfish ends.
The conception of _justice_ (the fourth cardinal virtue) has four
different meanings. In the widest sense ‘just’ is synonymous with due,
correct, normal, or generally right--not only in the moral sphere (with
regard to will and action) but also in the intellectual (with regard
to knowledge and thinking); for instance, ‘you reason _justly_’ or
‘_cette solution (d’un problème mathématique ou métaphysique) est
juste_.’ Taken in this sense the conception of justice, approaching
that of truth, is wider than the conception of virtue and belongs
to the theoretical rather than to the moral philosophy. In the
second, more definite sense, justice (_aequitas_) corresponds to the
fundamental principle of altruism, which requires that we should
recognise everybody’s equal right to life and well-being which each
recognises for himself. In this sense justice is not _special_ virtue,
but merely a logical objective expression of the moral principle,
which finds its subjective psychological expression in the fundamental
feeling of pity (compassion or sympathy). The idea of justice is
used in the third sense when a distinction is made between degrees
of altruism (or of moral relation to our fellow-creatures) and when
the first, negative stage (‘not to injure any one’) is described as
justice proper (_justitia_), while the second, positive stage (‘to
help every one’) is designated as charity (_caritas_, _charité_).
As already pointed out (in Chapter III.) this distinction is purely
relative, and is certainly insufficient for making justice into a
special virtue. No one would call just a man who decidedly refused
to help any one or to alleviate anybody’s suffering, even though he
did not injure his neighbours by direct acts of violence. The _moral_
motive both for abstaining from inflicting injury and for rendering
help, is one and the same--namely, a recognition of the right of others
to live and to enjoy life. No moral motive could be found to make
any one halt _half-way_ and be content with the negative side of the
moral demand. It is clear, then, that such pause or such limitation
cannot possibly correspond to any special virtue, and merely expresses
a _lesser degree_ of the general altruistic virtue--the sympathetic
feeling. And there is no universally binding or constant measure for
the lesser and the greater, so that each case must be judged upon its
own merits. When moral consciousness in the community reaches a certain
level of development, the refusal to _help_ even a stranger or an enemy
is condemned by the conscience as a direct wrong. This is perfectly
logical, for if, speaking generally, I _ought_ to help my neighbour,
I wrong him by not helping him. Even on the lower stages of moral
consciousness a refusal to help is, within certain limits, regarded as
a wrong and a crime--for instance within the limits of the family,
the tribe, the army. Among barbarous people everything is permissible
so far as enemies are concerned, so that the idea of wrong does not
even apply with respect to them; but a peaceful traveller or guest has
a _right_ to the most active help and generous gifts. If, however,
justice demands charity and mercy (among the barbarians in relation to
some men only, and with the progress of morality, in relation to all)
it clearly cannot be a virtue by itself, distinct from charity. It is
simply an expression of the general moral principle of altruism which
has different degrees and forms of application, but always contains an
idea of justice.
Finally, there is a fourth sense in which the term may be used. On the
supposition that the objective expression of what is right is to be
found in _laws_ (the laws of the state or of the Church), it may be
maintained that an unswerving obedience to laws is an absolute moral
duty, and that a corresponding disposition to be strictly law-abiding
is a virtue identical with that of justice. This view is only valid
within the limits of the supposition on which it is based--that is, it
is wholly applicable to laws that proceed from the Divine perfection,
and therefore express the supreme truth, but is applicable to other
laws only on condition that they agree with that truth; for one ought
to obey God more than men. Justice in this sense, then--that is, the
striving to be _law-abiding_--is not in itself a virtue; it may or may
not be that, according to the nature and the origin of the laws that
claim obedience. For the source of human laws is a turbid source. The
limpid stream of moral truth is hardly visible in it under the layer
of other, purely historical elements, which express merely the actual
correlation of forces and interests at this or that moment of time.
Consequently justice as a virtue by no means always coincides with
legality or judicial right, and is sometimes directly opposed to it, as
the jurists themselves admit: _summum jus--summa injuria_. But while
fully admitting the difference and the possible conflict between the
inner truth and the law, many people think that such conflicts should
always be settled in favour of legality. They maintain, that is, that
justice requires us in all cases to obey the law, even if the law be
unjust. In support of their view they quote the authority and the
example of a righteous man of antiquity, Socrates, who thought it wrong
to run away from the lawful, though unjust, sentence of the Athenian
judges against him. But in truth this famous example teaches something
very different.
So far as we know from Xenophon and Plato, Socrates was led to his
decision by two different motives. In the first place, he thought that
to save by flight the small remainder of life to which he, an old
man of seventy, could look forward, would be shameful and cowardly,
especially for him, who believed in the immortality of the soul, and
taught that true wisdom was continual _dying_ (to the material world).
Secondly, Socrates thought that a citizen ought to sacrifice _his
personal welfare_ to the laws of his country, even if they were unjust,
_for the sake of filial piety_. Socrates, then, was guided by the moral
motives of asceticism and piety, and certainly not by the conception
of the absolute value of legality, which he never admitted. Besides,
in the case of Socrates, there was no conflict between two duties, but
only a conflict between a personal _right_ and a civic _duty_, and
it may be accepted as a matter of general principle that right must
give way to duty. No one is bound to defend _his own_ material life:
it is merely his right, which it is always permissible, and sometimes
laudable, to sacrifice. It is a different matter when the civic duty
of obedience to laws conflicts not with a personal right, but with
a moral duty, as in the famous classical case of Antigone. She had
to choose between the moral and religious duty of giving honourable
burial to her brother, and the civic duty of obeying the prohibition
to do so--a prohibition impious and inhuman, though legally just, for
it proceeded from the lawful ruler of her native town. Here comes into
force the rule that one ought to obey God more than men, and it is made
abundantly clear that justice in the sense of legality, or of external
conformity of actions to established laws, is not in itself a virtue,
but may or may not be such according to circumstances. Therefore the
heroism of Socrates, who submitted to an unjust law, and the heroism of
Antigone, who violated such a law, are equally laudable--and not only
because in both cases there was sacrifice of life, but from the nature
of the case. Socrates renounced _his own_ material right for the sake
of the higher _ideas_ of human dignity and patriotic duty. Antigone
defended the right _of another_, and thereby fulfilled her duty--for
the burial of her brother was _his_ right and her duty, while it was
in no sense Socrates’ duty to escape from prison. Speaking generally,
_pietas erga patriam_, like _pietas erga parentes_, can only compel
us to sacrifice our own right, but certainly not the right of others.
Suppose, for instance, that filial piety developed to the point of
heroism induced a man not to resist his father who intends to kill him.
The moral worth of such heroism may be disputed, but it would certainly
never even occur to any one to justify or to call heroic that same man
if, out of obedience to his father, he thought it his duty to kill his
own brother or sister. The same is applicable to unjust and inhuman
laws, and from this it follows that justice, in the sense of obedience
to laws as such, according to the rule ‘_fiat justitia, pereat mundus_’
is not in itself a virtue.
IV
The three so-called theological virtues recognised in the patristic
and the scholastic ethics--faith, hope, and charity[59]--also have no
unconditional moral worth in themselves, but are dependent upon other
circumstances. Even for theologians, not every kind of faith is a
virtue. The character of virtue does not attach to faith which has for
its object something non-existent, or unworthy, or which unworthily
regards that which is worthy. Thus, in the first case, if a person
firmly believes in the philosopher’s stone, _i.e._ a powder, liquid,
or gas which transforms all metals to gold, such faith in an object
which does not exist in the nature of things, is not regarded as a
virtue, but as self-deceit. In the second case, if a person not merely
admits--and rightly so--the existence of the power of evil as a fact,
but makes that power an object of faith in the sense of confidence in
and devotion to it, forms a compact with it, sells his soul to the
devil, and so on, such faith is justly regarded as a terrible moral
fall, for its object, though actual, is evil and unworthy. Finally, in
the third case, the faith of the devils themselves, of whom the apostle
writes that they believe (in God) and tremble,[60] is not recognised as
a virtue, for although it refers to an object that exists, and is of
absolute worth, it regards that object in an unworthy way (with horror
instead of joy, with repulsion instead of attraction). Only that
_faith in the higher being_ may be regarded as a virtue, which regards
it in _a worthy manner_, namely, with free filial piety. And such faith
entirely coincides with the religious feeling which we found to be one
of the three ultimate foundations of morality.
The second theological virtue--hope--comes really to the same thing.
There can be no question of virtue when some one trusts in his own
strength or wisdom, or indeed in God, if in the sole expectation of
material gain from Him. That hope alone is a virtue which looks to God
as the source of true blessings to come; and this is, again, the same
fundamental religious relation, to which is added an idea of the future
and a feeling of expectation.
Finally, the moral significance of the third and greatest theological
virtue--_love_--entirely depends upon the given objective
determinations. Love in itself, or love in general, is not a virtue--if
it were, all beings would alike be virtuous, for they all without
exception love something and live by their love. But selfish love
for oneself and one’s property, passionate love of drink or of
horse-racing, is not reckoned as a virtue.
‘_Il faut en ce bas monde aimer beaucoup de choses_,’ teaches a
neo-pagan poet. Such ‘love’ had been expressly rejected by the apostle
of love:
‘_Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world._’[61]
This is the first, negative part of the commandment of love, and it
should not be overlooked as it usually is. It is simply the expression
of the fundamental principle of asceticism: to guard ourselves from the
lower nature and to struggle against its dominion. For it is clear from
the context that by ‘the world’ which we must not love, the apostle
means neither mankind as a whole, nor the totality of the creation
which proclaims the glory of God, but precisely the dark and irrational
basis of the material nature which ceases to be passive and potential,
as it ought to be, and unlawfully invades the domain of the human
spirit. Further on it is directly said that in the world there is _the
lust of the flesh_, _i.e._ the desire of immoderate sensuality, _the
lust of the eyes_, _i.e._ greed or love of money, and _the pride of
life_, _i.e._ vainglory and ambition.
Biblical ethics adds to the negative ‘_love not the world_’ two
positive commands: _love God with all thy heart, and love thy neighbour
as thyself_. These two kinds of love are rightly distinguished,
for the particular nature of the object necessarily conditions the
particular moral relation to be adopted towards them. Love to our
neighbours has its source in pity, and love towards God in reverence.
To love one’s neighbour as oneself really means to feel for him as one
does for oneself. Whole-hearted love of God means entire devotion to
Him, full surrender of one’s own will to His--_i.e._ the perfection of
the filial or the religious feeling and relation.
Thus the commandment of love is not connected with any particular
virtue, but is the culmination of all the fundamental demands of
morality in the three necessary respects: in relation to the lower, to
the higher, and to that which is on a level with us.
V
I have shown that the four ‘cardinal’ as well as the three
‘theological’ virtues can be reduced, in one way or another, to the
three ultimate foundations of morality, indicated above. It can now be
left to the goodwill and the intelligence of the reader to continue
the analysis of the other so-called virtues. There exists no generally
recognised list of them, and, by means of scholastic distinctions,
their number can be increased indefinitely. But for the sake of
completing what has gone before, I should like to say a few words
about five virtues which present a certain interest in one respect
or another, namely, concerning _magnanimity_, _disinterestedness_,
_generosity_, _patience_, and _truthfulness_.
We call _magnanimous_ a man who is ashamed, or finds it _beneath his
dignity_, to insist on his material rights to the detriment of other
people, or to bind his will by _lower_ worldly interests (such as
vanity), which he therefore readily sacrifices for the sake of higher
considerations. We also call magnanimous the man who is undisturbed by
adversities and changes of fortune, because, again, he is _ashamed_ of
allowing his peace of mind to be dependent upon material and accidental
things. The words italicised are sufficient to indicate that this
virtue is simply a special expression or form of the first root of
morality--viz. of the self-assertion of the human spirit against the
lower, material side of our being. The essential thing here is the
feeling of human dignity, which, in the first instance, manifests
itself in the feeling of shame.
_Disinterestedness_ is the freedom of the spirit from attachment to a
certain kind of material goods, namely, to possessions. It is clearly
a particular expression of that same feeling of human dignity. In a
corresponding manner, vices opposed to this virtue--miserliness and
cupidity--are felt to be _shameful_.
_Generosity_ in its external manifestations coincides with magnanimity
and disinterestedness, but it has a different inner basis, namely,
an altruistic one. A virtuously generous man is one who shares his
property with others out of _justice or benevolence_ (for in so far as
he does it out of vanity or pride, he is not virtuous). But at the same
time such a man may be attached to the property he gives away to the
degree of miserliness, and in that case he cannot, in strictness, be
called disinterested. It must only be said that the altruistic virtue
of generosity overcomes in him the vice of cupidity.
_Patience_ (as a virtue) is only the passive aspect of that quality
of the soul which, in its active manifestation, is called magnanimity
or spiritual fortitude. The difference is almost entirely subjective,
and no hard and fast line can be drawn between the two. A man who
calmly endures torment or misfortune will be called magnanimous by
some, patient by others, courageous by the third, while the fourth
will see in him an example of a special virtue--serenity (ἀταραξία)
and so on. The discussion of the comparative appropriateness of these
definitions can have only a linguistic and not an ethical interest.
On the other hand, the identity of the external expression may (as in
the case of generosity) conceal important differences in the moral
content. A man may patiently endure physical or mental suffering owing
to a low degree of nervous sensitiveness, dullness of mind and an
apathetic temperament, and in that case patience is not a virtue at
all. Or patience may be due to the inner force of the spirit, which
does not give way to external influences--and then it is an ascetic
virtue (reducible to our first basis of morality); or it may arise
from meekness and love of one’s neighbours (_caritas_), which does not
wish to pay back evil for evil and injury for injury--and in that case
it is an altruistic virtue (reducible to the second principle--pity,
which here extends even to enemies who inflict the injury). Finally,
patience may spring from obedience to the higher will upon which all
that happens depends--and then it is a religious virtue (reducible to
the third principle).
A particular variety of patience is the quality which is designated
in the Russian language by the grammatically incorrect term
‘_terpimost_’--tolerance (_passivum pro activo_). It means the
admission of other people’s freedom even when it seems to lead to
error. This attitude is in itself neither a vice nor a virtue, but may,
in different circumstances, become either. It depends on the object
to which it refers (thus injury of the weak by the strong must not be
tolerated, and ‘tolerance’ of it is immoral and not virtuous), and
still more, on the inner motives from which it arises. It may spring
from magnanimity or from cowardice, from respect for the rights of
others and from contempt of the good of others, from profound faith in
the conquering power of the higher truth and from indifference to that
truth.[62]
VI
Among the derivative or secondary virtues _truthfulness_ must be
recognised as the most important, both owing to its specifically human
character (for in the strict sense it is only possible for a being
endowed with the power of speech[63]) and to its significance for
social morality. At the same time this virtue has been and still is the
subject of much disagreement between different schools of moralists.
The word is the instrument of reason for expressing that which is,
that which may be, and that which ought to be, _i.e._ for expressing
the actual, the formal, and the ideal truth. The possession of such
an instrument is part of the higher nature of man, and therefore when
he misuses it, giving expression to untruth for the sake of lower
material ends, he does something contrary to human dignity, something
_shameful_. At the same time the word is the expression of human
solidarity, the most important means of communication between men. But
this applies only to true words. Therefore when an individual person
uses speech to express untruth for his own selfish ends (not only
individually selfish, but collectively selfish also, _e.g._ in the
interests of his family, his class, his party, etc.) he violates the
rights of others and injures the community. A lie is thus both shameful
for the liar, and damaging and insulting to the deceived. The demand
for truthfulness has then a twofold moral foundation. It is based,
first, on the human _dignity_ of the subject himself, and secondly upon
_justice_, _i.e._ upon a recognition of the right of others not to be
deceived by me, in as much as I myself cannot wish to be deceived by
them.
All this is in direct conformity with the demands of reason and
contains nothing dubious. But by abstracting the demand for
truthfulness from its moral basis, and turning it into a _special_
virtue possessed of absolute worth _in itself_, the scholastic
philosophy has created difficulties and contradictions which do not
follow from the nature of the case. If by a lie is meant the contrary
of truth in the full sense of the word, _i.e._ not only of the real
and formal, but also and chiefly of the ideal or purely moral truth
(of that which _ought_ to be), it would be perfectly correct and
indisputable to ascribe absolute significance to the rule ‘do not
lie,’ and to admit of no exception to it under any circumstances;
for, clearly, truth ceases to be truth if there may be a single case
in which it is permissible to depart from it. There could be no
question of it, at any rate not between people who understand that
A = A and that 2 x 2 = 4. But the trouble is that the philosophers
who particularly insist on the rule ‘do not lie,’ as allowing of no
exception, are themselves guilty of a falsity by arbitrarily limiting
the meaning of truth (in each given case) to the real, or more exactly,
to the matter of fact aspect of it, _taken separately_. Adopting this
point of view, they come to the following absurd dilemma (I give the
usual instance as the clearest and simplest). When a person, having
no other means at his command for frustrating a would-be murderer in
pursuit of his innocent victim, hides the latter in his house, and to
the pursuer’s question whether that person is there, answers in the
negative, or, for greater plausibility, ‘puts him off the track’ by
mentioning quite a different place,--in lying thus he acts either in
conformity with the moral law or in opposition to it. If the first, it
is permissible to violate the moral command ‘do not lie’; morality is
thus deprived of its absolute value, and the way is open to justify
every kind of evil. If the second--if the man has sinned by telling a
lie--it appears that the moral duty of truthfulness actually compelled
him to become a real accomplice of the murderer in his crime--which
is equally opposed to reason and to the moral sense. There can be no
middle course, for it is obvious that a refusal to answer or an evasive
answer would simply confirm the pursuer’s suspicion and would finally
give away the victim.
It will be remembered that great moralists like Kant and Fichte, who
insist on the absolute and formal character of the moral law, maintain
that even in such circumstances a lie would be unjustifiable, and
that, therefore, the person questioned ought to fulfil the duty of
truthfulness without thinking of the consequences, for which (it is
urged) he is not responsible. Other moralists, who reduce all morality
to the feeling of pity or the principle of altruism, believe that
lying is permissible and even obligatory when it can save the life or
promote the welfare of others. This assertion, however, is too wide and
indefinite and easily leads to all kinds of abuse.
How then are we to decide the question whether that unfortunate man
ought to have told a lie or not? When both horns of a dilemma equally
lead to an absurdity, there must be something wrong in the formulation
of the dilemma itself. In the present case the ‘something wrong’ is to
be found in the ambiguity of the words ‘lie,’ ‘false,’ and ‘lying,’
which are here taken to have one meaning only, or to combine both
meanings in one, which is not really the case. Thus the main term is
_falsely_ understood at the very beginning of the argument, and this
can lead to nothing but false conclusions.
I propose to consider it in detail, and let not the reader grudge a
certain pedanticism of this examination. The question itself has arisen
solely owing to the scholastic pedantry of the abstract moralists.
According to the formal definition of it a lie is a contradiction
between somebody’s assertion[64] concerning a given fact and the actual
existence, or manner of existence, of that fact. But this formal
conception of a lie has no direct bearing on morality. An assertion
that contradicts reality may sometimes be simply _mistaken_, and in
that case its actual falsity will be limited to the objective (or more
exactly, to the phenomenal) sphere, without in the least touching upon
the moral aspect of the subject; that is, it will contain no lie in
the moral sense at all: a mistake is not a falsehood. Take an extreme
case. It is no sin against truthfulness to talk nonsense through
absent-mindedness, or through ignorance of language, like the German
in the well-known anecdote who mixed up English and German words and
affirmed that he ‘became a cup of tea.’ But apart from mistakes of
speech, the same thing must be said of the mistakes of thought or
errors. Many people have affirmed, and are still affirming, both in
speech and in writing, things as _false_ (in the objective sense) as
the assertion that a man became a cup of tea, but do so consciously,
intending to say precisely what they do say. If, however, they
sincerely take falsity for truth, no one will call them liars or see
anything immoral in their error. Thus neither the contradiction between
speech and reality, nor the contradiction between thought and reality
is a lie in the moral sense. Is it to be found in the contradiction
between the will and reality as such, _i.e._ in the simple intention
to lie? But there never is such simple intention. People--at any
rate those who can be held morally responsible--lie for the sake of
something, with some object. Some lie to satisfy their vanity, to
make a show, to draw attention to themselves, to be noted; others for
the sake of material gain, in order to deceive some one with profit
to themselves. Both these kinds of lie, of which the first is called
bragging, and the second cheating, fall within the moral sphere, and
are to be condemned as shameful to the person who tells them, and as
insulting and injurious to others. But in addition to the vainglorious
lie or bragging, and the lie for the sake of gain or cheating, there
exists a more subtle kind of lie, which has no immediately low purpose,
but must nevertheless be condemned as insulting to one’s neighbours.
I mean the lie out of contempt for humanity, beginning with the usual
‘I am not at home’ and down to the most complex political, religious,
and literary humbug. There is nothing shameful in the narrow sense of
the word in this kind of lie (unless of course it is made for purposes
of gain), but it is immoral from the altruistic point of view, as
violating the rights of the deceived. The person who hoaxes others
would obviously dislike to be deceived himself, and would regard an
attempt to hoax him as a violation of his human rights. Consequently he
ought to respect the same right in other people.
The case of a man who deceives the evil-doer for the sake of preventing
murder obviously does not fall within the first two kinds of immoral
lie, _i.e._ it is neither bragging nor cheating; could it possibly be
classed with the last kind, that is, with hoaxing, which is immoral
in the sense of being insulting to another person? Is it not a case
of despising humanity in the person of the would-be murderer, who is,
after all, a human being, and must not be deprived of any of his human
rights? But the right of the criminal to have me for his accomplice
in the perpetration of the murder can certainly not be reckoned among
his human rights; and it is precisely the demand for an accomplice and
_it alone_ that is contained in his question as to the whereabouts of
his victim. Is it permissible for a moralist to have recourse to what
he knows to be fiction, especially when it is a question of a man’s
life? For it is sheer fiction to suppose that in asking his question
the would-be murderer is thinking about the truth, wants to know the
truth, and is, therefore, like any other human being, _entitled_ to
have a correct answer from those who know it. _In reality there is
nothing of the kind._ The man’s question does not exist as a separate
and independent fact expressing his interest as to the place where his
victim really is; the question is only an inseparable moment in a whole
series of actions which, in their totality, form an attempt at murder.
An affirmative answer would not be a fulfilment of the universal duty
to speak the truth at all; it would simply be criminal connivance which
would convert the attempt into actual murder.
If we are to talk of truthfulness, truthfulness demands, in the first
place, that we should take a case _as it really is_, in its actual
completeness and its proper inner significance. Now the words and
actions of the would-be murderer in the instance we are considering
are held together by, and derive their actual meaning solely from, his
intention to kill his victim; therefore it is only in connection with
this intention that one can truly judge of his words and actions, and
of the relation to them on the part of another person. Since we know
the criminal intention, we have neither a theoretical ground nor a
moral right to separate the man’s question (and consequently our answer
to it) from the object to which it _actually_ refers. From this point
of view, _which is the only true one_, the man’s question means nothing
but ‘_help me to accomplish the murder_.’ A correct answer to it,
overlooking the real meaning of the question, and, contrary to obvious
fact, taking it to have some relation to truth--would be _false_ from
the theoretical point of view, and from the practical would simply mean
_compliance with the criminal request_. The only possible means of
_refusing_ that request would be to put the would-be murderer off the
track: such refusal is _morally binding_ both in relation to the victim
whose life it saves, and in relation to the criminal whom it gives time
to think and to give up his criminal intention. Still less can there
be question here of the violation of the man’s right; it would be too
crude an error to confuse a request for criminal assistance with the
right of learning the truth from the person who knows it. It would
be equally mistaken to insist that the man who, for motives of moral
duty, prevented the murder by the only possible means, had nevertheless
told a lie and therefore acted badly. This would mean a confusion
between the two senses of the word ‘lie’--the formal and the moral--the
essential difference between which has been indicated above.
The upholders of the pseudo-moral rigorism may still seek refuge on
religious ground. Although no human right is violated by putting the
murderer on the false track, perhaps the divine right is violated by
it. If there existed a commandment from above ‘do not lie,’ we should
be bound to obey it unconditionally, leaving the consequences to God.
But the fact is that there exists in the word of God no abstract
commandment[65] forbidding lying in general or lying in the formal
sense, while the command to sacrifice our very souls--and not merely
the formal correctness of our words--for our neighbours undoubtedly
exists and must be fulfilled. It might however be thought that from
the mystical point of view a means might be found to carry out the
chief commandment with regard to love, and yet to avoid the formal
lie. Thus we could, after surrendering the victim to his murderer,
turn to God with a prayer to prevent the murder by some miracle. There
certainly are cases on record of prayers producing the desired effect
against all human probability. This however only happened in hopeless
extremity, when there were no natural means left. But to require from
God a miracle when you can yourself, by a simple and _harmless_ means,
prevent the disaster, would be extremely _impious_. It would be a
different matter if the last human means available were immoral; but to
fall back upon the immorality of the formal lie as such would mean to
beg precisely that which is in question and which cannot be logically
proved, for it is based on the confusion between two utterly distinct
ideas of _falsity_ and _falsehood_. In the instance we are considering,
the answer to the murderer’s question is undoubtedly _false_, but it
is not to be condemned as _a lie_. The formal _falsity_ of a person’s
words has _as such_ no relation to morality, and cannot be condemned
from the moral point of view. _Falsehood_, on the other hand, is
subject to such condemnation as the expression of an intention which
is in some way _immoral_, and it is in this alone that it differs from
simple falsity. But in the present case it is impossible to find _any_
such immoral intention, and consequently any falsehood.
Put briefly, our long argument may be expressed as follows. An
assertion which is formally false, that is, which contradicts the fact
to which it refers, is not always a lie in the moral sense. It becomes
such only when it proceeds from the evil will which intentionally
_misuses_ words for its own ends; and the evil character of the will
consists not in its contradicting any fact but in its contradicting
_that which ought to be_. Now that which ought to be is of necessity
determined in three ways--in relation, namely, to that which is below
us, on a level with us, and above us--and amounts to three demands: to
submit the lower nature to the spirit, to respect the rights of our
fellow-creatures, and to be wholly devoted to the higher principle of
the world. An expression of our will can be bad or immoral _only_ if it
violates one of these three duties, that is, when the will affirms or
sanctions something shameful, or injurious, or impious. But the will
of the man who puts the would-be murderer off his victim’s track does
not violate any of the three duties--there is nothing either shameful
or injurious or impious about his will. Thus it is not a case of a
lie in the moral sense at all, or of a breach of any commandment,
and, in allowing such a means of preventing evil, we do not allow any
exceptions to the moral law. For reasons indicated, the given case
cannot be said to fall under the moral rule within which it is sought,
in contradiction to fact, to include it.
One of the disputants maintains: _since_ this is a lie, this _bad_
means ought not to have been used _even_ to save another person’s life.
The other side answers: _although_ it is a lie, it is permissible to
use this bad means to save the life of another, for the duty to save
another person’s life is more important than the duty to speak the
truth. Both these false assertions are cancelled by the third, true
one. _Since this is not a lie_ (in the moral sense), the recourse to
this _innocent_ means, necessary for the prevention of murder, is
_morally binding_ on the person.[66]
VII
To make truthfulness into a separate formal virtue involves, then, an
inner contradiction and is contrary to reason. Truthfulness, like all
other ‘virtues,’ does not contain its moral quality in itself, but
derives it from its conformity to the fundamental norms of morality. A
pseudo-truthfulness divorced from them may be a source of falsehood,
that is, of false valuations. It may stop at the request that our
words should merely be an exact reflection of the external reality of
isolated facts, and thus lead to obvious absurdities. From this point
of view a priest who repeated exactly what he was told at a confession
would satisfy the demands of truthfulness. Real truthfulness, however,
requires that our words should correspond to the inner _truth_ or
meaning of a given situation, to which our will applies the moral norms.
The analysis of the so-called virtues shows that they have moral
significance only in so far as they are determined by the three norms
of morality. And although these norms are _psychologically based_ upon
the corresponding primitive feelings of shame, pity, and reverence,
they do not entirely rest upon this empirical basis, but are logically
developed out of the idea of _right_ or _truth_ (in the wide sense).
Truth demands that we should regard our lower nature as lower, that
is, should subordinate it to rational ends; if, on the contrary, we
surrender to it, we recognise it not for what it really is, but for
something higher--and thus pervert the true order of things, violate
the truth, regard that lower sphere in a wrong or immoral way.
Likewise, truth demands that we should regard our fellow-creatures as
such, should admit their rights as equal to ours, should put ourselves
into their place; but if, whilst recognising ourselves as individuals
possessed of full rights, we regard others as empty masks, we obviously
depart from truth, and our relation to them is wrong. Finally, if we
are conscious of a higher universal principle above us, truth demands
that we should regard it as higher, that is, with religious devotion.
This moral conception of right or truth could certainly not have arisen
were not the feelings of shame, pity, and reverence, which immediately
determine man’s rightful attitude to the three fundamental conditions
of his life, present in his nature from the first. But once reason
has deduced from these natural data their inner ethical content and
affirmed it as a _duty_, it becomes an independent principle of moral
activity, apart from its psychological basis.[67] One may imagine a
man whose feeling of modesty is by nature little developed, but who is
rationally convinced that it is his duty to oppose the encroachments
of the lower nature, and conscientiously fulfils this duty. Such a man
will prove in fact to be more moral in this particular respect than a
man who is modest by nature, but whose reason is defenceless against
the temptations of sense that overcome his modesty. The same is true of
natural kindness (the point dwelt upon by Kant) and natural religious
feeling. Without a consciousness of duty all these natural impulses to
moral conduct are unstable, and can have no decisive significance in
the conflict of opposing motives.
But does the consciousness of duty or of right possess such a decisive
power? If righteousness from natural inclination is an _unstable_
thing, righteousness from a sense of duty is an extremely _rare_ thing.
The idea of right as actually realised thus proves to be lacking in the
characteristics of universality and necessity. The vital interests of
moral philosophy and the formal demands of reason cannot acquiesce in
this and consequently there arises a new problem for reason: to find
a practical principle which would not only be morally right, but also
highly _desirable_ in itself and for every one, possessing as such
the power to determine human conduct with necessity, independently of
the natural inclinations of the soul or of the degree of spiritual
development--a principle equally inherent in, understandable to, and
actual for all human beings.
When reason dwells exclusively or mainly on this aspect of the case,
the moral end is understood as the highest good (_summum bonum_),
and the question assumes the following form: Does there exist, and
what is the nature of, the highest good, to which all other goods are
necessarily subordinate as to the absolute criterion of the _desirable
in general_?
FOOTNOTES:
[56] In English the word humility has possibly a less conditional
sense, as a state of mind or an attitude towards life. From a Christian
point of view one can never be too humble. Though of course there is
‘the pride that apes humility’ and the condition of mind of Uriah Heep
(ED.).
[57] Concerning this virtue, see above, Chap. I. p. 36.
[58] From the early days of the scholastics the name of cardinal or
_philosophic_ virtues (in contradistinction to the three theological
virtues of faith, hope, and charity) has been reserved to the four
virtues which Plato defined in the _Republic_, namely, temperance,
courage, wisdom, and justice. I take the names of these four virtues
in their general sense, independently of the meaning they may bear in
Plato’s philosophy.
[59] According to the well-known text of St. Paul, in which, however,
the term ‘virtue’ is not used.
[60] St. James ii. 13.
[61] 1 John ii. 15.
[62] A more detailed discussion of it will be found at the beginning of
my article _Spor o spravedlivosti_ (_The Dispute about Justice_).
[63] Animals may be naïve or cunning, but only man can be truthful or
deceitful.
[64] The general definition must include both affirmations and denials,
and I therefore use the term assertion to cover both. The words
‘judgment’ and ‘proposition’ involve a shade of meaning unsuitable in
the present case.
[65] The commandment ‘do not bear false witness against thy neighbour,’
_i.e._ do not slander, has no bearing on this question, for it forbids
not lying in general but only one definite kind of lie, which is always
immoral.
[66] Although in this question Kant sides with the rigorists, in doing
so he is really inconsistent with his own principle that an action, to
be moral, must be capable of being made into a universal rule. It is
clear that in putting the would-be murderer off the place where his
victim is, I can, in reason and conscience, affirm my way of action as
a universal rule: every one ought always thus to conceal the victim
from the intending murderer; and if I put myself into the latter’s
place, I should wish that I might, in the same way, be prevented from
committing the murder.
[67] See _Kritika otvletchonnih natchal_ (_The Critique of Abstract
Principles_).
CHAPTER VI
THE SPURIOUS BASIS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY
(_A Critique of Abstract Hedonism in its Different Forms_)
I
The moral good is determined by reason as truth (in the wide sense), or
as the right relation to everything. This idea of the good, inwardly
all-embracing and logically necessary, proves in fact to be lacking in
universality and necessity. The good as the ideal norm of will does
not, in point of fact, coincide with the good as the actual object
of desire. The good is that which ought to be, but (1) not every one
desires what he ought to desire; (2) not every one who desires the good
is able to overcome, for its sake, the bad propensities of his nature;
and finally (3) the few who have attained the victory of the good over
the evil in themselves--the virtuous, righteous men or saints--are
powerless to overcome by their good “the wickedness in which the whole
world lieth.” But in so far as the good is not desired by a person
at all, _it is not a good_ for him; in so far as it fails to affect
the will, even though it may be affirmed as desirable by the rational
consciousness, it is only an ideal and _not a real_ good; finally, in
so far as it fails to empower a given person to realise the moral order
in the world as a whole, even though it may affect the will of that
person by making him inwardly better, it is _not a sufficient good_.
This threefold discrepancy between the moral and the real good seems
to render the idea of the good self-contradictory. The definition of
the good as that which ought to be involves, in addition to its ideal
content, a real demand that the moral content should not remain merely
theoretical, but that it should be _realised_ in practice. The very
conception of that which ought to be implies that it _ought to be
realised_. The powerlessness of the good is not a good. It cannot be
right that only a _part_ of humanity should desire what they ought to
desire, that only a _few_ should live as they ought, and that _none_
should be able to make the world what it ought to be. All agree that
the moral good and happiness ought to coincide; the latter ought to be
the direct, universal, and necessary consequence of the former, and
express the absolute desirability and actuality of the moral good. But
in fact they do not coincide; the real good is distinct from the moral
good, and, taken separately, is understood as _welfare_. The actual
insufficiency of the idea of the good leads us to this conception
of welfare, which, as a motive for action, apparently possesses the
concrete universality and necessity which are lacking to the purely
moral demands. For every end of action without exception is directly
or indirectly characterised by the fact that the attainment of that
end satisfies the agent or tends to his welfare, while by no means
every end of action can be directly or even indirectly characterised
as morally good. Every desire as such is apparently simply a desire
for its satisfaction, _i.e._ for welfare; to desire calamity or
dissatisfaction would be the same as to desire that which is known to
be undesirable, and would, therefore, be manifestly absurd. And if,
in order to be realised in practice, the moral good must become the
object of desire, the ethical principle will be seen to depend upon
the practical idea (practical in the narrow sense) of the real good or
welfare, which is thus raised to the rank of the supreme principle of
human action.
This eudaemonic principle (from the Greek εὐδαιμονία--the condition
of blessedness, well-being) has the obvious advantage of not raising
the question _Why?_ One may ask why I should strive for the moral good
when this striving is opposed to my natural inclinations and causes me
nothing except suffering; but one cannot ask why I should desire my
welfare, since I desire it naturally and necessarily. This desire is
inseparably connected with my existence, and is a direct expression
of it. I exist as desiring, and I desire only that, of course, which
satisfies me or what is pleasant to me. Every one finds his welfare
either in what immediately gives him pleasure or in what leads to
it--that is, in what serves as a means for bringing about pleasurable
states. Thus welfare is defined more closely through the idea of
_pleasure_ (Greek ἡδονή, hence the theory of Hedonism).
II
When that which ought to be is replaced by that which is desired, the
end of life or the highest good is reduced to pleasure. This idea,
clear, simple, and concrete as it appears to be, involves insuperable
difficulties when applied in the concrete. It is impossible to deduce
any general principle or rule of action from the general fact that
every one desires that which is pleasing to him. The assertion that
the final end of action is directly or indirectly pleasure, _i.e._
satisfaction of the subject desiring, is as indisputable and as
pointless as the assertion, _e.g._, that all actions end in something
or lead to something. In concrete reality we do not find one universal
pleasure, but an indefinite multitude of all kinds of pleasures, having
nothing in common between them. One person finds the highest bliss
in drinking vodka, and another seeks “a bliss for which there is no
measure and no name”; but even the latter person, when extremely hungry
or thirsty, forgets all transcendental joys, and desires above all
things food and drink. On the other hand, under certain conditions,
things which had given enjoyment or seemed pleasant in the past cease
to be attractive, and, indeed, life itself loses all value.
In truth the idea of pleasure refers to a variety of accidental desires
which differ according to the individual taste and character, the
degree of mental development, age, external position, and momentary
mood. No definite expression can be given to pleasure as a universal
practical principle, unless it is to be ‘Let every one act so as to
get for himself, as far as possible, what is pleasing to him at the
given moment.’ This rule, on the whole firmly established and more or
less successfully applied in the animal kingdom, is inconvenient in
the human world for two reasons: (1) the presence in man of unnatural
inclinations, the satisfaction of which, though yielding the desired
pleasure, leads at the same time to clear and certain destruction,
_i.e._ to what is highly undesirable for every one; (2) the presence
in man of reason, which compares the various natural impulses and
pleasures with one another, and passes judgment on them from the point
of view of the consequences they involve. In a rudimentary form we
find such judgment even among the animals who act or refrain from
action, not from motives of immediate pleasant or unpleasant feeling
only, but also from considerations of further, pleasant or unpleasant,
consequences following upon certain behaviour. But with animals these
considerations do not extend beyond simple associations of ideas. Thus,
the idea of the piece of meat seized without permission is accompanied
by the idea of the blows of the whip, etc. The more abstract character
of the human reason allows us, in addition to such elementary
considerations, to make a general comparison of the immediate motives
of pleasure with their remote consequences. And it is in following
this line of reflection that the most thorough-going hedonist of the
ancient philosophy, Hegesias of Cyrenae, came to the conclusion that
from the point of view of pleasure life is not worth living. The
desire for pleasure is either fruitless and in this sense painful, or,
in achieving its object, it proves to be deceptive, for a momentary
feeling of pleasure is inevitably followed by tedium and a new painful
search after illusion. Since it is impossible to reach true pleasure,
we must strive to free ourselves from pain, and the surest means to
do so is to die. Such was the outcome of Hegesias’s philosophy, for
which he was nicknamed ‘_the advocate of death_’ (πεισιθάνατος). But
even apart from such extreme conclusions, the analysis of the idea of
pleasure makes it abundantly clear that ‘pleasure’ cannot furnish us
with a satisfactory principle of conduct.
III
A simple striving for pleasure cannot be a principle of action because
in itself it is indefinite and devoid of content. Its actual content
is wholly unstable and is to be found solely in the accidental objects
which call it forth. The only universal and necessary element in the
infinite variety of pleasurable states is the fact that the moment
of the attainment of any purpose or object of desire whatsoever is
necessarily experienced and is imagined beforehand as a pleasure,
_i.e._ as satisfied or realised desire. But this elementary
psychological truth does not contain the slightest indication either as
to the nature of the object of desire or as to the means of obtaining
it. Both remain empirically variable and accidental. The point of
view of pleasure does not in itself give us any actual definition of
_the highest good_ to which all other goods must be subordinate, and
consequently gives us no rule or principle of conduct. This becomes
still more clear if, instead of taking pleasure in the general sense of
satisfied desire, we take concrete instances of it--_i.e._ particular
pleasurable states. These states are never desired as such, for they
are simply the consequence of satisfied volition and not the object
of desire. What is desired are certain definite realities and not the
pleasant sensations that follow from them. For a person who is hungry
and thirsty, bread and water are immediate objects of desire and not a
means for obtaining pleasure of the sense of taste. We know, of course,
from experience that it is very pleasant to eat when one is hungry;
but a baby wants to suck previously to any experience whatever. And
later, on reaching a certain age, the child has a very strong desire
for objects, about the actual pleasurableness of which it knows, as
yet, nothing at all. It is useless to have recourse to ‘heredity’ in
this case, for then we should have to go as far back as the chemical
molecules, of which probably no one would say that they seek to enter
into definite combinations simply because they remember the pleasure
they had derived from it in the past.
There is another circumstance which does not permit of identifying
the good with the fact of pleasure. Every one knows from experience
that the degree of the desirability of an object or a state does not
always correspond to the actual degree of pleasure to be derived from
the attainment of it. Thus, in the case of strong erotic attraction to
a person of the opposite sex, the fact of possessing this particular
person is desired as the highest bliss, in comparison with which
the possession of any other person is not desired at all; but the
actual pleasure to be derived from this infinitely desirable fact has
certainly nothing to do with infinity, and is approximately equal to
the pleasure of any other satisfaction of the instinct in question.
Speaking generally, the desirability of particular objects or their
significance as goods is determined not by the subjective states of
pleasure that follow the attainment of them, but by the objective
relation of these objects to our bodily or mental nature. The source
and the character of that relation is not as a rule sufficiently clear
to us; it manifests itself simply as a blind impulse.
But although pleasure is not the essence of the good or the desirable
as such, it is certainly its constant attribute. Whatever the ultimate
reasons of the desirability of the objects or states that appear to us
as good may be, at any rate there can be no doubt that the achieved
good or the fulfilled desire is always accompanied by a sensation of
pleasure. This sensation, inseparably connected with the good as the
necessary consequence of it, may then serve to determine the highest
good as a practical principle.
The highest good is from this point of view a state which affords
the greatest amount of satisfaction. This amount is determined both
directly through the addition of pleasant states to one another, and
indirectly through the subtraction of the unpleasant states. In other
words, the highest good consists in the possession of goods which,
in their totality, or as the final result, afford the maximum of
pleasure and the minimum of pain.[68] The actions of the individual
are no longer prompted by a mere desire for immediate pleasure, but
by prudence which judges of the value of the different pleasures and
selects those among them which are the most lasting and free from pain,
The man who from this point of view is regarded as happy is not one
who at the given moment is experiencing the most intense pleasure, but
one in whose life as a whole pleasant sensations predominate over the
painful--who in the long-run enjoys more than he suffers. “The wise
man,” writes Aristotle, “seeks freedom from pain, and not pleasure”
(ὁ φρόνιμος τὸ ἄλυπον διώκει, οὐ τὸ ἡδύ). This is the point of view
of eudaemonism proper or of _prudent hedonism_. A follower of this
doctrine will not ‘wallow in the mire of sensuous pleasures,’ which
destroy both body and soul. He will find his greatest satisfaction in
the higher intellectual and æsthetic pleasures, which, being the most
durable, involve the least degree of pain.
IV
In spite of its apparent plausibility, prudent hedonism shares the fate
of hedonism in general: it too proves to be an illusory principle.
When the good is determined as happiness, the essential thing is the
attainment and the secure possession of it. But neither can be secured
by any amount of prudence.
Our life and destiny depend upon causes and factors beyond the control
of our worldly wisdom; and in most cases the wise egoist simply loses
the opportunities of actual, though fleeting pleasure, without thereby
acquiring any lasting happiness. The insecurity of all pleasures is
all the more fatal because man, in contradistinction to animals, knows
it beforehand: the inevitable failure of all happiness in the future
throws its shadow even over moments of actual enjoyment. But even in
the rare cases in which a wise enjoyment of life does actually lead to
a quantitative surplus of the painless over the painful states, the
triumph of hedonism is merely illusory. It is based upon an arbitrary
exclusion of the _qualitative_ character of our mental states (taking
quality not in the moral sense, which may be disputed, but simply
in the psychological or, rather, in the psychophysical sense of the
intensity of the pleasurable states). There is no doubt that the
strongest, the most overwhelming delights are not those recommended by
prudence but those to be found in wild passions. Granted that in the
case of passions also the pleasure of satisfaction is out of proportion
to the strength of desire, it is at any rate incomparably more intense
than the sensations which a well-regulated and carefully ordered life
can yield. When prudence tells us that passions lead to ruin, we need
not in the least dispute this truth, but may recall another:
All, all that holds the threat of fate
Is for the heart of mortal wight
Full of inscrutable delight.
No objection can be brought against this from the hedonistic point of
view. Why should I renounce the ‘inscrutable delight’ for the sake of
dull well-being? Passions lead to destruction, but prudence does not
save from destruction. No one by means of prudent behaviour alone has
ever conquered death.
It is only in the presence of something higher that the voice of
passions may prove to be wrong. It is silenced by the thunder of
heaven, but the tame speeches of good sense are powerless to drown it.
The satisfaction of passions which lead to destruction cannot of course
be the highest good; but from the hedonistic point of view it may
have distinct advantage over the innocent pleasures of good behaviour
_which do not save from destruction_. It is true that intellectual
and æsthetic pleasures are not only innocent but noble; they involve
limitations, however, which preclude them from being the highest good.
(1) These ‘spiritual’ pleasures are from the nature of the case
accessible only to persons of a high degree of æsthetic and
intellectual development, that is, only to a few, while the highest
good must necessarily be universal. No progress of democratic
institutions would give an ass the capacity of enjoying Beethoven’s
symphonies, or enable a pig, which cannot appreciate even the taste
of oranges, to enjoy the sonnets of Dante or Petrarch or the poems of
Shelley.
(2) Even for those to whom æsthetic and intellectual pleasures are
accessible, they are insufficient. They cannot fill the whole of one’s
life, for they only have relation to some of our mental faculties,
without affecting the others. It is the theoretic, contemplative side
of human nature that is alone more or less satisfied by them, while
the active, practical life is left without any definite guidance. The
intellectual and æsthetic goods, as objects of pure contemplation, do
not affect the practical will.
Whilst we admire the heavenly stars
We do not want them for our own.
When a person puts the pleasures of science and of art above everything
from the hedonistic point of view, his practical will remains without
any definite determination, and falls easy prey to blind passions.
And this shows that prudent hedonism is unsatisfactory as a guiding
principle of life.
(3) Its unsatisfactoriness is also proved by the fact that hedonism is
powerless against theoretical scepticism, which undermines the value
of the actual objects of intellectual and æsthetic activity. Suppose
I find a real enjoyment in the contemplation of beauty and in the
pursuit of truth. But my reason--the highest authority for ‘prudent’
hedonism--tells me that beauty is a subjective mirage and that truth is
unattainable by the human mind. My pleasure is thus poisoned, and, in
the case of a logical mind, is altogether destroyed. Even apart from
real consistency, however, it is clear that the delight in what is
known to be a deception cannot be the highest good.
(4) Now, suppose that our epicurean is free from such scepticism, and
unreflectively gives himself up to the delights of thought and of
creative art, without questioning the ultimate significance of these
objects. To him these ‘spiritual goods’ may appear eternal; but his own
capacity for enjoying them is certainly far from being so; it can at
best survive for a brief period his capacity for sensuous pleasures.
And yet it is precisely the _security_ or the continuity of pleasures
that is the chief claim of _prudent_ hedonism and the main advantage
it is supposed to possess over the simple striving for immediate
pleasure. Of course if our pleasures were abiding realities that could
be hoarded like property, a prudent hedonist in his decrepit old age
might still consider himself richer than a reckless profligate who had
come to premature death. But since, in truth, _past_ pleasures are mere
memories, the wise epicurean--if he remains till his death true to the
hedonistic point of view--will be sure to regret that for the sake of
faint memories of the innocent intellectual and æsthetic pleasures he
sacrificed opportunities of pleasures far more intense. Just _because_
he never experienced them, they will now evoke in him painful and
fruitless desire. The supposed superiority of prudent hedonism to a
reckless pursuit of pleasure is based upon an illegitimate confusion
between two points of view. It must be one or the other. Either we
mean the _present_ moment of enjoyment, and in that case we must give
up prudence which is exhibited even in animal behaviour, or we are
thinking of the _future_ consequences of our actions, and in that case
the question must be asked: What precise moment of the future is to be
put at the basis of our reckoning? It would be obviously irrational
to take any moment except the _last_, which expresses the _total_
result of the whole life. But at that last moment before death all
hedonistic calculus is reduced to naught, and every possible advantage
of the prudent over the reckless pleasures disappears completely. All
pleasures when they are over cease to be pleasures, and _we know this
beforehand_. Hence the idea of _the sum of pleasures_ is meaningless:
the sum of zeros is not any larger than a simple zero.
V
The possession of _external_ goods--whether they be pleasures of
the moment or the more lasting happiness supposed to be secured by
prudence--proves to be deceptive and impossible. Is, then, true welfare
or the highest good to be found in _freedom_ from external desires and
affections which deceive and enslave man and thus make him miserable?
All external goods either prove to be not worth seeking, or, depending
as they do upon external causes beyond the control of man, they are
taken away from him before their essential unsatisfactoriness has even
been discovered; and man is thus made doubly miserable. No one can
escape misfortune, and therefore no one can be happy so long as his
will is attracted to objects the possession of which is accidental. If
true welfare is the state of abiding satisfaction, then that man alone
can be truly blessed who finds satisfaction in that of which he cannot
be deprived, namely, in himself.
Let man be inwardly free from attachment to external and accidental
objects, and he will be permanently satisfied and happy. Not submitting
to anything foreign to him, fully possessing himself, he will possess
all things and even more than all things. If I am free from the desire
for a certain thing, I am more master of it than the person who
possesses it and desires it; if I am indifferent to power, I am more
than the ruler who cares for it; if I am indifferent to everything in
the world, I am higher than the lord of all the world.
This principle of self-sufficiency (αὐτάρκεια), though expressing an
unconditional demand, is in truth purely negative and conditional.
In the first place, its force depends upon those very external goods
which it rejects. So long as man is attached to them, freedom from
such attachment is _desirable_ for his higher consciousness and gives
a meaning to his activity. Similarly, so long as man is sensitive
to the accidental pains of the external life, triumph over them,
steadfastness in adversity, can give him supreme satisfaction. But
once he has risen above the attachment to external goods and the fear
of external misfortune, what is to be the positive content of his
life? Can it consist simply in the enjoyment of that victory? In that
case the principle of self-sufficiency becomes vain self-satisfaction
and acquires a comical instead of a majestic character. The
unsatisfactoriness of the final result renders it superfluous to insist
upon the fact that the force of spirit necessary for the attainment
of it is not given to every one, and even when it is, is not always
preserved to the end. The principle of self-sufficiency thus proves to
be lacking in power of realisation, and shows itself in this respect
also to be only a pseudo-principle. Freedom from slavery to the lower
accidental goods can only be a _condition_ of attaining the highest
good, but not itself be that good. A temple cleared of idols which
had once filled it, does not thereby become God’s holy tabernacle. It
simply remains an empty place.[69]
VI
The individual finds no final satisfaction or happiness either in
the outer worldly goods or in himself (_i.e._ in the empty form of
self-consciousness). The only way out seems to be afforded by the
consideration that man is not merely a separate individual entity
but also part of a collective whole, and that his true welfare, the
positive interest of his life, is to be found in serving the common
good or universal happiness.
This is the principle of _Utilitarianism_, obviously corresponding to
the moral principle of altruism, which demands that we should live for
others, help all so far as we are able, and serve the good of others as
if it were our own. In the opinion of the utilitarian thinkers their
teaching must coincide in practice with the altruistic morality or with
the commandments of justice and mercy. “I must again repeat,” writes
J. S. Mill, _e.g._, “what the assailants of utilitarianism seldom
have the justice to acknowledge, that the happiness which forms the
utilitarian standard of what is right in conduct, is not the agent’s
own happiness, but that of all concerned. As between his own happiness
and that of others, utilitarianism requires him to be as strictly
impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator. In the golden
rule of Jesus of Nazareth we read the complete spirit of the ethics of
utility. To do as one would be done by, and to love one’s neighbour as
oneself, constitutes the ideal perfection of utilitarian morality.”[70]
But Mill does not see that the distinction between these two
principles, the utilitarian and the altruistic, consists in the fact
that the command to live for others is enjoined by altruism as the
expression of the _right_ relation of man to his fellow-creatures, or
as a moral duty which follows from the pure idea of the good; while,
according to the utilitarian doctrine, man ought to serve the common
good and to decide impartially between his own interest and those of
others simply because, in the last resort, this course of action (so
it is contended) is more advantageous or useful to himself. Moral
conduct thus appears to stand in no need of any special independent
principle opposed to egoism, but to be a consequence of egoism rightly
understood. And since egoism is a quality possessed by every one,
utilitarian morality is suited to all without exception, which, in the
opinion of its followers, is an advantage over the morality of pure
altruism, whether based upon the simple feeling of sympathy or upon the
abstract conception of duty. Another advantage of utilitarianism is, it
is contended, to be found in the fact that the utilitarian principle is
the expression of the actual historical origin of the moral feelings
and ideas. All of these are supposed to be the result of the gradual
extension and development of self-interested motives, so that the
highest system of morality is simply the most complex modification
of the primitive egoism. Even if this contention were true, the
advantage that would follow therefrom to the utilitarian theory would
be illusory. From the fact that the oak tree grows out of the acorn
and that acorns are food for pigs, it does not follow that oak trees
are also food for pigs. In a similar manner, the supposition that the
highest moral doctrine is _genetically_ related to selfishness, that
is, has developed from it through a series of changes in the past, does
not warrant the conclusion that therefore this highest morality in its
present perfect form can also be based upon self-interest or put at the
service of egoism. Experience obviously contradicts this conclusion:
the majority of people--now as always--find it _more profitable to
separate their own interests from the common good_. On the other hand,
the assumption that selfishness is the _only_ and the ultimate basis of
conduct is contrary to truth.
The view that morality develops out of individual selfishness is
sufficiently disproved by the simple fact that at the early stages
of the organic life, the chief part is played not by the individual
but by the _generic_ self-assertion, which, for separate entities, is
_self-denial_. A bird giving up its life for its young, or a working
bee dying for the queen bee, can derive no personal advantage and no
gratification to its individual egoism from its act.[71] A decisive
predominance of the personal over the generic motives, and at the
same time the possibility of theoretical and consistent selfishness,
only arises in humanity when a certain stage in the development of
the individual consciousness has been reached. In so far, then, as
utilitarianism requires that the individual should limit and sacrifice
himself, not for the sake of any higher principles, but for the sake
of his own selfishness rightly understood, it can have practical
significance only as addressed to human individuals at a definite stage
of development. It is from this point of view alone that utilitarianism
ought to be considered here, especially because the questions as to the
empirical origin of any given ideas and feelings have no direct bearing
upon the subject of moral philosophy.
VII
“Every one desires his own good; but the good of each consists in
serving the good of all; therefore every one ought to serve the
common good.” The only thing that is true in this formula of pure
utilitarianism is its conclusion. But its real grounds are not in the
least contained in the two premisses from which it is here deduced. The
premisses are false in themselves and placed in a false relation with
one another.
It is not true that every one desires his own good, for a great many
persons desire simply what affords them immediate pleasure, and find
that pleasure in things which are not in the least good for them, or,
indeed, in things that are positively harmful--in drinking, gambling,
pornography, etc. Of course the doctrine of the common good may be
preached to such people also, but it must rest upon some other basis
than their own desires.
Further, even persons who admit the advantages of happiness or of
lasting satisfaction over momentary pleasures, find their good in
something very different from what utilitarianism affirms it to be. A
miser is very well aware that all fleeting pleasures are dust and ashes
in comparison with the real lasting goods which he locks up in a strong
safe; and utilitarians have no arguments at their command whereby they
could induce him to empty his safe for philanthropic purposes. They
may say to him that it is in his own interests to bring his advantage
into harmony with the advantage of others. But he has fulfilled this
condition already. Suppose, indeed, that he obtained his riches by
lending money at interest; this means that he has done service to his
neighbours and helped them, when they were in need, by giving them
loans of money. He risked his capital and received a certain profit
for it, and they lost that profit but used his capital when they had
none of their own. Everything was arranged to mutual advantage, and
both sides judged impartially between their own and the other person’s
interests. But why is it that neither Mill nor any of his followers
will agree to pronounce the behaviour of this sagacious money-lender
to be a true pattern of utilitarian morality? Is it because he made
no use of the money he hoarded? He made the utmost use of it, finding
the highest satisfaction in the possession of his treasures and in
the consciousness of his power (see Pushkin’s poem _The Avaricious
Knight_); besides, the greater the wealth hoarded, the more useful
it will be to other people afterwards, so that on this side, too,
self-interest and the interest of others are well balanced.
The reason that utilitarians will not admit the conduct of a prudent
money-lender to be the normal human conduct is simply that they
really demand far more than mere _harmony_ between self-interest and
the interest of others. They demand that man should _sacrifice_ his
personal advantage for the sake of the common good, and that he should
find in this his true interest. But this demand, directly contradicting
as it does the idea of ‘self-interest,’ is based upon metaphysical
assumptions that are completely foreign to the doctrine of pure
utilitarianism, and is, apart from them, absolutely arbitrary.
Actual cases of self-sacrifice are due either (1) to an immediate
impulse of sympathetic feeling--when, for instance, a person saves
another from death at the risk of his own life without any reflections
on the subject; (2) or it may be due to compassion as the dominating
trait of character, as in the case of persons who from personal
inclination devote their life to serving those who suffer; (3) or to
a highly developed consciousness of moral _duty_; (4) or, finally, it
may arise from inspiration with some religious idea. All these motives
in no way depend upon considerations of self-interest. Persons whose
will can be sufficiently influenced by these motives, taken separately
or together, will sacrifice themselves for the good of others, without
feeling the slightest necessity for motives of a different kind.[72]
But a number of people are unkind by nature, incapable of being carried
away by moral or religious ideas, lacking in a clear sense of duty,
and not sensitive to the voice of conscience. It is precisely over
this type of person that utilitarianism ought to show its power, by
persuading them that their true advantage consists in serving the
common good, even to the point of self-sacrifice. This, however, is
clearly impossible, for the chief characteristic of these people is
that they find their good not in the good of others, but exclusively in
their own selfish well-being.
By _happiness_ as distinct from pleasure is meant _secure_ or lasting
satisfaction; and it would be utterly absurd to try and prove to a
practical materialist that in laying down his life for others or for an
idea he would be securing for himself an abiding satisfaction of _his
own_, that is, of his material interests.
It is clear that the supposed connection between the good which each
desires _for himself_ and the true or real good, as the utilitarians
understand it, is simply a crude sophism based upon the ambiguity of
the word ‘good.’ First we have the axiom that each desires that which
satisfies him; then all the actual multiplicity of the objects and the
means of satisfaction is designated by one and the same term ‘good.’
This term is then applied to quite a different conception of _general_
happiness or of the _common good_. Upon this identity of the term which
covers two distinct and even opposed conceptions the argument is based
that since each person desires his own good and the good consists
in general happiness, each person ought to desire and to work for
the happiness of all. But in truth the good which _each_ desires for
himself is _not necessarily_ related to general happiness, and the good
which consists in general happiness is not that which each desires for
himself. A simple substitution of one term for another is not enough
to make a person desire something different from what he really does
desire or to find his good not in what he actually finds it.
The various modifications of the utilitarian formula do not make it
more convincing. Thus, starting with the idea of happiness as _abiding_
satisfaction, it might be argued that personal happiness gives no
abiding satisfaction, for it is connected with objects that are
transitory and accidental, while the general happiness of humanity, in
so far as it includes future generations, is lasting and permanent,
and may, therefore, give permanent satisfaction. If this argument is
addressed to ‘each person,’ each can reply to it as follows: “To work
for my personal happiness may give me no _abiding_ satisfaction; but
to work for the future happiness of humanity gives me no satisfaction
_whatever_. I cannot possibly be satisfied with a good which, if
realised at all, would certainly not be _my_ good, for in any case I
should not then exist. Therefore, if personal happiness does not profit
me, general happiness does so still less. For how can I find my good in
that which will never be of any good to me?”
The true thought involved in utilitarianism as worked out by its best
representatives is the idea of human _solidarity_, in virtue of which
the happiness of each is connected with the happiness of all. This
idea, however, has no organic connection with utilitarianism, and,
as a practical principle, is incompatible with the utilitarian, or,
speaking generally, with the hedonistic range of ideas. One may quite
well admit the fact of the oneness of the human race, the universal
solidarity and the consequences that follow from it in the natural
order of things, and yet not deduce from it any moral rule of conduct.
Thus, for instance, a rich profligate, who lives solely for his own
pleasure and never makes the good of others the purpose of his actions,
may nevertheless justly point out that, owing to the natural connection
between things, his refined luxury furthers the development of commerce
and industry, of science and arts, and gives employment to numbers of
poor people.
Universal solidarity is a natural law, which exists and acts through
separate individuals independently of their will and conduct; and if,
in thinking of my own good only, I unwillingly contribute to the good
of all, nothing further can be required from me from the utilitarian
point of view. On the other hand, universal solidarity is a very
different thing from universal happiness. From the fact that humanity
is essentially one, it by no means follows that it must necessarily be
happy: it may be one in misery and destruction. Suppose I make the idea
of universal solidarity the practical rule of my own conduct, and, in
accordance with it, sacrifice my personal advantage to the common good.
But if humanity is doomed to perdition and its ‘good’ is a deception,
of what _use_ will my self-sacrifice be either to me or to humanity?
Thus, even if the idea of universal solidarity could, as a practical
rule of conduct, be connected with the principle of utilitarianism,
this would be of _no use_ at all for the latter.
In utilitarianism the hedonistic view finds its highest expression;
if, therefore, utilitarianism be invalid the whole of the practical
philosophy which finds the highest good in happiness or self-interested
satisfaction stands condemned also. The apparent universality and
necessity of the hedonistic principle, consisting in the fact that
all necessarily desire happiness, proves to be purely illusory. For,
in the first place, the general term ‘happiness’ covers an infinite
multiplicity of different objects, irreducible to any inner unity,
and secondly, the universal desire for one’s own happiness (whatever
meaning might be ascribed to this word) certainly contains no guarantee
that the object desired can be attained, nor indicates the means
for its attainment. Thus the principle of happiness remains simply a
_demand_, and therefore has no advantage whatever over the principle
of duty or of the moral good, the only defect of which is precisely
that it may remain a demand, not having in itself the power necessary
for its realisation. This defect is common to both principles, but
the moral principle as compared with the hedonistic has the enormous
advantage of _inner_ dignity and of _ideal_ universality and necessity.
The moral good is determined by the universal reason and conscience
and not by arbitrary personal choice, and is therefore necessarily one
and the same for all. By happiness, on the other hand, every one has a
right to understand what he likes.
So far then we are left with two _demands_--the rational demand of duty
and the natural demand for happiness--(1) _all men must be virtuous_
and (2) _all men want to be happy_. Both these demands have a natural
basis in human nature, but neither contains in itself sufficient
grounds or conditions for its realisation. Moreover, in point of fact
the two demands are disconnected; very often they are opposed to one
another, and the attempt to establish a harmony of principle between
them (utilitarianism) does not stand the test of criticism.
These demands are not of equal value, and if moral philosophy compelled
us to choose between the clear, definite, and lofty--though not
sufficiently powerful--idea of the moral good and the equally powerless
but also confused, indefinite, and low idea of welfare, certainly all
rational arguments would be in favour of the first.
Before insisting, however, upon the sad necessity of such a choice, we
must consider more closely the moral basis of human nature as a whole.
So far we have only considered it with reference to the particular
development of its three partial manifestations.
FOOTNOTES:
[68] Apart from any pessimistic theories, freedom from pain is from
the hedonistic point of view of more importance than the positive fact
of pleasure. The pain of an unsatisfied and strongly individualised
sexual passion, which not unfrequently drives people to suicide, is
incomparably greater than the pleasure of the satisfaction. The latter
can be pronounced to be a great good only in so far as it gives relief
from the great pain of the unsatisfied desire.
[69] The principle of self-sufficiency in its practical application
partly coincides with the moral principle of asceticism; but the
essential difference between the two is in their starting-point and
their ultimate motive. Asceticism seeks to attain the mastery of the
spirit over the flesh, or the _right_ attitude of man to what is lower
than he. The demand for self-sufficiency springs from a desire for
happiness, so that the principle of αὐτάρκεια may be rightly described
as _hedonistic asceticism_.
[70] J. S. Mill, _Utilitarianism_, 2nd ed., London, 1864, pp. 24-25.
[71] Concerning the primitive character of self-surrender or ‘struggle
for the life of others,’ see, in particular, Henry Drummond, _Ascent of
Man_. The fact that self-sacrifice of the individual for the species
is based upon real genetic solidarity does not in the least prove that
such sacrifice is the same thing as self-interest.
[72] A fifth possible motive is the thought of the life beyond the
grave, the desire to obtain the eternal blessings of paradise. Although
this motive is a utilitarian one in the broad sense, it is connected
with ideas of a different order, which the modern utilitarian doctrine
rejects on principle.
PART II
THE GOOD IS FROM GOD
CHAPTER I
THE UNITY OF MORAL PRINCIPLES
I
WHEN a man does wrong by injuring his neighbour actively or by refusing
to assist him, he afterwards feels _ashamed_. This is the true
spiritual root of all human good and the distinctive characteristic of
man as a moral being.
What precisely is here experienced? To begin with, there is a feeling
of pity for the injured person which was absent at the actual moment
of injury. This proves among other things that our mental nature
may be stirred by impulses more profound and more powerful than the
presence of sensuous motives. A purely ideal train of reflection is
able to arouse a feeling which external impressions could not awake;
the invisible distress of another proves to be more effective than the
visible.
Secondly, to this simple feeling of pity, already refined by the
absence of the visible object, there is added a new and still more
spiritualised variation of it. We both pity those whom we did not pity
before, and regret that we did not pity them at the time. We are sorry
for having been pitiless--to the regret for the person injured there is
added regret for oneself as the injurer.
But the experience is not by any means exhausted by these two
psychological moments. The feeling in question derives all its
spiritual poignancy and moral significance from the third factor.
The thought of our pitiless action awakens in us, in addition to
the reaction of the corresponding feeling of pity, a still more
powerful reaction of a feeling which apparently has nothing to do
with the case--namely, the feeling of shame. We not only regret our
cruel action, but are ashamed of it, though there might be nothing
specifically _shameful_ in it. This third moment is so important that
it colours the whole mental state in question. Instead of saying, ‘My
conscience reproaches me,’ we simply say, ‘I am ashamed,’ _j’ai honte,
ich schäme_. In the classical languages the words corresponding to our
term ‘conscience’ were not used in common parlance, and were replaced
by words corresponding to ‘shame’--a clear indication that the ultimate
root of conscience is to be found in the feeling of shame. We must now
consider what this implies.
II
The thought of having violated any moral demand arouses shame, in
addition to the reaction of the particular moral element concerned.
This happens even when the demands of shame in its own specific sphere
(man’s relation to his lower or carnal nature) have not been violated.
The action in question may not in any way have been opposed to modesty
or to the feeling of human superiority over material nature. Now this
fact clearly shows that, although we may _distinguish_ the three roots
of human morality, we must not _separate_ them. If we go deep enough
they will be seen to spring from one common root; the moral order in
the totality of its norms is essentially a development of one and the
same principle which assumes now this and now that form. The feeling
of shame most vitally connected with the facts of the sexual life
transcends the boundaries of material existence, and, as the expression
of moral disapproval, accompanies the violation of every moral norm
to whatever sphere of relations it might belong. In all languages, so
far as I am aware, the words corresponding to our ‘_stid_’ (shame)
are invariably characterised by two peculiarities: (1) by their
connection with the sexual life (αἰδώς--αἰδοῖα, _pudor_--_pudenda_,
_honte_--_parties honteuses_, _Scham_--_Schamteile_), and (2) by the
fact that these words are used to express disapproval of the violation
of any moral demands _whatsoever_. To deny the specific sexual meaning
of shame (that is, the special shamefulness of the carnal relation
between the sexes), or to limit shame to this significance _alone_,
one must reject human language and acknowledge it to be senseless and
accidental.
The general moral significance of shame is simply a further
development of what is already contained in its specific and original
manifestation with regard to the facts of the sexual life.
III
The essence and the chief purpose of the animal life undoubtedly
consists in perpetuating, through reproduction, the particular form of
organic being represented by this or by that animal. It is the essence
of life _for_ the animal and not merely _in_ him, for the primal and
unique importance of the genital instinct is inwardly experienced and
sensed by him, though, of course, involuntarily and unconsciously. When
a dog is waiting for a savoury piece, its attitude, the expression of
its eyes, and its whole being seem to indicate that the chief nerve of
its subjective existence is in the stomach. But the greediest dog will
altogether forget about food when its sexual instinct is aroused--and
a bitch will readily give up its food and even its life for its young.
The individual animal seems in this case to recognise, as it were,
conscientiously that what matters is not its own particular life as
such, but the preservation of the given type of the organic life
transmitted through an infinite series of fleeting entities. It is
the only image of infinity that can be grasped by the animal. We can
understand, then, the enormous, the fundamental significance of the
sexual impulse in the life of man. If man is essentially more than
an animal, his differentiation out of the animal kingdom, his inner
self-determination as a human being must begin precisely in this centre
and source of organic life. Every other point would be comparatively
superficial. It is only _in this_ that the individual animal becomes
conscious of the infinity of the generic life, and, recognising
itself as _merely a final event_, as merely a means or an instrument
of the generic process, surrenders itself without any struggle or
holding back to the infinity of the genus which absorbs its separate
existence. And it is _here_, in this vital sphere, that man recognises
the insufficiency of the generic infinity in which the animal finds
its supreme goal. Man, too, is claimed by his generic essence, through
him, too, it seeks to perpetuate itself--but his inner being resists
this demand. It protests “I am not what thou art, I am above thee,
I am _not_ the genus, though I am _of_ it--I am not ‘_genus_’ but
‘_genius_.’ I want to be and I can be immortal and infinite, not in
thee only, but in myself. Thou wouldst entice me into the abyss of thy
bad, empty infinity in order to absorb and destroy me--but I seek for
myself the true and perfect infinity which I could share with thee
also. That which I have from thee wants to be mingled with thee and to
drag me down into the abyss above which I have risen. But my own being,
which is not of thee, is ashamed of this mingling and opposed to it; it
desires the union which alone is worthy of it--the true union which is
for all eternity.”
The enormous significance of sexual shame as the foundation both of
the material and the formal morality is due to the fact that in that
feeling man acknowledges as shameful, and therefore bad and wrong,
not any particular or accidental deviation from some moral norm but
the very essence of that law of nature which the whole of the organic
world obeys. That which man is ashamed _of_ is more important than the
general fact of his _being_ ashamed. Since man possesses the faculty
of shame, which other animals do not possess, he might be defined as
the animal _capable of shame_. This definition, though better than many
others, would not make it clear, however, that man is the citizen of
a different world, the bearer of a new order of being. But the fact
of his being ashamed above all and first of all of the very essence
of animal life, of the main and the supreme expression of natural
existence, directly proves him to be a super-natural and super-animal
being. It is in _this_ shame that man becomes in the full sense human.
IV
The sexual act expresses the infinity of the natural process, and in
being ashamed of the act man rejects that infinity as unworthy of
himself. It is unworthy of man to be merely a means or an instrument of
the natural process by which the blind life-force perpetuates itself at
the expense of separate entities that are born and perish and _replace_
one another in turn. Man as a moral being does not want to obey this
natural law of _replacement_ of generations, the law of _eternal
death_. He does not want to be that which replaces and is replaced.
He is conscious--dimly at first--both of the desire and the power to
_include_ in himself all the fulness of the _infinite life_. Ideally he
possesses it already in that very act of human consciousness, but this
is not enough; he wants to express the ideal in the real--for otherwise
the idea is only a fancy and the highest self-consciousness is but
self-conceit. The _power_ of eternal life exists as a fact; nature
lives eternally and is resplendent with eternal beauty; but it is ‘an
indifferent nature’--indifferent to the individual entities which
by their change preserve its eternity. Among these beings, however,
there is one who refuses to play this passive part. He finds that his
involuntary service to nature is a thing to be ashamed of, and that the
reward for it, in the form of personal death and generic immortality,
is not enough. He wants to be not the instrument but the bearer of
eternal life. To achieve this he need not create any new vital force
out of nothing; he has only to gain possession of the force which
exists in nature and to make better use of it.
We call man a genius when his vital creative force is not wholly spent
on the external activity of physical reproduction, but is also utilised
in the service of his inner creative activity in this or that sphere.
A man of genius is one who perpetuates himself apart from the life of
the genus and lives in the general posterity, even though he has none
of his own. But if such perpetuation be taken as final, it obviously
proves to be illusory. It is built upon the same basis of changing
generations which replace one another and disappear, so that neither he
who is remembered nor those who remember him have the true life. The
popular meaning of the word genius gives only a _hint_ of the truth.
The true ‘genius’ inherent in us and speaking most clearly in sexual
shame does not require that we should have a gift for art or science
and win a glorious name in posterity. It demands far more than this.
Like the true ‘_genius_,’ _i.e._ as connected with the entire genus
though standing above it, it speaks not to the elect only but to all
and each, warning them against the process of bad infinity by means of
which earthly nature builds up life upon dead bones--for ever, but in
vain.
V
The object of sexual shame is not the external fact of the animal
union of two human beings, but the profound and universal significance
of this fact. This significance lies primarily, though not entirely,
in the circumstance that in such union man surrenders himself to the
blind impetus of an elementary force. If the path on to which it draws
him were good in itself, one ought to accept the blind character of
the desire in the hope of grasping, in time, its rational meaning and
of following freely that which at first commanded our involuntary
submission. But the true force of sexual shame lies in the fact that in
it we are not ashamed simply of submitting to nature but of submitting
to it in a _bad_ thing, _wholly_ bad. For the path to which the carnal
instinct calls us, and against which we are warned by the feeling of
shame, is a path which is to begin with shameful, and proves in the
end to be both pitiless and impious. This clearly shows the inner
connection between the three roots of morality, all of which are thus
seen to be involved in the first. Sexual continence is not only an
ascetic, but also an altruistic and a religious demand.
The law of animal reproduction of which we are ashamed is the law of
the replacement or the driving out of one generation by another--a
law directly opposed to the principle of human solidarity. In turning
our life-force to the procreation of children we turn away from the
fathers, to whom nothing is left but to die. We cannot create anything
out of ourselves--that which we give to the future we take away from
the past, and through us our descendants live at the expense of our
ancestors, live by their death. This is the way of nature; she is
indifferent and pitiless, and for that we are not responsible. But our
participation in the indifferent and pitiless work of nature is our own
fault, though an involuntary one--and we are dimly aware of that fault
beforehand, in the feeling of sexual shame. And we are all the more
guilty because our participation in the pitiless work of nature, which
replaces the old generations by the new, immediately affects those
to whom we owe the greatest and special duty---our own fathers and
forefathers. Thus our conduct proves to be impious as well as pitiless.
VI
There is a great contradiction here, a fatal antinomy, which must be
recognised even if there is no hope of solving it. _Child-bearing is
a good thing_; it is good for the mother, who, in the words of the
Apostle, is saved by child-bearing, and is of course also good for
those who receive the gift of life. But at the same time it is equally
certain that there is evil in physical reproduction--not the external
and accidental evil of any particular calamities which the newly born
inherit with their very life, but the essential and moral evil of the
carnal physical act itself, in and through which we sanction the blind
way of nature _shameful_ to us because of its blindness, _pitiless_ to
the last generation, and _impious_ because it is to our own fathers
that we are pitiless. But the evil of the natural way for man can
only be put right by man himself, and what has not been done by the
man of the present may be done by the man of the future, who, being
born in the same way of animal nature, may renounce it and change the
law of life. This is the solution of the fatal antinomy: the evil of
child-bearing may be abolished by child-bearing itself, which through
this becomes a good. This saving character of child-bearing will,
however, prove illusory if those who are born will do the same thing
as those who bore them, if they sin and die in the same way. The whole
charm of children, their peculiar human charm, is inevitably connected
with the thought and the hope that they will not be what we are, that
they will be better than we--not quantitatively better by one or two
degrees, but essentially,--that they will be men of a different life,
that in them indeed is our salvation--for us and for our forefathers.
The _human_ love for children must contain something over and above the
hen’s love; it must have a rational meaning. But what rational meaning
can there be in regarding a future scoundrel as the purpose of one’s
life, and in feeling delight and tenderness for him, while condemning
the present scoundrels? If the future for which children stand differs
from the present only in the order of time, in what does the special
charm of children lie? If a poisonous plant or a weed will grow out of
the seed, what is there in the seed to admire? But the fact is that the
possibility of a better, a different way of life, of a different and
higher law which would lift us above nature with its vague and impotent
striving for the fulness of light and power--this _possibility_,
present both in us and in the children, is _greater_ in them than in
us, for in them it is still complete and has not yet been wasted, as in
our case, in the stream of bad and empty reality. These beings have not
yet sold their soul and their spiritual birthright to the evil powers.
Every one is agreed that the special charm of children is in their
innocence. But this actual innocence could not be a source of joy and
delight to us were we certain that it is bound to be lost. There would
be nothing comforting or instructive in the thought that their angels
behold the face of the heavenly Father were it accompanied by the
conviction that these angels will be sure to become immediately blind.
If the special moral charm of children upon which their æsthetic
attractiveness is based depends upon a greater possibility open to them
of a different way of life, ought we not, before bearing children for
the sake of that _possibility_, _actually_ to alter our own bad way? In
so far as we are unable to do this child-bearing _may be_ a good and a
salvation for us; but what ground have we for deciding beforehand that
we are unable? And is the certitude of our own impotence a guarantee
for the future strength of those to whom we shall pass on our life?
VII
Sexual shame refers not to the physiological fact taken in itself and
as such morally indifferent, nor to the sexual love as such which may
be unashamed and be the greatest good. The warning and, later, the
condemning voice of sexual shame refers solely to the way of the animal
nature, which is essentially bad for man, though it may, at the present
stage of human development, be a lesser and a necessary evil--that is,
a relative good.
But the true, the absolute good is not to be found on this path, which
begins, for human beings at any rate, with abuse. Sexual human love has
a positive side, which, for the sake of brevity and clearness, I will
describe as ‘_being in love_.’ This fact is of course analogous to the
sexual desire of animals and develops on the basis of it, but clearly
it cannot be reduced to such desire--unless man is to be altogether
reduced to animal. Being in love _essentially_ differs from the
sexual passion of animals by its individual, super-generic character:
the object for the lover is _this_ definite person, and he strives to
preserve for all eternity not the genus but that person and himself
with it. Being in love differs from other kinds of _individual_ human
love--parental, filial, brotherly, etc.--chiefly by the indissoluble
unity there is in it between the spiritual and the physical side. More
than any other love it embraces the whole being of man. To the lover
both the mental and the physical nature of the beloved are _equally_
interesting, significant, and dear; he is attached to them with an
equal intensity of feeling, though in a different way.[73] What is the
meaning of this from the moral point of view? At the time when all the
faculties of man are in their first blossom there springs in him a new,
spiritually-physical force which fills him with enthusiasm and heroic
aspirations. A higher voice tells him that this force has not been
given him in vain, that he may use it for great things; that the true
and eternal union with another being, which the ecstasy of his love
demands, may restore in them both the image of the perfect man and be
the beginning of the same process in all humanity. The ecstasy of love
does not of course say the same words to all lovers, but the meaning
is the same. It represents the other, or the positive, side of what
is meant by sexual shame. Shame restrains man from the wrong, animal,
way; the exultation of love points to the right way and the supreme
goal for the positive overflowing force contained in love. But when man
turns this higher force to the same old purpose--to the animal work of
reproduction--he wastes it. It is not in the least necessary for the
procreation of children whether in the human or in the animal kingdom.
Procreation is carried on quite successfully by means of the ordinary
organic functions, without any lofty ecstasy of personal love. If a
simple action _b_ is sufficient to produce result _c_, and a complex
action _a_ + _b_ is used instead, it is clear that the whole force of
_a_ is wasted.
VIII
The feeling of shame is the natural basis of the principle of
asceticism, but the content of that feeling is not exhausted by the
negative rules of abstinence. In addition to the formal principle of
duty, which forbids shameful and unworthy actions and condemns us for
committing them, shame contains a positive side (in the sexual sphere
connected with ‘being in love’), which points to the vital good that is
preserved through our continence and is endangered or even lost through
yielding to the ‘works of the flesh.’ In the fact of shame it is not
the formal element of human dignity or of the rational super-animal
power of infinite understanding and aspiration which alone resists the
lure of the animal way of the flesh. The essential vital _wholeness_ of
man, concealed but not destroyed by his present condition, resists it
also.
We are touching here upon the domain of metaphysics; but without
entering it or forsaking the ground of moral philosophy, we can and
must indicate this positive aspect of the fundamental moral feeling of
shame, indubitable both from the logical and from the real point of
view.
Shame in its primary manifestation would not have its peculiar vital
character, would not be a _localised_ spiritually-_organic_ feeling,
if it expressed merely the formal superiority of human reason over
the irrational desires of the animal nature. _This_ superiority of
intellectual faculties is _not lost_ by man on the path against which
shame warns him. It is something else that is lost--something really
and essentially connected with the direct object of shame; and it is
not for nothing that _sexual_ modesty is also called _continence_.[74]
Man has lost the _wholeness_ of his being and his life, and in the
true, continent love to the other sex he seeks, hopes, and dreams to
re-establish this wholeness. These aspirations, hopes, and dreams
are destroyed by the act of the momentary, external, and illusory
union which nature, stifling the voice of shame, substitutes for
the wholeness that we seek. Instead of the spiritually-corporeal
interpenetration and communion of two human beings there is simply
a contact of organic tissues and a mingling of organic secretions;
and this superficial, though secret, union confirms, strengthens,
and perpetuates the profound actual division of the human being.
The fundamental division into two sexes or in half is followed by
the division, conditioned by the external union of the sexes, into
successive series of generations that replace and expel one another,
and into a multitude of coexisting entities which are external,
foreign, and hostile to one another. The wholeness or unity of man
is broken in depth, in breadth, and in length. But this striving for
division, this centrifugal force of life, though everywhere realised to
some extent, can never be realised wholly. In man it assumes the inward
character of wrong or sin, and is opposed to and in conflict with the
wholeness of the human being, which is also an inward condition. The
opposition expresses itself, to begin with, in the fundamental feeling
of shame or modesty, which, in the sphere of sensuous life, resists
nature’s striving for mingling and division. It expresses itself also
in the positive manifestation of shame--in the exultation of chaste
love, which cannot reconcile itself either to the division of the
sexes or to the external and illusory union. In the social life of
man as already broken up into many, the centrifugal force of nature
manifests itself as the _egoism of each_ and the _antagonism of all_,
and it is once more opposed by the wholeness which now expresses itself
as the inner unity of externally separated entities, psychologically
experienced in the feeling of pity.
IX
The centrifugal and the disruptive force of nature which strives
to break up the unity of man both in his psychophysical and in his
social life, is also directed against the bond which unites him to the
absolute source of his being. Just as there exists in man a natural
materialism--the desire to surrender slavishly, with grovelling
delight, to the blind forces of animality; as there exists in him a
natural egoism--the desire inwardly to separate himself from everything
else and to put all that is his own unconditionally above all that
appertains to others--so there exists in man a natural atheism or a
proud desire to renounce the absolute perfection, to make himself the
unconditional and independent principle of his life. (I am referring to
practical atheism, for the theoretical often has a purely intellectual
character and is merely an error of the mind, innocent in the moral
sense.) This is the most important and far-reaching aspect of the
centrifugal force, for it brings about a separation from the _absolute_
centre of the universe, and deprives man not only of the possibility,
but even of the desire for the all-complete existence. For man can only
become all through being inwardly united to that which is the essence
of all things. This atheistic impulse calls forth a powerful opposition
from the inmost wholeness of man which in this case finds expression in
the religious feeling of piety. This feeling directly and undoubtedly
testifies to our dependence, both individual and collective, upon the
supreme principle in its different manifestations, beginning with our
own parents and ending with the universal Providence of the heavenly
Father. To the exceptional importance of this relation (the religiously
moral one) corresponds the peculiar form which the consciousness
of wrong assumes when it is due to the violation of a specifically
religious duty. We are no longer ‘ashamed’ or ‘conscience-stricken,’
but ‘afraid.’ The spiritual being of man reacts with special
concentration and intensity in the feeling of the ‘fear of God,’ which
may, when the divine law has been even involuntarily violated, become
panic terror (_horror sacrilegii_), familiar to the ancients.
_Horror sacrilegii_ (in the classical sense) disappears as man grows
up spiritually, but the fear of God remains as the necessary negative
aspect of piety--as ‘religious shame.’ To have fear of God, or to be
God-fearing, does not of course mean to be _afraid_ of the Deity,
but to be afraid of one’s opposition to the Deity, or of one’s wrong
relation to Him. It is the feeling of being out of harmony with the
absolute good or perfection, and it is the counterpart of the feeling
of reverence or piety in and through which man affirms his right or due
relation to the higher principle--namely, his striving to participate
in its perfection, and to realise the wholeness of his own being.
X
If we understand shame rooted in the sexual life as the manifestation
of the wholeness of the human being, we shall not be surprised to find
that feeling overflowing into other moral spheres.
Speaking generally, it is necessary to distinguish the inner essence
of morality both from its formal principle, or the moral law, and
from its concrete expressions. The essence of morality is in itself
_one_--the _wholeness_ of man, inherent in his nature as an abiding
_norm_, and realised in life and history as moral _doing_, as the
struggle with the centrifugal and the disruptive forces of existence.
The formal principle, or the law of that doing, is in its purely
rational expression as _duty_ also one: thou oughtest in all things
to preserve the norm of human existence, to guard the wholeness of
the human being, or, negatively, thou oughtest not to allow anything
that is opposed to the norm, any violation of the wholeness. But the
one essence and the one law of morality are manifested in various
ways, according to the concrete actual relations of human life. Such
relations are indefinitely numerous, though both logical necessity
and facts of experience equally compel us, as we have seen, to
distinguish three main kinds of relation that fall within the range of
morality--the relations to the world below us, to the world of beings
like us, and to the higher.
The roots of all that is real are hidden in darkest earth, and morality
is no exception. It does not belong to a kingdom where trees grow with
their roots uppermost. Its roots too are hidden in the lower sphere.
The whole of morality grows out of the feeling of shame. The inner
essence, the concrete expression, and the formal principle or law of
morality are contained in that feeling like a plant in a seed, and are
distinguished only by reflective thought. The feeling of shame involves
at one and the same time a consciousness of the moral nature of man
which strives to maintain its wholeness, a special expression of that
wholeness--continence,--and a moral imperative which forbids man to
yield to the powerful call of the lower nature, and reproaches him for
yielding to it. The commands and the reproaches of shame are not merely
negative and preventive in meaning. They have a positive _end_ in view.
We must preserve our inner potential wholeness in order to be able to
realise it as a fact, and actually to create the whole man in a better
and more lasting way than the one which nature offers us. ‘That’s not
it, that’s not it!’ says the feeling of shame, thus promising us _the
true, the right thing_, for the sake of which it is worth while to
renounce the way of the flesh. This way, condemned by shame, is the way
of psychophysical disruption--spiritual as well as corporeal,--and
to such disruption is opposed not only the spiritual, but also the
physical wholeness of man.
But realisation of _complete_ wholeness, of which continence is merely
the beginning, requires the fulness of conditions embracing the whole
of human life. This realisation is complicated and delayed, though
not prevented by the fact that man has already multiplied, and that
his single being has been divided into a number of separate entities.
Owing to this new condition which creates _man as a social being_,
the abiding wholeness of his nature expresses itself no longer in
continence alone that safeguards him from natural disruption but also
in social solidarity which, through the feeling of pity, re-establishes
the moral unity of the physically divided man. At this stage the
difference between the moral elements, merged into one in the primary
feeling of shame, becomes more clear. The feeling of pity expresses the
inner solidarity of living beings, but is not identical with it, and
it preserves its own psychological distinctness as compared with the
instinctive shame. The formally-moral element of shame which at first
was indistinguishable from its psychophysical basis, now develops into
the more subtle and abstract feeling of _conscience_ (in the narrow
sense). Corresponding to the transformation of the carnal instinct into
egoism, we have the transformation of shame into conscience. But the
ultimate and fundamental significance of shame shows itself here also,
for, as already pointed out, the words ‘conscience’ and ‘shame’ are
interchangeable even in the case of actions that are purely egoistic
and have nothing to do with sex. Morality is one, and being fully
expressed in shame, it reacts both against the works of the flesh and
(_implicite_) against the bad consequences of these works--among them,
against the egoism of the man already made multiple. The specific moral
reaction against this new evil finds its psychological expression in
pity, and its formally-moral expression in conscience--this ‘social
shame.’
But neither the moral purity of continence preserved by shame, nor the
perfect moral solidarity which inspires our heart with equal pity for
all living beings, empowers us to realise that which chaste love and
all-embracing pity demand. And yet conscience clearly tells us ‘you
must, therefore you can.’
Man is ashamed of the carnal way because it is the way of the breaking
up and scattering of the life-force, and the end of it is death and
corruption. If he is really ashamed of it and feels it to be wrong, he
must follow the opposite path of wholeness and concentration leading
to eternal life and incorruptibility. If, further, he really pities
all his fellow-creatures, his _aim_ must be to make _all_ immortal and
incorruptible. His conscience tells him that he must do it, and that
therefore he can.
And yet it is obvious that the task of gaining immortal and
incorruptible life for all is above man. But he is not divided by any
impermeable barrier from that which is above him. In the religious
feeling the hidden normal being of man reacts against human impotence
as clearly as in the feeling of shame it reacts against carnal desires,
and in pity against egoism. And conscience, assuming the new form of
the fear of God, tells him: all that you ought to be and have the power
to be is in God; you ought and therefore you can surrender yourself
to Him completely, and through Him fulfil your wholeness--gaining the
abiding satisfaction of your chaste love and your pity, and obtaining
for yourself and for all immortal and incorruptible life. Your
_impotence_ is really as anomalous as shamelessness and pitilessness;
this anomaly is due to your separation from the absolute principle
of right and power. Through your reunion with Him, you must and can
correct it.[75]
The supreme principle to which we are united through the religious
feeling is not merely an _ideal_ perfection. Perfection as an idea is
possible for man. But man is powerless to make his perfection actual,
to make his good the concrete good. Herein is the deepest foundation
of his dependence upon the Being in whom perfection is given as an
eternal reality, and who is the indivisible and unchangeable identity
of Good, Happiness, and Bliss. In so far as we are united to It by the
purity and the whole-heartedness of our aspirations, we receive the
corresponding power to fulfil them, the force to render actual the
potential wholeness of all humanity.
This is the reason why we are so ashamed or conscience-stricken at
every bad action or even a bad thought. It is not an abstract principle
or any arbitrary rule that is violated thereby. But a false step is
taken, a delay is caused on the only true path to the one goal that is
worth reaching--the restoration of immortal and incorruptible life for
all.
Shame and conscience and fear of God are merely the negative
expressions of the conditions that are indispensable to the real and
great work of manifesting God in man.
XI
The moral good then is from its very nature a way of actually attaining
true blessedness or happiness--such happiness, that is, as can give
man complete and abiding satisfaction. _Happiness_ (and blessedness)
in this sense is simply another aspect of the good, or another way
of looking at it--there is as much inner connection and as little
possibility of contradiction between these two ideas as between cause
and effect, purpose and means, etc. One _ought_ to desire the good _for
its own sake_, but the purity of the will is not in the least marred
by the consciousness that the good must _itself_ necessarily mean
happiness for the one who fulfils its demands. On the other hand, the
circumstance that it is _natural_ to desire happiness does not in any
way prevent us from understanding and bearing in mind the empirical
fact that all happiness which is not fictitious or illusory must be
conditioned by the good, _i.e._ by the fulfilment of the moral demands.
If the law of blessedness or of true εὐδαιμονία is determined by the
moral good, there can be no opposition between the morality of pure
duty and eudaemonism in general. The good will must be autonomous;
but the admission that right conduct leads to true happiness does not
involve the heteronomy of the will. Such an admission bases happiness
upon the moral good, subordinates it to the latter, and is therefore in
perfect agreement with the autonomy of the will. Heteronomy consists,
on the contrary, in separating happiness from what is morally right,
in subordinating the desirable not to the moral law, but to a law
_foreign_ to morality. Thus the fundamental opposition is not between
morality and eudaemonism as such, but between morality and eudaemonism
which is abstract or, more exactly, which _abstracts_ happiness from
its true and purely moral conditions, thus rendering it fictitious and
illusory.
Why then does the fulfilment of duty so often fail to give _complete_
satisfaction? I so little wish to avoid this objection that I would
make it stronger, and urge that human virtue _never_ gives complete
satisfaction. But is this virtue itself ever _complete_, and is there
any one born ‘ἐκ θελήματος σαρκός’ ‘ἐκ θελήματος ἀνδρός’ who has ever
perfectly fulfilled his duty? It is clear that the perfect good has
never been realised by any individual human being; and it is just as
clear that a superhuman being, capable of realising the perfect good,
will find complete or perfect satisfaction in doing so. It follows
also that the autonomy of the will, that is, the power to desire
the pure good for its own sake _alone_, apart from any extraneous
considerations, and to desire the _complete_ good--is merely a formal
and subjective characteristic of man. Before it can become real and
objective, man must acquire the power actually to fulfil _the whole_
good, and thus obtain perfect satisfaction. Apart from this condition,
virtue has a negative and insufficient character, which is not due
to the nature of the moral principle itself. Thus when, in the first
place, the moral principle demands that the spirit should have power
over the flesh, this demand involves no external limitations. The
norm is the perfect and absolute power of the spirit over the flesh,
its complete and actual autonomy, in virtue of which it must not
submit to the extraneous law of carnal existence--the law of death and
corruption. In this respect, then, immortal and incorruptible life is
alone a perfect good, and it also is perfect happiness. Morality which
does not lead to a really immortal and incorruptible life, cannot in
strictness be called autonomous, for it obviously submits to the law
of material life that is foreign to it. Similarly, with reference to
altruism the moral demand to help every one puts no limit to that help,
and obviously the _complete_ good here requires that we should obtain
for all our fellow-beings perfect blessedness or absolute happiness.
Our altruism does not fulfil this demand; but the insufficiency of our
good is due not to the moral law, whose requirements are unlimited, but
to the law of limited material being that is alien to it. Consequently,
altruism which obeys this foreign law cannot in the strict sense
be called an expression of autonomous morality, but proves to be
heteronomous.
XII
The good then is accompanied by dissatisfaction or absence of happiness
only when and in so far as it is incomplete and imperfect, only
in so far as the moral law is not fulfilled to the end and still
gives way before another law, extraneous to it. But the perfect
or the purely autonomous good gives also perfect satisfaction. In
other words, the good is separated from happiness not by the nature
of its demands, but by the external obstacles in the way of their
realisation. Moral principle consistently carried out to the end,
duty perfectly fulfilled inevitably leads to the highest good or
happiness. The opposition, therefore, between the theory of general
happiness and pure morality is merely accidental, due to the empirical
imperfection of the human good or to a wrong conception both of good
and of happiness. In the first case, the discrepancy between good and
happiness (sufferings of the righteous) proves merely the insufficiency
or the incompleteness--the _unfinished_ character of the given moral
condition. In the second case, that of a wrong conception, the moral
interest is absent altogether, both when the wrongly conceived good
coincides or when it does not coincide with the wrongly conceived
happiness. Thus, for instance, if a person zealously prays that
he might pick up in the street a purse full of money, or win in a
lottery, the _failure_ of such prayer has no bearing whatever upon the
question as to the disharmony between virtue (in this case religious
virtue) and well-being, or good and happiness. For in this case both
are wrongly understood. Prayer as a means to a low and selfish end
is opposed to the Divine and the human dignity, and is not a real
good; nor is the acquisition of money which one has not deserved
a blessing or real happiness. On the other hand, when a man does
philanthropic work not out of pity or altruistic motives, but only for
the sake of obtaining an order of merit, and actually receives such
an order, such _coincidence_ between the wrongly conceived good and
the wrongly conceived happiness is of as little interest to ethics as
the discrepancy between the two in the first case. There is no need to
prove that although such philanthropy may be useful from the social and
practical point of view, it is not a virtue, nor that an order of merit
is but an illusory blessing. It is clear that true welfare can only
be born of feelings and actions that are themselves well conceived,
_i.e._ that possess moral dignity and are in harmony with the good; and
that real good in its turn cannot in the long run lead to misfortune,
_i.e._ to evil. It is very significant indeed that the same conception
of ‘evil’ equally expresses the opposition both to virtue and to
happiness. Evil actions and evil fortune are equally called evil, which
clearly indicates the inner kinship between the good and blessedness;
and indeed these two ideas are often identified in ordinary speech, one
term being substituted for the other. The separation between moral good
and happiness is then merely conditional; the absolute good involves
also the fulness of happiness.
The ultimate question as to the meaning of life is not then finally
solved either by the existence of good feelings inherent in human
nature, or by the principles of right conduct which reason deduces
from the moral consciousness of these feelings. Moral sentiments
and principles are a relative good, and they fail to give complete
satisfaction. We are compelled both by reason and by feeling to pass
from them to the good in its absolute essence, unconditioned by
anything accidental or by any external limitations, and consequently
giving real satisfaction, and true and complete meaning to life as a
whole.
XIII
That the pure moral good must finally be experienced as blessedness,
that is, as perfect satisfaction or bliss, was admitted by the stern
preacher of the categoric imperative himself. But the method whereby he
sought to reconcile these two ultimate conceptions can certainly not be
pronounced satisfactory.
The great German philosopher admirably defined the formal essence of
morality as the absolutely free or autonomous activity of pure will.
But he was unable to avoid in the domain of ethics the one-sided
subjective idealism which is characteristic of his philosophy as a
whole. On this basis there can only be a fictitious synthesis of good
and happiness, only an illusory realisation of the perfect moral order.
Subjectivism, in the crude and elementary sense, is of course excluded
by the very conception of the _pure will_, of a will, that is, free
from any empirical and accidental motives, and determined only by the
idea of absolute duty (_das Sollen_), _i.e._ by the universal and
necessary norm of practical reason. In virtue of this norm the moral
principle of our conduct (and of our every action) must, without
inner contradiction, be capable of being affirmed as a universal and
necessary law, applicable to ourselves in exactly the same way as to
everybody else.
This formula is in itself (_i.e._ logically) perfectly objective; but
wherein does its real power lie? Insisting upon the unconditional
character of the moral demand, Kant answers only for the _possibility_
of fulfilling it: you must, therefore you can. But the possibility by
no means warrants the actuality, and the perfect moral order may remain
altogether unrealised. Nor is it clear from the Kantian point of view
what is the ultimate inner foundation of the moral demand itself. In
order that our will should be pure or (formally) autonomous it must be
determined solely by respect for the moral law--this is as clear as A =
A. But why should this A be necessary at all? Why demand a ‘pure’ will?
If I want to get pure hydrogen out of water, I must of course take away
the oxygen. If, however, I want to wash or to drink I do not need pure
hydrogen, but require a definite combination of it with oxygen, H_{2}O,
called water.
Kant must undoubtedly be recognised as the Lavoisier of moral
philosophy. His analysis of morality into the autonomous and the
heteronomous elements, and his formulation of the moral law, is one
of the greatest achievements of the human mind. But we cannot rest
satisfied with the theoretical intellectual interest alone. Kant speaks
of practical reason as the unconditional principle of actual human
conduct, and in doing so he resembles a scientist who would demand or
think it possible that men should use pure hydrogen instead of water.
Kant finds in conscience the actual foundation of his moral point of
view. Conscience is certainly more than a demand--it is a fact. But in
spite of the philosopher’s sincere reverence for this testimony of our
higher nature, it lends him no help. In the first place, the voice of
conscience says not exactly what according to Kant it ought to say, and
secondly, the objective significance of that voice remains, in spite of
all, problematic from the point of view of our philosopher.
Kant, it will be remembered, pronounces all motives other than pure
reverence for the moral law to be foreign to true morality. This is
unquestionably true of motives of selfish gain, which induce us to
do good for our own advantage. According to Kant, however, a man who
helps his neighbour in distress out of a simple feeling of pity does
not manifest a ‘pure’ will either, and his action, too, is devoid of
moral worth. In this case Kant is again right from the point of view
of his moral chemistry; but the supreme court of appeal to which he
himself refers--conscience--does not adopt this point of view. It is
only as a joke that one can imagine--as Schiller does in his well-known
epigram--a man whose conscience reproaches him for pitying his
neighbours and helping them with heartfelt compassion:
“Willingly serve I my friends, but I do it, alas, with affection,
Hence I am plagued with the doubt, virtue I have not attained.”
“This is your only resource, you must stubbornly seek to abhor them,
Then you can do with disgust that which the law may enjoin.”
In truth, conscience simply demands that we should stand in the right
relation to everything, but it says nothing as to whether this right
relation should take the form of an abstract consciousness of general
principles, or directly express itself as an immediate feeling,
or--what is best--should unite both these aspects. This is the question
as to the degrees and forms of moral development and, though very
important in itself, it has no decisive significance for the general
valuation of the moral character of human conduct.
Apart, however, from the circumstance that Kant’s ethical demands are
at variance with the deliverances of conscience to which he appeals,
it may well be asked what significance can attach to the very fact of
conscience from the point of view of ‘transcendental idealism.’ The
voice of conscience bearing witness to the moral order of the universe
filled Kant’s soul with awe. He was inspired with the same awe, he
tells us, at the sight of the starry heaven. But what is the starry
heaven from Kant’s point of view? It may have had some reality for
the author of _The Natural History and Theory of the Heavens_,[76]
but the author of the _Critique of Pure Reason_ has dispelled the
delusions of simple-hearted realism. The starry heaven, like the rest
of the universe, is merely a presentation, an appearance in our
consciousness. Though due to an unknown action upon us of something
independent of us, the phenomenon as actually presented has nothing
to do with those utterly mysterious entities, and does not in any way
express the true nature of things: it entirely depends upon the forms
of our sensuous intuition and the power of our imagination acting in
accordance with the categories of our understanding. And if Kant felt
awestruck at the grandeur of the starry heaven, the true object of that
feeling could only be the grandeur of human intellect, or, rather, of
intellectual activity, which creates the order of the universe in order
to cognise it.
Kant’s ‘idealism’ deprives the mental as well as the visible world of
its reality. In his criticism of Rational Psychology he proves that the
soul has no existence on its own account, that in truth all that exists
is the complex totality of the phenomena of the inner sense, which
are no more real than the events of the so-called external world. The
connection between the inner (as between the ‘outer’) phenomena is not
due to the fact that they are experienced by one and the same being,
who suffers and acts in and through them. The connectedness or the
unity of the mental life depends entirely upon certain laws or general
correlations which form the definite order or the working mechanism of
psychical events.
If we do happen to find in this mechanism an important spring called
conscience, this phenomenon, however peculiar it may be, takes us as
little beyond the range of subjective ideas as does the ring of Saturn,
unique of its kind, which we observe through the telescope.
XIV
Kant suffered from his subjectivism in moral philosophy quite as much
as he prided himself on it in theoretical philosophy; and he was well
aware that the fact of conscience is not in itself a way of escape.
If conscience is merely a psychological phenomenon, it can have no
compelling force. And if it is something more, then the moral law has
its foundation not in us only, but also independently of us. In other
words, this unconditional law presupposes an absolute lawgiver.
At the same time Kant, who in spite of the influence of Rousseau had
none of the moral optimism of the latter, clearly saw the gulf between
what ought to be according to the unconditional moral law and what is
in reality. He well understood that the gulf cannot be bridged, the
good cannot completely triumph, the ideal cannot be perfectly realised
in the conditions of the given empirical existence or of the mortal
life. And so he ‘postulated’ the immortality of the soul--of that very
soul the existence of which he disproved in the _Critique of Pure
Reason_.
Thus, notwithstanding his critical philosophy, Kant wanted to find God
behind the starry heaven above us,--and behind the voice of conscience
in us an immortal soul in the image and likeness of God.
He called these ideas _postulates of practical reason_ and objects of
_rational faith_.[77] But there is no faith about it, for faith cannot
be a deduction, and there is not much rationality either, for the whole
argument moves in a vicious circle: God and immortality of the soul are
deduced from morality, while morality itself depends upon God and the
immortal soul.
No certainty can attach, from Kant’s point of view, to these two
metaphysical ideas themselves, but they must be admitted as valid
truths, since the reality of the moral law demands the reality of God
and immortality. Every sceptic or ‘critical philosopher’ has, however,
a perfect right to turn this argument against Kant. Since pure morality
can only be based upon the existence of God and of an immortal soul,
and the certainty of these ideas cannot be proved, pure morality
dependent upon these ideas cannot be proved either, and must remain a
mere supposition.
If the moral law has absolute significance, it must rest upon itself
and stand in no need of ‘postulates,’ the object of which has been so
systematically put to shame in the _Critique of Pure Reason_. But if,
in order to have real force, the moral law must be based upon something
other than itself, its foundations must be independent of it and
possess certainty on their own account. The moral law cannot possibly
be based upon things which have their ground in it.
Kant rightly insisted that morality is autonomous. This great
discovery, connected with his name, will not be lost for humanity.
Morality is autonomous precisely because its essence is not an abstract
formula hanging in the air, but _contains in itself all the conditions
of its realisation_. The necessary presupposition of morality, namely,
the existence of God and of an immortal soul, is not a demand for
something extraneous to morality and additional to it, but is its own
inner basis. God and the soul are not the postulates of the moral law,
but the direct creative forces of the moral reality.
The fact that the good is not finally and universally realised for
us, that virtue is not always effective and _never_, in our empirical
life, _wholly_ effective, does not disprove the fact that the good
exists and that the measure of good in humanity is, on the whole,
_on the increase_. It is not increasing in the sense that individual
persons are becoming more virtuous or that there is a greater number
of virtuous people, but in the sense that the average level of _the
universally binding_ moral demands _that are fulfilled_ is gradually
raised. This is a historical fact, against which one cannot honestly
argue. What then is the source of this increase of good in humanity as
a collective whole, independently of the moral state of human units
_taken separately_? We know that the growth of a physical organism is
due to the superabundance of nourishment which it receives from its
actual physico-organic environment, the existence of which _precedes_
its own. In a similar way, moral growth, which cannot logically be
explained by the physical (for such explanation would in the long run
mean deducing the greater from the lesser, or something from nothing,
which is absurd), can also only be explained by a superabundance of
nourishment, that is, by the general positive effect of the actual
moral or spiritual environment. In addition to the inconstant and, for
the most part, doubtful growth of separate human beings, traceable to
the educative effect of the social environment, there is a constant and
undoubtful spiritual growth of humanity, or of the social environment
itself--and this is the whole meaning of history. To account for this
fact we must recognise the reality of a superhuman environment which
spiritually nourishes the collective life of humanity and, by the
superabundance of this nourishment, conditions its moral progress. And
if the reality of the superhuman good must be admitted, there is no
reason to deny its effect upon the individual moral life of man. It
is clear that this higher influence extends to everything capable of
receiving it. The effect of the social environment must not, however,
be regarded as the source, but only as one of the necessary conditions
of the moral life of the individual. If moral life, both collective and
personal, be understood as the interaction between man (and humanity)
and the perfect, superhuman good, it cannot belong to the sphere of
the transitory material events. In other words, both the individual
and the collective soul must be immortal. Immortality does not
necessarily presuppose the soul as an independent substance. Each soul
can be conceived as one of a number of inseparably connected, constant
and therefore immortal _relations_ of the Deity to some _universal_
substratum of the life of the world, a closer definition of which
does not directly belong to the scope of moral philosophy. We know
nothing _as yet_--_i.e._ before a theoretical inquiry into metaphysical
questions--about the substantiality of the soul or the substantiality
of God; but one thing we know with certainty: ‘As the Lord liveth,
my soul liveth.’ If we give up this fundamental truth we cease to
understand and to affirm ourselves as moral beings, that is, we give up
the very meaning of our life.
FOOTNOTES:
[73] See my article _Smysl liubvi_ (_The Meaning of Love_).
[74] The word translated by ‘continence’ is in the Russian
_tselomudrie_, which, by derivation, means ‘the wisdom of wholeness’
(from _tselost_--wholeness, and _mudrost_--wisdom).--_Translator’s
Note._
[75] In the Church prayer human impotence is put side by side with
sins and transgressions: “Lord, cleanse our sins; God, forgive our
transgressions; Holy One, visit and heal our frailties.” _Frailties_ is
here used especially in opposition to _holiness_.
[76] The chief work of Kant’s pre-critical period.
[77] I confine myself here to these two postulates only, for the
question of the freedom of will belongs to a different order of ideas.
CHAPTER II
THE UNCONDITIONAL PRINCIPLE OF MORALITY
I
Neither the natural inclination to the good in individual men, nor the
rational consciousness of duty, are in themselves sufficient for the
realisation of the good. But our moral nature contains an element of
something greater than itself.
Even the first two foundations of morality--shame and pity--cannot be
reduced either to a certain _mental condition_ of this or that person,
or to a universal rational _demand_ of duty. When a man is ashamed
of desires and actions that spring from his material nature, he does
more than express thereby his personal opinion or the state of his
mind at the given moment. He _actually apprehends_ a certain _reality_
independent of his opinions or accidental moods--the reality, namely,
of the spiritual, supermaterial essence of man. In the feeling of
shame the fundamental material inclinations are _rejected_ by us as
foreign and hostile to us. It is clear that the person who rejects
and the thing which is rejected cannot be identical. The man who is
ashamed of a material fact cannot himself be a _mere_ material fact. A
material fact that is ashamed of and rejects itself, that judges itself
and acknowledges itself unworthy, is an absurdity and is logically
impossible.
The feeling of shame which is the basis of our right relation to the
material nature is something more than a simple psychical fact. It is
a self-evident revelation of a certain universal truth,--of the truth,
namely, that man has a spiritual supermaterial nature. In shame, and
in ascetic morality founded upon it, this spiritual essence of man
manifests itself not only as a possibility but also as an _actuality_,
not as a demand only but also as a certain reality. Men whose spirit
dominates their material nature have actually existed in the past
and exist now. The fact that they are comparatively few in number
simply proves that the moral demand has not yet been fully and finally
realised; it does not prove that it is not realised at all and remains
a mere demand. It cannot be said that the moral principle of shame is
lacking in actuality, or, what is the same thing, in actual perfection.
In a similar manner, the feeling of pity or compassion which is the
basis of man’s right relation to his fellow-beings expresses not merely
the mental condition of a given person, but also a certain universal
objective truth, namely, the unity of nature or the real solidarity
of all beings. If they were alien and external to one another, one
being could not put himself into the place of another, could not
transfer the sufferings of others to himself or feel together with
others; for compassion is an actual and not an imagined state, not an
abstract idea. The bond of sympathy between separate beings, which
finds expression in the fundamental feeling of pity and is developed in
the morality of altruism, is not merely a demand, but a beginning of
realisation. This is proved by the solidarity of human beings, which
exists as a fact, and increases throughout the historical development
of society. The defect of the social morality is not that it is not
realised at all, but that it is not fully and perfectly realised. The
feeling of shame gives us no _theoretical conception_ of the spiritual
principle in man, but indubitably proves the _existence_ of that
principle. The feeling of pity tells us nothing definite about the
metaphysical nature of the universal unity, but _concretely_ indicates
the existence of a certain fundamental connection between distinct
entities, _prior to all experience_. And although these entities are
empirically separate from one another, they become more and more united
in the empirical reality itself.
II
In the two moral spheres indicated by shame and pity, the good
is already known as truth, and is realised in fact, but as yet
imperfectly. In the third sphere of moral relations, determined by the
religious feeling or reverence, the true object of that feeling reveals
itself as the highest or perfect good, wholly and absolutely realised
from all eternity. The inner basis of religion involves more than a
mere recognition of our dependence upon a power immeasurably greater
than we. Religious consciousness in its pure form is a joyous _feeling_
that there _is_ a Being infinitely better than ourselves, and that
our life and destiny, like everything that exists, is dependent upon
It--not upon an irrational fate, but upon the actual and perfect Good,
_the One which embraces all_.
In true religious experience the reality of that which is experienced
is immediately given; we are directly conscious of the real presence
of the Deity, and feel Its effect upon us. Abstract arguments can
have no force against actual experience. When a man is ashamed of his
animal desires, it is impossible to prove to him that he is a mere
animal. _In the very fact_ of shame he is aware of himself as being,
and proves himself to be, more and higher than an animal. When in the
feeling of pity we are affected by the sufferings of another person,
and are conscious of him as of a fellow-being, no force can attach to
the theoretical argument that perhaps that other, for whom my heart
aches, is only my presentation, devoid of all independent reality. If I
am conscious of the inner connection between myself and another, that
consciousness testifies to the actual existence of the other no less
than to my own. This conclusion holds good of the religious feeling as
well as of pity and compassion. The only difference is that the object
of the former is experienced not as equal to us but as absolutely
superior, all-embracing, and perfect. It is impossible that a creature
which excites in me a living feeling of compassion should not actually
live and suffer. It is still more impossible that the highest, that
which inspires us with reverence and fills our soul with unutterable
bliss, should not exist at all. We cannot doubt the reality of that
which perceptibly affects us, and whose effect upon us is given in the
very fact of the experience. The circumstance that I do not always have
the experience, and that other people do not have it at all, no more
disproves its reality and the reality of its object than the fact of
my not seeing the sun at night, and of persons born blind never seeing
it at all, disproves the existence of the sun and of vision. Moreover,
many people have a wrong conception of the sun, taking it to be small
and to move round the earth, and this, indeed, was the universal
belief in former days. But neither the existence of the sun nor my
certainty of its existence are in the least affected by this fact. In
the same way, theological errors and contradictions do not in any way
touch upon the real object of religion. Theological systems, like the
astronomical ones, are the work of human intellect, and depend upon
the degree of its development and the amount of positive knowledge.
Correct theology, like correct astronomy, is important and necessary;
but it is not a thing of the _first_ importance. The epicycles of the
Alexandrian astronomers and the division of the solar system according
to the theory of Tycho Brahe did not prevent any one from enjoying the
light and the warmth of the sun; and when these astronomers were proved
to be in error, no one was led thereby to doubt the actual existence
of the sun and the planets. In the same way the most false and absurd
theological doctrine cannot prevent any one from experiencing the
Deity, nor cause any doubt as to the reality of what is given in
experience.
Abstract theoretical doubts had arisen in the past and still arise, not
only with regard to the existence of God, but to all other existence.
No one at all familiar with philosophical speculation can imagine
that the existence of the physical world, or even of our neighbours,
is self-evident _to the intellect_. A doubt of that existence is the
first foundation of all speculative philosophy worthy of the name.
These theoretical doubts are disposed of in one way or another by means
of various epistemological and metaphysical theories. But however
interesting and important these theories may be, they have no direct
bearing upon life and practice. Such direct significance attaches
to moral philosophy, which is concerned with the actual data of our
spiritual nature and the guiding practical truths which logically
follow from them.
The parallelism between spiritual and physical blindness is also borne
out by the following consideration. It is well known that people blind
from birth are perfectly sound in other respects, and have indeed
an advantage over the persons with normal sight in that their other
senses--hearing, touch--are better developed. In a similar way persons
lacking in receptivity to the divine light are perfectly normal in
all other respects, both practical and theoretical, and, indeed, they
generally prove superior to others in their capacity for business and
for learning. It is natural that a person who is particularly drawn
to the absolute centre of the universe cannot pay equal attention to
objects that are relative. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that
in the special, worldly tasks of humanity, a great share of work and
of success falls to the men for whom the higher world is closed. Such
‘division of labour’ is natural, and it provides a certain teleological
explanation of atheism which must serve some positive good purpose on
the whole, whatever its negative causes in each particular case may
be. If the work of history is necessary, if the union of mankind is
to become a fact, if it is necessary that at a given epoch men should
invent and make all sorts of machines, dig the Suez Canal, discover
unknown lands, etc., then it is also necessary for the successful
performance of all these tasks that some men should not be mystics,
or even earnest believers. It is clear, of course, that the supreme
will does not make any one an atheist for the sake of its historical
purposes; but once the complex chain of causes, finally confirmed by
this or that voluntary decision of the man himself, has produced in a
given case spiritual blindness, it is the business of Providence to
give such a direction to this ‘ill’ that it too should be not wholly
devoid of ‘good’--that a subjective wrong should have an objective
justification.
III
The reality of the Deity is not a _deduction_ from religious experience
but the _content_ of it--_that which is experienced_. If this immediate
reality of the higher principle be taken away, there would be nothing
left of religious experience. It would no longer exist. But it _does_
exist, and therefore that which is given and experienced in it exists
also. _God is in us, therefore He is._
However complete the feeling of our inner unity with God may be, it
never becomes a consciousness of mere identity, of simple merging
into one. The feeling of unity is inseparably connected with the
consciousness that the Deity with which we are united, and which acts
and reveals itself in us, is something distinct and independent of
us--that it is prior to us, higher and greater than we. God exists
on His own account. That which is experienced is logically prior to
any given experience. The actuality of an object does not depend
upon the particular way in which it acts. When one has to say to a
person ‘_there is no God in you_,’ every one understands that this
is not a denial of the Deity, but merely a recognition of the moral
worthlessness of the person in whom there is no room for God, _i.e._ no
inner receptivity to the action of God. And this conclusion would stand
even if we had to admit that all men were thus impenetrable to the
Deity.
My compassion for another person does not in the least imply that I
am identical with that other. It simply means that I am of the same
nature as he is and that there is a bond of union between us. In the
same way, the religious experience of God in us or of ourselves in God
by no means implies that He is identical with us, but simply proves
our inner relationship to Him--‘for we are also His offspring.’ The
relation is not brotherly, as with our fellow-beings, but filial--it is
not the bond of equality, but the bond of dependence. The dependence is
not external or accidental, but inward and essential. True religious
feeling regards the Deity as the fulness of all the conditions of our
life--as that without which life would be senseless and impossible for
us, as the _first beginning_, as the true _medium_, and as the _final
end_ of existence. Since everything is already contained in God we can
add nothing to Him from ourselves, no new content; we cannot make the
absolute perfection more perfect. But we can partake of it more and
more, be united with it more and more closely. Thus our relation to the
Deity is that of _form_ to _content_.
A further analysis of what in religious feeling is given as a living
experience of the reality of Godhead shows that we stand in a threefold
relation to this perfect reality, this absolute or supreme good. (1)
We are conscious of our difference from it; and since it contains the
fulness of perfection, we can only differ from it by negative qualities
or determinations--by our imperfection, impotence, wickedness,
suffering. In this respect we are the opposite of the Deity, its
_negative other_; this is the lower earthly principle _out of which_
man is created (his ὕλη or _causa materialis_), that which is called in
the Bible ‘the dust of the ground’ (_gaphar haadam_). (2) But although
we are nothing but a complex of all possible imperfections, we are
conscious of the absolute perfection as of that which truly is, and in
this consciousness are ideally united to it, reflect it in ourselves.
This idea of the all-embracing perfection as the informing principle of
our life (εἶδος, _causa formalis_) is, in the words of the Bible, ‘the
image of God’ in us (or, more exactly, ‘the reflection’: _zelem_ from
_zel_, ‘shadow’). (3) In God the ideal perfection is fully realised;
hence we are not content with being conscious of Him as an idea, or
in reflecting Him in ourselves, but want, like God, to be _actually_
perfect. And since our empirical existence is opposed to this, we seek
to transform, to perfect our bad reality, and to assimilate it to the
absolute ideal. Thus although in our given (or inherited) condition we
are opposed to the Deity, we approximate to It in that towards which we
aspire. The end of our life, that for the sake of which we exist (οὗ
ἕνεκα, _causa finalis_), is the ‘likeness of God’ (_d’mut_).
The religious attitude necessarily involves discriminating and
comparing. We can stand in a religious relation to the higher only if
we are aware of it as such, only if we are conscious of its superiority
to us, and consequently of our own unworthiness. But we cannot be
conscious of our unworthiness or imperfection unless we have an idea of
its opposite--_i.e._ an idea of perfection. Further, the consciousness
of our own imperfection and of the divine perfection cannot, if it be
genuine, stop at this opposition. It necessarily results in a desire
to banish it by making our reality conform to the highest ideal, that
is, to the image and likeness of God. Thus the religious attitude as
a whole logically involves three moral categories: (1) _imperfection_
(in us); (2) _perfection_ (in God); and (3) the process of _becoming
perfect_ or of establishing a harmony between the first and the second
as the task of our life.
IV
The logical analysis of the religious attitude into its three component
elements finds confirmation both from the psychological and the
formally moral point of view.
Psychologically, _i.e._ as a subjective state, the typical religious
attitude finds expression in the feeling of reverence, or, more
exactly, of reverent love.[78] This feeling necessarily involves (1)
self-depreciation on the part of the person who experiences it, or his
disapproval of himself as he actually is at the present moment; (2)
positive awareness of the higher ideal as of a reality of a different
order, as of that which truly is--since to feel reverence for what
one knows to be an invention or an image of fancy is psychologically
impossible; (3) a striving to work a real change in oneself, and
to draw nearer to the highest perfection. Apart from this striving
the religious feeling becomes an abstract idea. On the contrary,
real striving towards God is the beginning of union with Him. By
experiencing His reality in ourselves we become united to this supreme
reality, and make a beginning--an inner and subjective one--of the
future complete union of all the world with God. This is the reason why
the true religious attitude is characterised by the feeling of bliss
and enthusiasm, which the Apostle calls “the earnest of the Spirit in
our hearts” and “joy of the Holy Ghost.” It is the prophetic spirit
anticipating our complete and final union with the Deity: the union is
not yet attained but it has begun, and we have a foretaste of the joy
of fulfilment.
From the formally moral point of view, the consciousness (involved
in the religious feeling) that the supreme ideal actually exists
and that we are out of harmony with it _compels_ us to become more
perfect. That which excites our reverence, affirms thereby its _right_
to our devotion. And if we are conscious of the actual and absolute
superiority of the Deity over ourselves, our devotion to it must be
real and unlimited, _i.e._ it must be the unconditional rule of our
life.
The religious feeling expressed in the form of the categorical
imperative commands us not merely _to desire perfection_ but to _be
perfect_. And this means that, in addition to having a good will, being
honest, well-behaved and virtuous, we must be free from pain, immortal
and incorruptible, and must, moreover, make all our fellow-beings
morally perfect and free from pain, deathless, and incorruptible in
their bodies. For, indeed, true perfection must embrace the whole of
man, must include all his reality--and of that reality other beings,
too, form part. If _we do not want_ that, in addition to moral
perfection, they should be free from pain, immortal and incorruptible,
we have no pity for them, that is, we are inwardly imperfect. And if
we want it, but _cannot_ do it, we are impotent, that is, our inner
perfection is not sufficient to manifest itself objectively; it is
merely a subjective, incomplete perfection, or, in other words, it is
imperfection. In either case we have not fulfilled the demand, “Be ye
perfect.”
But what can the demand mean? It is clear that by willing alone,
however pure and intense the will may be, we cannot even--contrary to
the claim of ‘mental healing’--save ourselves or our neighbours from
toothache or gout, let alone raise the dead.
The imperative ‘be ye perfect’ does not refer, then, to separate acts
of will, but puts before us a _life-long task_. A simple act of pure
will is necessary for _accepting_ the task, but is not in itself
sufficient for fulfilling it. The _process of becoming perfect_ is
a necessary means to perfection. Thus the unconditional demand ‘be
perfect’ means, in fact, ‘_become perfect_.’
V
Perfection, _i.e._ the completeness of good, or the unity of good and
happiness, expresses itself in three ways: (1) as the absolutely real,
eternally actual perfection in God; (2) as potential perfection in
human consciousness which contains the absolute fulness of being in the
form of an idea, and in human will which makes that fulness of being
its ideal and its norm; (3) as the actual realisation of perfection or
as the historical process of _becoming perfect_.
The adherents of _abstract morality_ put at this point a question, the
answer to which they prejudge from the first. They ask what need is
there for this third aspect--for perfection as concretely realised,
for historical _doing_ with its political problems and its work of
civilisation. If the light of truth and a pure will is within us, why
trouble about anything further?
But the purpose of historical doing is precisely the final
_justification_ of the good given in our true consciousness and our
good will. The historical process as a whole creates the concrete
conditions under which the good may really become common property,
and apart from which it cannot be realised. The whole of historical
development, both of the human and of the physical world, is the
necessary means to perfection. No one will argue that a mollusc or a
sponge can know the truth, or bring their will into harmony with the
absolute good. It was necessary for more and more complex and refined
organic forms to be evolved until a form was produced in which the
consciousness of perfection and the desire for it could be manifested.
This consciousness and desire contain, however, only the _possibility_
of perfection; and if man is conscious of and desires that which he
does not possess, it is clear that the consciousness and the will
cannot be the _completion_, but are only the _beginning_ of his life
and activity. A speck of living protoplasm, the production of which
also demanded much creative energy, contains the possibility of the
human organism. But that possibility could only be realised through a
long and complex biological process. A formless bit of organic matter,
or an insufficiently formed living being like a sponge, a polypus, a
cuttle-fish, cannot of themselves produce man, though they contain
him potentially. In the same way a formless horde of savages, or an
insufficiently formed barbarian state, cannot directly give birth to
the Kingdom of God, that is, to the image of the perfect unity of the
human and the universal life--even though the remote possibility of
such unity may be contained in the thoughts and feelings of the savages
and barbarians.
Just as the spirit of man in nature requires for its concrete
expression the most perfect of physical organisms, so the spirit of God
in humanity or the Kingdom of God requires for its actual manifestation
the most perfect social body which is being slowly evolved through
history. In so far as the ultimate constituents of this historical
process--human individuals--are more capable of conscious and free
action than the ultimate constituents of the biological process--the
organic cells--the process of evolving the collective universal body is
more conscious and voluntary in character than the organic processes
which determine the evolution of our corporeal being. But there is no
absolute opposition between the two. On the one hand, rudiments of
consciousness and will are undoubtedly present in all living beings,
though they are not a decisive factor in the general process of
perfecting the organic forms. On the other hand, the course and the
final outcome of universal history are not exhausted by the conscious
and purposive activity of historical persons. But in any case, at
a certain level of intellectual and moral development the human
individual must inevitably determine his own attitude with regard to
the problems of history.
The significance of the historical, as distinct from the cosmical,
process lies in the fact that the part played in it by individual
agents is always increasing in importance. And it is strange that at
the present day, when this characteristic fact of history has become
sufficiently clear, the assertion should be made that man must renounce
all historical doing, and that the state of perfection for humanity
and for all the universe will be attained _of itself_. ‘Of itself’
does not, of course, in this connection mean through the play of blind
physical forces which have neither the desire nor the power to create
the Kingdom of God out of themselves. ‘Of itself’ here means by the
immediate action of God. But how are we to explain from this point of
view the fact that hitherto God has never acted immediately? If for the
realisation of the perfect life two principles only are necessary--God
and the human soul, potentially receptive of Him--then the Kingdom of
God might have been established with the advent of the first man. What
was the need for all these centuries and millenniums of human history?
And if this process was necessary because the Kingdom of God can as
little be revealed among wild cannibals as among wild beasts, if it
was necessary for humanity to work up from the brutal and formless
condition of separateness to definite organisation and unity, it is as
clear as day that this process is not yet completed. Historical doing
is as necessary to-day as it was yesterday, and will be as necessary
to-morrow, until the conditions are ripe for the actual and perfect
realisation of the Kingdom of God.
VI
The historical process is a long and difficult _transition_ from the
bestial man to the divine man. No one can seriously maintain that the
last step has already been taken, that the image and likeness of the
beast has been inwardly abolished in humanity and replaced by the image
and likeness of God, that there is no longer any historical task
left demanding the organised activity of social groups, and that all
we have to do is to bear witness to this fact and trouble no further.
This view when expressed simply and directly is absurd, and yet it sums
up the doctrine so often preached nowadays of social disruption and
individual quietism--a doctrine which claims to be the expression of
the unconditional principle of morality.
The unconditional principle of morality cannot be a deception. But it
is obvious deception for a separate individual to pretend that his own
impotence to realise the ideal of universal perfection proves such
realisation to be _unnecessary_. The truth which, on the basis of
genuine religious feeling, our reason and our conscience tell us is
this:--
I cannot alone carry out in practice all that ought to be; I cannot do
anything alone. But, thank God, there is no such thing as ‘I alone’; my
impotence and isolation is only a subjective state which depends upon
myself. Although in my thoughts and my will I can separate myself from
everything, it is mere self-deception. Apart from these false thoughts
and this bad will nothing exists separately, everything is inwardly and
externally connected.
I am not alone. With me is God Almighty and the world--that is, all
that is contained in God. And if both these exist, there is positive
interaction between them. The very idea of Godhead implies that things
to which God stands in a purely negative relation, or things to which
He is unconditionally opposed, cannot exist at all. But the world
does exist, therefore there must be the positive activity of God in
it. The world cannot, however, be the end of that activity, for it is
imperfect. And if it cannot be the end, it must be the means. It is
the system of conditions for realising the kingdom of ends. That in
it which is capable of perfection will enter that kingdom with full
rights; all the rest is the material and the means for bringing it
about. All that exists, exists only in virtue of being approved by
God. But God approves in two ways: some things are good as a means and
others as a purpose and an end (_shabbath_). Each stage in the world
creation is approved of from above, but the Scriptures distinguish
between simple and enhanced praise. Of all things created in the first
six days of the world it says that they are _good_ (_tob_, καλά), but
only the last creature--man--is said to be _very good_ (_tob meod_,
καλά λίαν). In another holy book it is said that the Divine Wisdom
looks after all creatures, but that her joy is in the sons of man. In
man’s consciousness and his freedom lies the inner possibility for each
human being to stand in an independent relation to God, and therefore
to be His direct purpose, to be a citizen possessed of full rights
in the kingdom of ends. Universal history is the realisation of this
possibility for every one. Man who takes part in it attains to actual
perfection through his own experience, through his interaction with
other men. This perfection attained by himself, this full, conscious,
and free union with Godhead, is what God wills for its own sake--is
an unconditional good. Inner freedom, _i.e._ voluntary and conscious
preference of good to evil in everything, is, from the point of view of
principle, the chief condition of this perfection or of the absolute
good (_tob meod_).
Man is dear to God, not as a passive instrument of His will--there are
enough of such instruments to be found in the physical world--but as
a voluntary ally and participator in His work in the universe. This
participation of man must necessarily be included in the very purpose
of God’s activity in the world. Were this purpose thinkable apart
from human activity, it would have been attained from all eternity,
for in God Himself there can be no process of becoming perfect, but
only an eternal and unchangeable fulness of all that is good. Just
as it is unthinkable for an absolute being to increase in goodness
or perfection, so it is unthinkable for man to attain perfection at
once, apart from the process of becoming perfect. Perfection is not a
thing which one person can make a gift of to another; it is an inner
condition attainable through one’s own experience alone. No doubt
perfection, like every positive content of life, is received by man
from God. But in order to be capable of receiving it, in order to
become a receptive form for the divine content (and it is in this
alone that human perfection consists), it is necessary that man should
through actual experience get rid of and be purged of all that is
incompatible with this perfect state. For mankind as a whole this is
attained through the historical process, by means of which God’s will
is realised in the world.
This will reveals itself to the individual--not of course as he is
in his false separateness, but as he truly is. And man’s true nature
consists not in separating himself from all else, but in being together
with all that is.
VII
The moral duty of religion demands that we should unite our will with
the will of God. The will of God is all-embracing, and in being united
to it, or in entering into true harmony with it, we obtain an absolute
and universal rule of action. The idea of God that reason deduces from
what is given in true religious experience is so clear and definite
that we always can know, if we want to, what God demands of us. In the
first place, God wants us to be conformable to and like Him. We must
manifest our inner kinship with the Deity, our power and determination
to attain free perfection. This idea can be expressed in the form of
the following rule: _Have God in you_.
A man who has God in him regards everything in accordance with God’s
thought or ‘from the point of view of the absolute.’ The second rule,
then, is _Regard everything in God’s way_.
God’s relation to everything is not indifference. Inanimate objects are
indifferent to good and evil, but this lower state cannot be attributed
to the Deity. Although, according to the words of the Gospel, God
lets the sun shine on the just and the unjust, it is precisely this
single light which, in illuminating different persons and actions,
shows the difference between them. Although, according to the same
words, God sends His rain to the righteous and to the sinners, yet
this one and the same moisture of God’s grace brings forth from the
different soil and different seed fruits that are not identical. God
cannot be said either to affirm evil or to deny it unconditionally.
The first is impossible, because in that case evil would be good, and
the second is impossible, because in that case evil could not exist at
all--and yet it does exist. God denies evil as final or abiding, and in
virtue of this denial it perishes. But He permits it _as a transitory
condition of freedom_, _i.e._ _of a greater good_. On the one hand,
God permits evil inasmuch as a direct denial or annihilation of it
would violate human freedom and be a greater evil, for it would render
perfect (_i.e._ free) good _impossible_ in the world; on the other
hand, God permits evil inasmuch as it is _possible_ for His Wisdom to
extract from evil a greater good or the greatest possible perfection,
and this is the cause of the existence of evil.[79] Evil, then, is
something subservient, and an unconditional rejection of it would be
wrong. We must regard evil also in God’s way, _i.e._ without being
indifferent to it, we must rise above absolute opposition to it and
allow it--when it does not proceed from us--as a means of perfection,
in so far as a greater good can be derived from it. We must recognise
the _possibility_, _i.e._ the potentiality, of good in all that is,
and must work for that possibility to become an actuality. The direct
possibility of perfect good is given in rational and free beings like
ourselves. Recognising our own unconditional significance as bearers
of the _consciousness_ of the absolute ideal (the image of God), and
of the _striving_ to realise it completely (the likeness of God), we
must in justice recognise the same thing of all other persons. Our duty
of attaining perfection we must regard not merely as the task of the
individual life, but as an inseparable part of the world-wide work of
history.
The unconditional principle of morality can therefore be expressed as
follows:--
_In complete inner harmony with the higher will and recognising the
absolute worth or significance of all other persons, since they too
are in the image and likeness of God, participate, as fully as in thee
lies, in the work of making thyself and every one more perfect, so that
the Kingdom of God may be finally revealed in the world._
VIII
It will be easily seen that the unconditional principle of morality
includes and gives expression to all positive moral principles, and
that at the same time it completely satisfies the natural demand for
happiness in the sense of possessing the highest good.
In demanding that man should be a friend and helper of God, the
unconditional principle of morality does not cancel the particular
moral demands. On the contrary, it confirms them; it puts them in a
higher light and gives them a supreme sanction.
In the first place, it refers to the religious basis of morality, of
which it is the direct development and the final expression. The higher
demand presupposes the lower. A babe at the breast naturally cannot
be his father’s friend and helper. In the same way, a man spiritually
under age is inwardly precluded from standing in the relation of free
and immediate harmony with God. In both cases authoritative guidance
and education is necessary. This is the justification of external
religious institutions--of sacrifices, hierarchy, etc. Apart from
their profound mystical significance, which makes them an abiding link
between heaven and earth, they are undoubtedly of the first importance
to humanity from the pedagogical point of view. There never was, and
never could be, a time when all men would be spiritually equal to one
another. Making use of this inevitable inequality, Providence has from
the first elected the best to be the spiritual teachers of the crowd.
Of course the inequality was merely relative--the teachers of savages
were half-savage themselves. Therefore the character of religious
institutions changes and becomes more perfect in conformity with the
general course of history. But so long as the historical process is
not yet completed, no one could in all conscience consider unnecessary
for himself and for others the mediation of religious institutions
which connect us with the work of God that has already found concrete
embodiment in history. And even if such a man could be found, he would
certainly not reject the ‘external’ side of religion. Indeed for him
it would not be _merely external_, for he would understand the fulness
of the inner meaning inherent in it and its connection with the future
realisation of that meaning. A person who is above school age and
has reached the heights of learning has certainly no reason to go to
school. But he has still less reason to reject schools and to persuade
the schoolboys that their teachers are a pack of idle swindlers, and
that they themselves are perfect men or that educational institutions
are the root of all evil and ought to be wiped off the face of the
earth.
The true ‘friend of God’ understands and cares for all manifestations
of the divine both in the physical world and, still more so, in human
history. And if he stands on one of the upper rungs of the ladder that
leads from man to God, he will certainly not cut down the lower rungs
on which his brethren are standing and which are still supporting him
too.
Religious feeling raised to the level of an absolute and all-embracing
principle of life lifts to the same height the other two fundamental
moral feelings, as well as the duties that follow from them--namely,
the feeling of pity which determines our right relation to our
fellow-creatures, and the feeling of shame upon which our right
attitude to the lower material nature is based.
IX
Pity which we feel towards a fellow-being acquires another significance
when we see in that being the image and likeness of God. We then
recognise the _unconditional_ worth of that person; we recognise that
he is an end in himself for God, and still more must be so for us.
We realise that God Himself does not treat him _merely_ as a means.
_We respect that being since God respects him_, or, more exactly,
_we consider him since God considers him_. This higher point of view
does not exclude pity in cases when it would naturally be felt--on
the contrary, pity becomes more poignant and profound. I pity in that
being not merely his sufferings but also the cause of them--I regret
that his actual reality falls so short of his true dignity and possible
perfection. The _duty_ that follows from the altruistic sentiment
also acquires a higher meaning. We can no longer be content with
refraining from injuries to our neighbour or even with assisting him
in his troubles. We must help him to become more perfect, so that the
image and likeness of God which we recognise in him might be actually
realised. But no human being can alone realise either in himself or in
any one else that absolute fulness of perfection in seeking which we
are likened to God. Altruism at its highest religious stage compels us,
therefore, actively to participate in the universal historical process
which brings about the conditions necessary for the revelation of the
Kingdom of God. Consequently it demands that we should take part in the
collective organisations--especially in that of the state as inclusive
of all the others--by means of which the historical process is, by the
will of Providence, carried on. Not every one is called to political
activity or to the service of the state in the narrow sense of the
term. But it is the duty of every one to serve, in his own place, that
same purpose--the common good--which the state ought to serve also.
In the domain of religion the unconditional principle of morality
leads us to accept ecclesiastical institutions and traditions as
educational means whereby humanity is led in the end to ultimate
perfection. In a similar way in the domain of purely human relations
inspired by pity and altruism the unconditional moral principle demands
that we should give active service to the collective organisations,
such as the state, by means of which Providence prevents humanity
from material disruption, holds it together, and enables it to become
more perfect. We know that only in virtue of that which has been
and is being given to humanity by the historical forms of religion
can we truly attain to that free and perfect union with the Divine,
the possibility and the promise of which are contained in our inner
religious feeling. Similarly, we know that apart from the concentrated
and organised social force which is found in the state we cannot give
all our neighbours that help which we are bidden to give both by the
simple moral feeling of pity for their sufferings and by the religious
principle of respect for their unconditional dignity which demands to
be realised.
In both cases we connect our allegiance to the ecclesiastical and
the political forms of social life with the unconditional principle
of morality, and in doing so we recognise that allegiance as
_conditional_, as determined by this higher truth and dependent upon
it. Institutions which ought to serve the good in humanity may more
or less deviate from their purpose or even be wholly false to it. In
that case the duty of man true to the good consists neither in entirely
rejecting the institutions in question on the ground of the abuses
connected with them--which would be unjust--nor in blindly submitting
to them both in good and in evil, which would be impious and unworthy.
His duty would be to try and actively reform the institutions,
insisting on what their function ought to be. If we know why and for
what sake we ought to submit to a certain institution, we also know
the form and the measure of such submission. It will never become
unlimited, blind, and slavish. We shall never be passive and senseless
instruments of external forces; we shall never put the Church in the
place of God, or the state in the place of humanity. We shall not
take the transitory forms and instruments of the providential work in
history for the essence and the purpose of that work. We subordinate
our personal impotence and insufficiency to the historical forces, but
in our higher consciousness we regard them in God’s way, using them
as the means or the conditions of the perfect good. In doing so we do
not renounce our human dignity--rather we affirm it and realise it as
unconditional.
When I make use of physical force and move my arms in order to save
a drowning man or to give food to the hungry, I do not in any way
detract from my moral dignity; on the contrary, I increase it. Why
then should it be a detriment, rather than a gain, to our morality to
take advantage of the spiritually-material forces of the state and use
them for the good of nations and of humanity as a whole? To submit
to material powers is shameful, but to deny their right to existence
is perilous and unjust. In any case the _unconditional_ principle of
morality extends to the domain of matter also.
X
The natural feeling of shame bears witness to the autonomy of our
being, and safeguards its wholeness from the destructive intrusion of
foreign elements. At the lower stages of development, when sensuous
life predominates, special significance attaches to bodily chastity,
and the feeling of shame is originally connected with this side of
life. But as moral feelings and relations are developed further,
man begins to form a wider conception of his dignity. He is ashamed
not only of yielding to the lower material nature, but also of all
violations of _duty_ in relation to gods and men. The unconscious
instinct of shame becomes now, as we have seen, the clear voice of
_conscience_ which reproaches man not for carnal sins alone but also
for all wrong-doing--for all unjust and pitiless actions and feelings.
At the same time there is developed a special feeling of the fear of
God, which restrains us from coming into conflict with anything that
expresses for us the holiness of God. When the relation between man
and God is raised to the level of absolute consciousness, the feeling
which protects the wholeness of man is also raised to a new and final
stage. What is now being safeguarded is not the relative but the
absolute dignity of man, that is, his ideal perfection which is to be
realised. The negative voice of shame, conscience, and the fear of God
becomes at this stage a direct and positive consciousness in man of
his own divinity or a consciousness of God in him. This consciousness
no longer reproaches him for doing what is bad and injurious, but for
feeling and acting as an imperfect being, while perfection is his duty
and his goal. Instead of the demon which restrained Socrates from wrong
actions, we hear the Divine voice: “Be ye perfect even as your Father
in heaven is perfect.”
If perfection is to be perfectly realised it must include the material
life. The unconditional principle gives a new meaning to the ascetic
morality. We refrain from carnal sins no longer out of the instinct of
spiritual self-preservation or for the sake of increasing our inner
power, but for the sake of our body itself, as the uttermost limit of
the manifestation of God in man, as the predestined abode of the Holy
Ghost.
FOOTNOTES:
[78] This subjective basis of religion is best rendered by the German
_Ehrfurcht, ehrfurchtsvolle Liebe_. It may also be called an ascending
love, _amor ascendens_. See the conclusion of this book.
[79] I must content myself here with a general logical reflection. A
real solution of the question must be based upon a metaphysical inquiry
into the nature of God and the origin of evil in the world.
CHAPTER III
THE REALITY OF THE MORAL ORDER
I
The unconditional principle of morality, logically involved in
religious experience, contains the complete good (or the right relation
of all to everything) not merely as a demand or an idea, but as an
actual power that can fulfil this demand and create the perfect moral
order or the Kingdom of God in which the absolute significance of every
being is realised. It is by virtue of this supreme principle alone that
the moral good can give us final and complete satisfaction, can be for
us a true blessing and a source of infinite bliss.
We experience the reality of God not as something indefinitely
divine--δαιμόνιόν τι, but we are conscious of Him as He really is,
all-perfect or absolute. And our soul too is revealed to us in our
inner experience not merely as something distinct from material facts,
but as a positive force which struggles with the material processes and
overcomes them. The experience of physiological asceticism does more
than support the truth that the soul is immortal--a postulate beyond
which Kant would not go; it also justifies the hope of the resurrection
of the body. For in the triumph of the spirit over matter, as we know
from our own preliminary and rudimentary experience, matter is not
destroyed but is made eternal as the image of a spiritual quality and
an instrument of the activity of the spirit.
We do not know from experience what matter is in itself; this is a
subject for metaphysical investigation. The psychical and the physical
phenomena are qualitatively distinct so far as knowledge is concerned:
the first are known by direct introspection and the second by means of
the outer senses. But experience--both the immediate individual and the
universal, scientific, and historical experience--undoubtedly proves
that in spite of this there is no gulf between the real essence of the
spiritual and the material nature, that the two are most intimately
connected and constantly interact. Since the process whereby the
universe attains perfection is the process of manifesting God in man,
it must also be the process of manifesting God in matter.
The chief concrete stages of this process, given in our experience,
bear the traditional and significant name of _kingdoms_. It is
significant because it really is applicable only to the last and
highest stage, which is usually not taken into account at all.
Counting this highest stage there are five kingdoms altogether: the
_mineral_ (or, more generally, the inorganic) kingdom, the _vegetable_
kingdom, the _animal_ kingdom, the _human_ kingdom, and _God’s
kingdom_. Minerals, plants, animals, natural humanity and spiritual
humanity--such are the typical forms of existence from the point of
view of the ascending process of universal perfection. From other
points of view the number of these forms and stages might be increased,
or, on the contrary, be reduced to four, three, and two. Plants and
animals may be grouped together into one organic world. Or the whole
realm of physical existence, both organic and inorganic, may be
united in the one conception of nature. In that case there would be a
threefold division only, into the Divine, the human, and the natural
kingdoms. Finally, one may stop at the simple opposition between the
Kingdom of God and the kingdom of this world.
Without in the least rejecting these and all other divisions, it must
be admitted that the five kingdoms indicated above represent the most
characteristic and clearly defined _grades of existence_ from the point
of view of the moral meaning realised in the process of manifesting God
in matter.
Stones and metals are distinguished from all else by their extreme
self-sufficiency and conservatism; had it rested with them, nature
would never have wakened from her dreamless slumber. But, on the other
hand, without them her further growth would have been deprived of a
firm basis or ground. Plants in unconscious, unbroken dreams _draw
towards_ warmth, light, and moisture. Animals by means of _sensations_
and free _movements seek_ the fulness of sensuous being: repletion,
sexual satisfaction, and the joy of existence (their games and
singing). Natural humanity, in addition to all these things, rationally
strives to _improve_ its life by means of sciences, arts, and social
institutions, actually improves it in various respects, and finally
rises to the _idea_ of absolute perfection. Spiritual humanity or
humanity born of God not only understands this absolute perfection with
the intellect but accepts it in its heart and its conduct as _the true
beginning of that which must be fulfilled in all things_. It seeks to
realise it to the end and to embody it in the life of the universe.
Each preceding kingdom serves as the immediate basis of the one that
follows. Plants derive their nourishment from inorganic substances,
animals exist at the expense of the vegetable kingdom, men live at
the expense of animals, and the Kingdom of God is composed of men.
If we consider an organism from the point of view of its material
constituents we shall find in it nothing but elements of inorganic
substance. That substance, however, ceases to be a _mere_ substance
in so far as it enters into the _plan_ of the organic life, which
_makes use_ of the chemical and physical properties of substance
but is not reducible to them. In a similar way, human life on its
material side consists of animal processes, which, however, have in
it no significance on their own account as they do in the animal
world. They serve as a means or an instrument for new purposes and new
objects which follow from the new, higher plan of rational or human
life. The sole purpose of the typical animal is satisfaction of hunger
and of the sexual instinct. But when a human being desires nothing
further he is rightly called bestial, not only as a term of abuse,
but precisely in the sense of sinking to a lower level of existence.
Just as a living organism consists of chemical substances which cease
to be mere substances, so humanity consists of animals which cease to
be _merely_ animal. Similarly, the Kingdom of God consists of men who
have ceased to be _merely_ human and form part of a new and higher plan
of existence in which their purely-human ends become the means and
instruments for another final purpose.
II
The stone exists; the plant exists and is living; the animal lives and
is conscious of its life in its concrete states; man understands the
meaning of life according to ideas; the sons of God actively realise
this meaning or the perfect moral order in all things to the end.
The stone exists, this is clear from its sensible effect upon us. A
person who denies it can easily convince himself of his error, as has
been observed long ago, by knocking his head against the stone.[80]
Stone is the most typical embodiment of the category of being as such,
and, in contradistinction to Hegel’s abstract idea of being, it shows
no inclination whatever to pass into its opposite:[81] a stone is what
it is and has always been the symbol of changeless being. It merely
exists--_it does not live_ and it does not die, for the parts into
which it is broken up do not qualitatively differ from the whole.[82]
The plant not merely exists but lives, which is proved by the fact
that it dies. Life does not presuppose death, but death obviously
presupposes life. There is a clear and essential difference between a
growing tree and logs of wood, between a fresh and a faded flower--a
difference to which there is nothing corresponding in the mineral
kingdom.
It is as impossible to deny life to plants as to deny consciousness
to animals. It can only be done with the help of an arbitrary and
artificial terminology, which is not binding upon any one. According to
the natural meaning of the word, consciousness in general is a definite
and regular correspondence or interrelation between the inner psychical
life of a given being and its external environment. Such correlation is
undoubtedly present in animals. The presence of life in the vegetable
kingdom is clearly seen in the distinction between a living and a dead
plant; the presence of consciousness in animals is, at any rate in the
case of the higher and typical animals, clearly seen in the distinction
between a sleeping and a waking animal. For the distinction consists
precisely in the fact that a waking animal consciously takes part in
the life that surrounds it, while the psychical world of a sleeping
animal is cut off from direct communication with that life.[83] An
animal not merely has sensations and images; it connects them by
means of correct associations. And although it is the interests and
the impressions of the present moment that predominate in its life,
it _remembers_ its past states and _foresees_ the future ones. If
this were not the case, the education or training of animals would be
impossible, yet such training is a fact. No one will deny _memory_ to a
horse or a dog. But to remember a thing or to be conscious of it is one
and the same. To deny consciousness to animals is merely an aberration
of the human consciousness in some philosophers.
One fact of comparative anatomy ought alone to be sufficient to
disprove this crude error. To deny consciousness to animals means to
reduce the whole of their life to the blind promptings of instinct.
But how are we to explain in that case the gradual development in the
higher animals of the organ of conscious mental activity--the brain?
How could this organ have appeared and developed if the animals in
question had no corresponding functions? Unconscious, instinctive life
does not need the brain. This is shown by the fact that the development
of instinct is prior to the appearance of that organ, and that it
reaches its highest development in creatures that have no brain.
The excellence of ants’ and bees’ social, hunting, and constructive
instincts depends of course not on the brain, which, strictly speaking,
they have not got, but upon their well-developed sympathetic nervous
system.
Man differs from animals not by being conscious, since the same is
true of them also, but by possessing reason or the faculty of forming
general concepts and ideas. The presence of consciousness in animals
is proved by their purposive movements, mimicry, and their language
of various sounds. The fundamental evidence of the rationality of man
is the _word_, which expresses not only the states of a particular
consciousness, but the general meaning of all things. The ancient
wisdom rightly defined man not as a conscious being--which is not
enough--but as a being endowed with language or a rational being.
The power inherent in the very nature of reason and of language to
grasp the all-embracing and all-uniting truth has acted in many
different ways in various and separate peoples, gradually building
up the human kingdom upon the basis of the animal life. The ultimate
essence of this human kingdom is the ideal _demand_ for the perfect
moral order, _i.e._ a demand for the Kingdom of God. By two paths--of
prophetic inspiration among the Jews, and of philosophic thought among
the Greeks--has the human spirit approached the _idea_ of the Kingdom
of God, and the _ideal_ of the God-man.[84] Parallel to this double
inner process, but naturally more slow than it, was the external
process of bringing about political unity and unity of culture among
the chief historical peoples of East and West, completed by the Roman
Empire. In Greece and Rome natural or pagan humanity reached its limit.
In the beautiful sensuous form and speculative idea among the Greeks,
and in the practical reason, will, or power among the Romans, it has
affirmed its absolute divine significance. There arose the idea of the
absolute man or _man-god_. This idea cannot, from its very nature,
remain abstract or purely speculative. It demands _embodiment_. But it
is as impossible for man to make himself a god as it is impossible for
animals by their own efforts to attain human dignity, rationality, and
power of speech. Remaining upon its own level of development, animal
nature could only produce the ape, and human nature--the Roman Caesar.
Just as the ape is the forerunner of man, so the deified Caesar is the
forerunner of the God-man.
III
At the period when the pagan world contemplated its spiritual failure
in the person of the supposed man-god--the Caesar impotently aping the
deity, individual philosophers and earnest believers were awaiting the
incarnation of the Divine Word or the coming of the Messiah, the Son of
God and the King of Truth. The man-god, even if he were lord of all the
world, is but an empty dream; the God-man can reveal His true nature
even in the guise of a wandering rabbi.
The historical existence of Christ, as well as the reality of His
character recorded in the Gospels, is not open to serious doubt. It
was impossible to invent Him, and no one could have done it. And this
perfectly historical image is the image of the perfect man--not of a
man, however, who says, ‘I have become god,’ but of one who says, ‘I am
born of God and am sent by Him, I was one with God before the world was
made.’ We are compelled by reason to believe this testimony, for the
historical coming of Christ as God made manifest in man is inseparably
connected with the whole of the world-process. If the reality of this
event is denied, there can be no meaning or purpose in the universe.
When the first vegetable forms appeared in the inorganic world,
developing subsequently into the luxurious kingdom of trees and
flowers, they could not have appeared of themselves, out of nothing.
It would be equally absurd to suppose that they had sprung from the
accidental combinations of inorganic elements. Life is a new positive
content, something _more_ than lifeless matter; and to reduce the
greater to the lesser is to assert that something can come out of
nothing, which is obviously absurd. The phenomena of vegetable life
are continuous with the phenomena of the inorganic world; but that
_of which_ they are the phenomena is essentially distinct in the two
kingdoms, and the heterogeneity becomes more and more apparent as the
new kingdom develops further. In the same way, the world of plants and
the world of animals spring, as it were, from one root; the elementary
forms of both are so similar that biology recognises a whole class of
animal-plants (the Zoophites). But under this apparent or phenomenal
homogeneity there is undoubtedly concealed a fundamental and essential
difference of type, which evinces itself later in the two divergent
directions or planes of being--the vegetable and the animal. In this
case, again, that which is new and greater in the animal, as compared
with the vegetable type, cannot, without obvious absurdity, be reduced
to the lesser, _i.e._ to the qualities they have in common. This
would mean identifying _a_ + _b_ with _a_, or recognising something
as equal to nothing. In exactly the same way there is close proximity
and intimate material connection, in the phenomenal order, between
the human and the animal world. But the essential peculiarity of the
latter--which is certainly more apparent in a Plato or a Goethe than
in a Papuan or an Esquimo--is a new positive content, a certain _plus_
of existence, which cannot be deduced from the old animal type. A
cannibal may not in himself be much above the ape; but then he is not
a final type of humanity. An uninterrupted series of _more perfect_
generations lead from the cannibal to Plato and Goethe, while an ape,
so long as it is an ape, does not become essentially _more perfect_. We
are connected with our half-savage ancestors by the bond of historical
memory, or the unity of collective consciousness--which animals do
not possess. Their memory is individual only, and the physiological
bond between generations that finds expression in heredity does not
enter their consciousness. Therefore, though animals participate to a
certain extent in the process of making the animal form more perfect
(in accordance with the evolutionary theory), the results and the
purpose of this process remain external and foreign to them. But the
process whereby humanity is made more perfect is conditioned by the
faculties of reason and will which are found in the lowest savage,
though in a rudimentary degree only. Just as these higher faculties
cannot be deduced from the animal nature and form a separate human
kingdom, so the qualities of the spiritual man--of man made perfect or
of the God-man--cannot be deduced from the states and qualities of
the natural man. Consequently, the Kingdom of God cannot be taken to
be the result of the unbroken development of the purely-human world.
The _God-man is not the same as the man-god_, even though distinct
individuals among natural humanity may have anticipated the higher
life which was to come. As the ‘water lily’ appears at first sight to
be a plant, while it undoubtedly is an animal, so, at the beginning,
the bearers of the Kingdom of God apparently do not seem in any way to
differ from men of this world, though there lives and acts within them
the principle of a new order of being.
The fact that the higher forms or types of being appear, or are
revealed, after the lower does not by any means prove that they are
a product or a creation of the lower. The order of reality is not
the same as the order of appearance. The higher, the richer, and the
more positive types and states of being are metaphysically prior to
the lower, although they are revealed or manifested subsequently to
them. This is not a denial of evolution; evolution cannot be denied,
it is a fact. But to maintain that evolution creates the higher
forms out of the lower, or, in the long-run, out of nothing, is to
substitute a logical absurdity for the fact. Evolution of the lower
types of being cannot of itself create the higher. It simply produces
the material conditions or brings about the environment necessary
for the manifestation or the revelation of the higher type. Thus,
every appearance of a new type of being is in a certain sense a _new
creation_. But it is not created out of nothing. The material basis for
the appearance of the new is the old type. The special positive content
of the higher type does not arise _de novo_, but exists from all
eternity. It simply enters, at a certain moment in the process, into a
different order of being--the phenomenal world. The conditions of the
appearance are due to the natural evolution of the material world; that
which appears comes from God.[85]
IV
The interrelation between the fundamental types of being--which are the
chief stages in the world-process--is not exhausted by the negative
fact that these types, each having its own peculiar nature, are not
reducible to one another. There is a direct connection between them
which gives positive unity to the process as a whole. This unity, into
the essential nature of which we cannot here inquire, is revealed in
three ways. In the first place, each new type is a _new condition_
necessary for the realisation of the supreme and final end, namely,
for the actual manifestation in the world of the perfect moral order,
the Kingdom of God, or for ‘the revelation of the freedom and glory
of the sons of God.’ In order to attain its highest end or manifest
its absolute worth, a being must in the first place _be_, then it must
be _living_, then be _conscious_, then be _rational_, and finally
be _perfect_. The defective conceptions of not being, lifelessness,
unconsciousness, and irrationality are _logically_ incompatible with
the idea of perfection. The concrete embodiment of each of the positive
states of existence forms the actual kingdoms of the world, so that
even the lower enter into the moral order as the necessary conditions
of its realisation. This instrumental relation, however, does not
exhaust the unity of the world as given in experience. The lower types
are inwardly drawn to the higher, strive to attain to them, having in
them, as it were, their purpose and their end. This fact also indicates
the purposive character of the process as a whole (the most obvious
instance of the striving is the likeness, already indicated, of the ape
to man). Finally, the positive connection of the graduated kingdoms
shows itself in the fact that each type includes or embraces the lower
types within itself--and the higher it is, the more fully it does so.
The world-process may thus be said to be the process of _gathering
the universe together_, as well as of developing and perfecting
it. Plants physiologically absorb their environment (the inorganic
substances and physical phenomena which nourish them and promote their
growth). Animals, in addition to feeding on plants, psychologically
absorb, _i.e._ take into their consciousness, a wider circle of events
correlated with them through sensation. Man, in addition to this,
grasps, by means of reason, remote spheres of being which are not
immediately sensed; at a high stage of development he can embrace all
in one or understand the meaning of all things. Finally the God-man or
the Living Reason (Logos) not only abstractly understands but actively
realises the meaning of everything, or the perfect moral order, as he
embraces and connects together all things by the living personal power
of love. The highest end of man as such (pure man) and of the human
world is to _gather the universe together in thought_. The end of the
God-man and of the Kingdom of God is to gather the universe together
_in reality_.
The vegetable world does not abolish the inorganic world, but merely
relegates it to a lower, subordinate place. The same thing happens at
the further stages of the world-process. At the end of it, the Kingdom
of God does not, when it appears, abolish the lower types of existence,
but puts them all into their right place, no longer as separate spheres
of existence but as the spiritually-physical organs of a _collected_
universe, bound together by an absolute inner unity and interaction.
This is the reason why the Kingdom of God is identical with the reality
of the absolute moral order, or, what is the same thing, with universal
resurrection and ἀποκατάστασις τῶν πάντων.
V
When the God-man who begins the Kingdom of God is described as ‘an
ideal,’ this does not mean that he is thinkable only and not real. He
can only be called ideal in the sense in which a man may be said to be
an ideal for the animal, or a plant an ideal for the earth out of which
it grows. The plant is more ideal in the sense of possessing greater
worth, but it has a greater and not a lesser _reality_ or fulness of
existence as compared with a clod of earth. The same must be said of
the animal as compared with the plant, of the natural man as compared
with the animal, and of the God-man as compared with the natural man.
On the whole, the greater worth of the ideal content is in _direct
proportion_ to the increase in real power: the plant has concrete
powers (such as the power to transmute inorganic substances for its own
purposes) which the clod of earth has not; man is far more powerful
than the ape, and Christ has infinitely more power than the Roman
Caesar.
The natural man differs from the spiritual not by being utterly devoid
of the spiritual element, but by not having the power to realise that
element completely. To obtain this power the spiritual being of man
must be fertilised by a new creative act or by the effect of what in
theology is called _grace_, which gives the sons of men ‘the power to
become the children of God.’ Even according to orthodox theologians
grace does not abolish nature in general, and the moral nature of
man in particular, but _perfects_ it. The moral nature of man is
the necessary condition and presupposition of the manifestation of
God in man. Not every inorganic substance but only certain chemical
combinations can be affected by the vital force and form part of
vegetable and animal organisms. Similarly, not all living beings but
only those endowed with a moral nature can receive the effects of grace
and enter into the Kingdom of God. The beginnings of spiritual life are
inherent in the very nature of man and are to be found in the feelings
of shame, pity, and reverence, as well as in the rules of conduct that
follow from these feelings and are safeguarded by conscience or the
consciousness of duty. This natural good in man is an imperfect good,
and it is logically inevitable that it should, as such, remain for ever
imperfect. Otherwise we should have to admit that the infinite can be
the result of the addition of finite magnitudes, that the unconditional
can arise out of the conditioned, and, finally, that something can come
out of nothing. Human nature does not contain and therefore cannot of
itself give rise to the real infinity or fulness of perfection. But by
virtue of reason or universal meaning inherent in it, it contains the
possibility of this moral infinity and a striving for its realisation,
_i.e._ for the apprehension of the Divine. A dumb creature striving
towards reason is a mere animal, but a being actually possessed of
reason ceases to be an animal and becomes man, forming a new kingdom
not to be deduced by a simple continuous evolution from the lower
types. Similarly, this new being, rational, though not wholly rational,
imperfect and only striving towards perfection, is a mere man, while
a being _possessing_ perfection cannot be _merely_ human. He is a
revelation of a new and final Kingdom of God, in which not the relative
but the absolute Good or worth is realised, not to be deduced from the
relative; for the distinction is one of quality and not of quantity or
degree.
The divine man differs from the ordinary man not by being a represented
ideal but by being a _realised_ ideal. The false idealism which takes
the ideal to be non-existent, and thinks its realisation unnecessary,
is not worth criticising. But there is another question involved here
which must be reckoned with. While admitting that the divine or
perfect man must have reality, and not merely significance for thought,
one may deny the historical fact of His appearance in the past. Such
denial, however, has no rational grounds, and, moreover, it robs the
process of universal history of all meaning. If the historical person
known to us from the books of the New Testament was not the God-man
or, in Kant’s terminology, the realised ‘ideal,’ He could only be
the natural product of historical evolution. But in that case why
did not this evolution go further in the same direction and produce
other persons still more perfect? Why is it that after Christ there
is progress in all spheres of life except in the fundamental sphere
of personal spiritual power? Every one who does not deliberately shut
his eyes must admit the gulf there is between the noblest type of
natural, searching wisdom immortalised by Xenophanes in his notes and
by Plato in his dialogues, and the radiant manifestation of triumphant
spirituality which is preserved in the Gospels and had blinded Saul
in order to regenerate him. And yet, less than four centuries elapsed
between Socrates and Christ. If during this short period historical
evolution could produce such an increase of spiritual force in human
personality, how is it that during a far longer time, and in a period
of rapid historical progress, evolution has proved utterly powerless
not only to bring about a corresponding advance in personal spiritual
perfection, but even to keep it on the same level? Spinoza and Kant,
who lived sixteen and seventeen centuries after Christ, and were very
noble types of natural wisdom, may well be compared with Socrates,
but it would not occur to any one to compare them with Christ. It
is not because they had a different sphere of activity. Take men
celebrated in the religious sphere--Mahomet, Savonarola, Luther,
Calvin, Ignatius Loyola,[86] Fox, Swedenborg. All these were men of
powerful personality; but try honestly to compare them with Christ! And
historical characters, such as St. Francis, who come nearest to the
moral ideal, definitely acknowledge their direct dependence upon Christ
as a higher being.
VI
If Christ represents only a relative stage of moral perfection, the
absence of any further stages during almost two thousand years of the
spiritual growth of humanity is utterly incomprehensible. If He is the
absolutely highest type produced by the process of natural evolution,
He ought to have appeared _at the end_ and not in the middle of
history. But indeed He could not in any case be a simple product of
historical evolution, for the difference between absolute and relative
perfection is not one of quantity or degree, but is qualitative and
essential, and it is logically impossible to deduce the first from the
second.
The meaning of history in its concrete development compels us to
recognise in Jesus Christ not the last word of the human kingdom,
but the first and all-embracing Word of the Kingdom of God--not the
man-god, but the God-man, or the absolute individual. From this point
of view it can be well understood why He first appeared in the _middle_
of history and not at the end of it. The purpose of the world-process
is the revelation of the Kingdom of God or of the perfect moral
order realised by a new humanity _which spiritually grows out of the
God-man_. It is clear, then, that this universal event must be preceded
by the individual appearance of the God-man Himself. As the first half
of history up to Christ was preparing the environment or the external
conditions for His individual birth, so the second half prepares the
external conditions for His universal revelation or for the coming of
the Kingdom of God. Here once more the general and logically certain
law of the universe finds application: the higher type of being is _not
created_ by the preceding process but is phenomenally conditioned by
it. The Kingdom of God is not a _product_ of Christian history any more
than Christ was a product of the Jewish and the Pagan history. History
merely worked out in the past and is working out now the necessary
natural and moral _conditions_ for the revelation of the God-man and
the divine humanity.
VII
By His word and the work of His whole life, beginning with the victory
over all the temptations of the _moral_ evil and ending with the
resurrection, _i.e._ the victory over the _physical_ evil or the law of
death and corruption, the true God-man has revealed to men the Kingdom
of God. But, according to the very meaning and law of this new Kingdom,
revelation cannot in this case coincide with attainment. In making
real the absolute significance of each person the perfect moral order
presupposes the moral freedom of each. But true freedom is acquired by
the finite spirit through experience only. Free choice is only possible
for the person who knows or has experienced that which he is choosing
as well as its opposite. And although Christ finally conquered evil in
the true centre of the universe, _i.e._ in Himself, the victory over
evil on the circumference of the world, _i.e._ in the collective whole
of humanity, has to be accomplished through humanity’s own experience.
This necessitates a new process of development in the Christian world
which has been baptized into Christ but has not yet put on Christ.[87]
The true foundation of the perfect moral order is the _universality_
of the spirit of Christ capable of embracing and regenerating _all_
things. The essential task of humanity, then, is to accept Christ and
regard _everything_ in His spirit, thus enabling His spirit to become
incarnate in _everything_. For this incarnation cannot be a physical
event only. The individual incarnation of the Word of God required
the consent of a personal feminine will: “Be it unto Me according
to Thy word.” The universal incarnation of the Spirit of Christ or
the manifestation of the Kingdom of God requires the consent of the
collective will of humanity, that all things should be united to God.
In order that this consent should be fully conscious, Christ must be
understood not only as the absolute _principle_ of the good, but as
the _fulness_ of good. In other words, there must be established a
Christian (and an antichristian) relation to all aspects and spheres of
human life. In order that this consent should be perfectly free, that
it should be a true moral act or a fulfilment of the inner truth and
not the effect of an overwhelming superior force, it was necessary for
Christ to withdraw into the transcendental sphere of the invisible
reality and to withhold His active influence from human history. It
will become manifest when human society as a whole, and not merely
separate individuals, is ready for a conscious and free choice between
the absolute good and its opposite. The unconditional moral demand,
“Be ye perfect even as your Father in heaven is perfect,” is addressed
to each man, not as a separate entity but as together with others (be
_ye_, not be _thou_). And if this demand is understood and accepted as
an actual problem of life, it inevitably introduces us into the realm
of conditions which determine the concrete _historical_ existence of
_society_ or the collective man.
FOOTNOTES:
[80] Kant rightly points out that this argument is insufficient for
theoretical philosophy; and when dealing with the theory of knowledge I
propose to discuss the question as to the being of things. But in moral
philosophy the above argument is sufficient, for _in all conscience_ it
is convincing.
[81] It will be remembered that in Hegel’s Dialectic pure being passes
into pure nothing. In answer to a learned critic, I would like to
observe that although I regard the stone as the most typical embodiment
and symbol of unchanging being, I do not in the least _identify_ the
stone with the category of being and do not deny the mechanical and
physical properties of the concrete stone. Every one, for instance,
takes the pig to be the most typical embodiment and symbol of the moral
category of unrestrained carnality, which is on that account called
‘piggishness.’ But in doing so no one denies that a real pig has in
addition to its piggishness four legs, two eyes, etc.
[82] I am speaking here of the stone as the most characteristic and
concrete instance of inorganic bodies in general. Such a body _taken in
isolation_ has no real life of its own. But this in no way prejudges
the metaphysical question as to the life of nature in general or of the
more or less complex natural wholes such as the sea, rivers, mountains,
forests. And indeed, separate inorganic bodies too, such as stones,
though devoid of life on their own account, may serve as constant
mediums for the localised living activity of spiritual beings. Of this
nature were the sacred stones--the so-called _bethels_ or _bethils_
(houses of God) which were associated with the presence and activity of
angels or Divine powers that seemed to inhabit these stones.
[83] The usual ways in which an animal becomes conscious of his
environment are closed in sleep. But this does not by any means exclude
the possibility of a different environment and of other means of mental
correlation, _i.e._ of another sphere of consciousness. In that case,
however, the periodical transition of a given mental life from one
sphere of consciousness into another would prove still more clearly the
general conscious character of that life.
[84] Both these paths--the Biblical and the philosophical--coincided in
the mind of the Alexandrian Jew Philo, who is, from this point of view,
the last and the most significant thinker of antiquity.
[85] The primordial relation of God to nature lies outside the
boundaries of the world-process and is a subject for pure metaphysics,
which I will not touch upon here.
[86] It will be remembered that Auguste Comte, in some letters he
wrote shortly before his death, declared Ignatius Loyola to be higher
than Christ. But this judgment, as well as other similar opinions and
actions of the founder of the Positivist philosophy, prove to all
unprejudiced critics that the thinker in question, who had in his youth
suffered for two years with brain disease, was in the last years of his
life once more on the verge of insanity. See my article on Comte in the
_Brockhaus-Efron Encyclopaedia_.
[87] The least attention on the part of the reader will convince him
that I have not given any ground for serious critics to reproach me
with the absurd identification of the Kingdom of God with historical
Christianity or the visible Church (which one?). I reject such
identification both implicitly and explicitly; nor do I recognise every
scoundrel who has been baptized as a ‘spiritual’ man or ‘a son of God.’
PART III
THE GOOD THROUGH HUMAN HISTORY
CHAPTER I
THE INDIVIDUAL AND SOCIETY
I
We know that the good in its full sense, including the idea of
happiness or satisfaction, is ultimately defined as the true moral
order which expresses the absolutely right and the absolutely desirable
relation of each to all and of all to each. It is called the Kingdom
of God. From the moral point of view it is quite clear that the
realisation of the Kingdom of God is the only final end of life and
activity, being the supreme good, happiness, and bliss. It is equally
clear, if one thinks of the subject carefully and concretely, that the
true moral order or the Kingdom of God is both perfectly universal and
perfectly individual. _Each_ wants it for himself and for every one,
and is only able to attain it _together with every one_. Therefore
there can be no essential opposition between the individual and
society; the question which of the two is an end and which is merely
a means cannot be asked. Such a question would presuppose the real
existence of the individual as a self-sufficient and self-contained
entity. In truth, however, each individual is only the meeting-point
of an infinite number of relations with other individuals. To abstract
him from these relations means to deprive his life of all its concrete
filling-in and to transform a personality into an empty possibility of
existence. To imagine that the personal centre of our being is really
cut off from our environment and from the general life which connects
us with other minds is simply a morbid illusion of self-consciousness.
When a line is chalked before the eyes of a cock, he takes that line to
be a fatal obstacle which he cannot possibly overstep. He is evidently
incapable of understanding that the fatal, overwhelming significance
of the chalk line is due simply to the fact that he is exclusively
_occupied_ with this unusual and unexpected fact, and is therefore _not
free_ with regard to it. The delusion is quite natural for a cock, but
is less natural for a rational thinking human being. Nevertheless human
beings fail but too frequently to grasp that the given limitations of
our personality are insuperable and impermeable solely because our
attention is exclusively concentrated on them. The fatal separateness
of our ‘self’ from all else is due simply to the fact that we imagine
it to be fatal. We too are victims of auto-suggestion, which, though it
has certain objective grounds, is as fictitious and as easily got over
as the chalked line.
The self-deception in virtue of which a human individual regards
himself as real in his separateness from all things, and presupposes
this fictitious isolation to be the true ground and the only
possible starting-point for all his relations--this self-deception
of abstract subjectivism plays terrible havoc not only in the domain
of metaphysics--which, indeed, it abolishes altogether--but also
in the domain of the moral and political life. It is the source of
many involved theories, irreconcilable contradictions, and insoluble
questions. But all of them would disappear of themselves if, without
being afraid of authoritative names, we would grasp the simple fact
that the theories and the insoluble problems in question could only
have arisen from the point of view of the hypnotised cock.
II
Human personality, and therefore every individual human being, is
_capable of realising infinite fulness of being_, or, in other words,
_it is a particular form with infinite content_. The reason of man
contains an infinite possibility of a truer and truer knowledge of the
meaning of all things. The will of man contains an equally infinite
possibility of a more and more perfect realisation of this universal
meaning in the particular life and environment. Human personality
is infinite: this is an axiom of moral philosophy. But the moment
that abstract subjectivism draws its chalk line before the eyes of
the unwary thinker the most fruitful of axioms becomes a hopeless
absurdity. Human personality as containing infinite possibilities
is abstracted from all the concrete conditions and results of its
realisation in and through society--and is indeed opposed to them.
There ensues insoluble contradiction between the individual and
society, and the ‘fatal question’ arises as to which of the two must
be sacrificed to the other. Persons hypnotised by the individualistic
view affirm the independence of separate personality which determines
all its relations from within, and regard social ties and collective
order as merely an external limit and an arbitrary restriction which
must at any cost be removed. On the other hand, thinkers who are
under the spell of collectivism take the life of humanity to be
simply an interplay of human masses, and regard the individual as an
insignificant and transient element of society, who has no rights of
his own, and may be left out of account for the sake of the so-called
common good. But what are we to make of society consisting of moral
zeros, of rightless and non-individual creatures? Would it be _human_
society? Where would its dignity and the inner value of its existence
spring from, and wherein would it lie? And how could such a society
hold together? It is clear that this is nothing but a sad and empty
dream, which neither could nor ought to be realised. The opposite
ideal of self-sufficient personality is equally chimeric. Deprive a
_concrete_ human personality of all that is in any way due to its
relations with social and collective wholes, and the only thing left
will be an animal entity containing only a pure possibility or an empty
form of man--that is, something that does not really exist at all.
Those who had occasion to go down to hell or to rise up to heaven,
as, for instance, Dante and Swedenborg, did not find even there any
isolated individuals, but saw only social groups and circles.
Social life is not a condition superadded to the individual life,
but is contained in the very definition of personality which is
essentially a rationally-knowing and a morally-active force--both
knowing and acting being only possible in the life of a community.
Rational knowledge on its _formal_ side is conditioned by _general
notions_ which express a unity of meaning in an endless multiplicity
of events; real and objective universality (the general meaning) of
notions manifests itself in language as a means of communication,
without which rational activity cannot develop, and, for lack of
realisation, gradually disappears altogether or becomes merely
potential. Language--this concrete reason--could not have been the work
of an isolated individual, and consequently such an individual could
not be rational, could not be human. On its _material_ side knowledge
of truth is based upon experience--hereditary, collective experience
which is being gradually stored up. The experience of an absolutely
isolated being, even if such a being could exist, would obviously
be quite insufficient for the knowledge of truth. As to the _moral_
determination of personality, it is clear that, although the idea
of the good or of moral value is not wholly due to social relations
as is often maintained, concrete development of human morality or
the _realisation_ of the idea of the good is only possible for the
individual in a social environment and through interaction with it.
In this all-important respect society is nothing but the objective
realisation of what is contained in the individual.
Instead of an insoluble contradiction between two mutually exclusive
principles--between two abstract _isms_,--we really find two
correlative terms each of which logically and historically requires and
presupposes the other. In its essential signification society is not
the external limit of the individual but his inner fulfilment. It is
not an arithmetical sum or a mechanical aggregate of the individuals
that compose it, but the indivisible whole of the communal life. This
life has been partly realised in the past and is preserved in the
abiding social _tradition_, is being partly realised in the present by
means of social _service_, and finally, it anticipates in the form of a
social _ideal_, present in the best minds, its perfect realisation in
the future.
Corresponding to these three fundamental and abiding moments of
the individually-social life--the religious, the political, and
the prophetic--there are three main concrete stages through which
human life and consciousness pass in the course of the historical
development, namely, (1) the stage of organisation based upon kinship,
which belongs to the past though it is still preserved in a changed
form in the family; (2) the _national state_, prevalent at the present
time; and finally (3) the _universal_ communion of life, as the ideal
of the future.
At all these stages society is essentially the moral _fulfilment_ or
the _realisation_ of the individual in a given environment. But the
environment is not always the same. At the first stage it is limited
for each to his own tribe; at the second, to his own fatherland; and
it is only at the third that the human personality, having attained a
clear consciousness of its inner infinity, endeavours to realise it in
a _perfect_ society, abolishing all limitations both in the nature and
in the extent of concrete interaction.
III
Each single individual possesses as such the potentiality of perfection
or of positive infinity, namely, the capacity to understand all
things with his intellect and to embrace all things with his heart,
or to enter into a living communion with everything. This double
infinity--the power of conception and the power of striving and
activity, called in the Bible, according to the interpretation of the
Fathers of the Church, the image and likeness of God--necessarily
belongs to every person. It is in this that the absolute significance,
dignity, and worth of human personality consists, and this is the basis
of its inalienable rights.[88] It is clear that the realisation of this
infinity, or the actuality of the perfection, demands that all should
participate in it. It cannot be the private possession of each _taken
separately_, but becomes his through his relation to all. In other
words, by remaining isolated and limited an individual deprives himself
of the real fulness of life, _i.e._ deprives himself of perfection
and of infinity. A consistent affirmation of his own separateness or
isolation would indeed be physically impossible for the individual
person. All that the life of the community contains is bound in one way
or another to affect individual persons; it becomes a part of them and
in and through them alone attains its final actuality or completion. Or
if we look at the same thing from another point of view--all the _real_
content of the personal life is obtained from the social environment
and, in one way or another, is conditioned by its state at the given
time. In this sense it may be said that _society is the completed or
magnified individual, and the individual is compressed or concentrated
society_.
The world purpose is not to create a solidarity between each and
all, for it already exists in the nature of things, but to make each
and all aware of this solidarity and spiritually alive to it; to
transform it from a merely metaphysical and physical solidarity into
a morally-metaphysical and a morally-physical one. The life of man
already is, both at its lower and its upper limit, an involuntary
participation in the developing life of humanity and of the whole
world. But the _dignity_ of human life and the meaning of the universe
as a whole demand that this involuntary participation of each in
everything should become voluntary and be more and more conscious
and free, _i.e._ really _personal_--that each should more and more
understand and fulfil the _common work_ as if it were _his own_. It
is clear that in this way alone can the infinite significance of
personality be realised or, in other words, pass from possibility to
actuality.
But this transition itself--this spiritualisation or moralisation of
the natural fact of solidarity--is also an inseparable part of the
common work. The fulfilment of this supreme task depends not upon
personal efforts alone, but is also necessarily conditioned by the
general course of the world’s history, or by the actual state of the
social environment at a given moment in history. Thus the individual
improvement in each man cannot be severed from the universal, nor the
personal morality from the social.
IV
True morality is the rightful interaction between the individual and
his environment--taking the term environment in the wide sense to
embrace all spheres of reality--the higher as well as the lower--with
which man stands in the practical relation. The true personal dignity
of each undoubtedly finds expression and embodiment in his relations
to his surroundings. The infinite possibilities inherent in the very
nature of man gradually become realised in this _individually-social_
reality. Historical experience finds man as already having his
completion in a certain social milieu, and the subsequent course
of history is nothing but a refinement and enlargement of this
double-sided individually-social life. The three main stages or strata
in this process that have been indicated above--the patriarchal, the
national, and the universal--are of course connected by a number of
intermediate links. A higher form does not replace or entirely cancel
the lower, but, absorbing it into itself, makes it a subordinate part
instead of an independent whole. Thus with the appearance of the state
the tribal union becomes a subordinate part of it in the form of the
family. But the relation of kinship, so far from being abolished,
acquires a greater moral depth. It merely changes its sociological and
judicial significance, ceasing to be a seat of independent authority or
of jurisdiction of its own.
As the lower forms of the collective life pass into the higher, the
individual, in virtue of the infinite potentiality of understanding
and of striving for the better latent in him, appears as the principle
of progress and of movement (the dynamic element in history), while
the social environment, being a reality already achieved, a completed
objectification of the moral content in a certain sphere and at a
certain stage, naturally represents the stable, conservative principle
(the static element of history). When individuals who are more gifted
or more developed than others begin to be conscious that their social
environment is no longer a realisation or a completion of their life,
but is simply an external barrier and obstacle to their positive moral
aspirations, they become the bearers of a higher social consciousness
which seeks embodiment in new forms and in a new order of life that
would correspond to it.
All social environment is the objective expression or embodiment of
morality (of right relations) at a certain stage of human development.
But the moral agent, in virtue of his striving towards the absolute
good, outgrows a given limited form of morality embodied in the social
structure and takes up a negative attitude towards it--not towards it
as such, but towards the given lower stage of its embodiment. It is
obvious that such a conflict is not an opposition of principle between
the individual and the social element, but is simply an opposition
between the earlier and the later stages of the individually-social
development.
V
The moral worth and dignity of man finds its first expression in
_social life as determined by kinship_.[89] We find in it a rudimentary
embodiment or organisation of morality as a whole--religious,
altruistic, and ascetic. In other words, a group held together by the
tie of kinship is the realisation of personal human dignity in the
narrowest and most fundamental sphere of society. The first condition
of the true dignity of man--reverence for that which is higher than
himself, for the super-material powers that rule his life--here finds
expression in the worship of the ancestors or of the founders of the
clan. The second condition of personal dignity--the recognition of the
dignity of others--is found in the solidarity of the members of the
group, their mutual affection and consideration. The third, or, from
another point of view, the first condition of human dignity--freedom
from the predominance of carnal desires--is here to some extent
attained by means of certain compulsory limitation or regulation of
the sexual relations through the different forms of marriage and also
by means of other restraining rules of the communal life, all of which
demand the _shame_ to which the ancient chronicler refers.
Thus in this primitive circle of human life the moral dignity of
the person is in all respects realised by the community and in the
community. How can there be any contradiction and conflict here between
the individual and the collective principle and what expression can
it assume? The relation between the two is direct and positive. The
social law is not extraneous to the individual, it is not imposed upon
him from without contrary to his nature; it merely gives a definite,
objective, and constant form to the inward motives of personal
morality. Thus the person’s inner religious feeling (rudiments of
which are already found in certain animals) impels him to hold in
reverence the secret causes and conditions of his existence--and the
cult of ancestor worship merely gives an objective expression to this
desire. The feeling of pity, equally inherent in man, inclines him to
treat his relatives with fairness--the social law merely confirms this
personal altruism by giving it a fixed and definite form and making
it capable of realisation; thus the defence of the weak members of
the social group from injury is impossible for a single individual to
undertake, but is organised by the clan as a whole or by a union of
clans. Finally, man’s inherent modesty finds realisation in definite
social rules of abstinence. Personal morality cannot be separated
from the social, for the first is the inner beginning of the second,
and the second the objective realisation of the first. The rules of
social life at the patriarchal stage--worship of common ancestors,
mutual help between the individual members of the clan, limitation of
sensuality by marriage--have a moral source and character, and it is
clear that to carry out these social rules is a gain and not a loss to
the individual. The more an individual member of a clan enters into
the spirit of its social structure, which demands reverence for the
unseen, solidarity with his neighbours, and control of carnal passions,
obviously the more moral he becomes; and the more moral he is, the
higher is his inner worth or personal dignity; thus _subordination to
society uplifts the individual_. On the other hand, the more free this
subordination, the more independently does the individual follow the
inner promptings of his own moral nature which accord with the demands
of social morality, the greater support does the society find in such
a person; therefore _the independence of the individual lends strength
to the social order_. In other words, the relation between the true
significance of the individual and the true force of society is a
direct and not an inverse one.
What concrete form, then, could the principle of the opposition of the
individual to society and of his superiority to it take at this early
stage? Perhaps the supposed champion of the rights of the individual
would desecrate the tombs of his ancestors, insult his father, outrage
his mother, kill his brothers, and marry his own sisters? It is clear
that such actions are below the very lowest social level, and it is
equally clear that true realisation of absolute human dignity cannot be
based upon a simple rejection of a given social structure.
VI
The moral content of social life as determined by kinship is permanent;
its external and limited form is inevitably outgrown by the historical
process, with the active help of individuals. The first expansion
of the primitive life is, of course, due to the natural increase
of population. Within the limits of one and the same family the
more intimate degrees of kinship are followed by the more remote,
although the moral duties extend to the latter also. Similarly to the
progressive division of a living organic cell, the social cell--the
group united by kinship--divides into many groups, which preserve,
however, their connection and the memory of their common descent.
Thus a new social unit is formed--the tribe--which embraces several
contiguous clans. For instance, the North American Red Indian tribe
Seneca, described by the well-known sociologist Morgan, consisted of
eight independent clans, evidently formed by the subdivision of one
original clan, and standing in definite relation to one another. Each
clan was based on kinship, and marriages within the clan were strictly
forbidden as incestuous. Each clan was autonomous, though in certain
respects subordinate to the common authority of the whole tribe,
namely, to the tribal council, which consisted of the representatives
of all the eight clans. In addition to this political and military
institution, the unity of the tribe found expression in a common
language and common religious celebrations. The transition stage
between the clan and the tribe were the groups which Morgan designates
by the classical name of _fratrias_. Thus the tribe of Seneca was
divided into two _fratrias_, each consisting of an equal number of
clans. The first contained the clans of Wolf, Bear, Tortoise, Beaver;
the second, Deer, Wood-cock, Heron, Falcon. The clans in each group
were regarded as _brother_ clans, and in relation to the clans of the
other group as cousins. It is clear that the original clan from which
the Seneca tribe was descended was first divided into two new clans,
each of which became subdivided into four, and this succession has been
preserved in the common memory.
There is no reason why the consciousness of social solidarity, extended
to a group of clans, should stop at the limits of the tribe. The
widening of the moral outlook on the one hand, and the recognised
advantages of common action on the other, induce many tribes to form
first temporary and, later, permanent alliances with one another. Thus
the tribe of Seneca, together with many others, entered into the union
of tribes bearing the common name of Iroquois. The tribes forming such
unions are generally, though not necessarily, supposed to have a common
ancestor. It often happens that when several tribes whose ancestors
had parted in times immemorial, and which had grown and developed
independently of one another, come together again under new conditions,
they form a union by means of _treaties_ for the sake of mutual defence
and common enterprise. The treaty in this case is certainly regarded
as of far greater significance than the blood-tie, which need not be
presupposed at all.
The union of tribes, especially of those that have reached a certain
degree of culture and occupy a definite territory, is the transition
to a state, the embryo of a nation. The Iroquois, like most Red
Indian tribes who remained in the wild forests and prairies of North
America, did not advance further than such an embryo of a nation and
state. But other representatives of the same race, moving southwards,
fairly rapidly passed from the military union of tribes to a permanent
political organisation. The Aztecs of Mexico, the Incas of Peru founded
real national states of the same type as the great theocratical
monarchies of the Old World. The essential inner connection between
the original social cell--the group united by kinship--and the wide
political organisation is clearly expressed in the word _fatherland_,
which almost in all languages designates the national state. The term
fatherland, implying as it does a relation of kinship (_patria_,
_Vaterland_, etc.), indicates not that the state is an expansion of
the family--which is not true--but that the moral principle of this
new great union must be essentially the same as the principle of the
narrower union based upon kinship. In truth, states have arisen out of
wars and treaties, but this does not alter the fact that the purpose
or meaning for which they came into being was to establish in the wide
circle of the national, and even the international, relations the same
solidarity and peaceable life as had existed of old within the limits
of the family.
The process of the formation of states and the external changes in
the human life connected with it do not concern us here. What is of
interest to ethics is the moral position of the individual with regard
to his new social environment. So long as the only higher forms of
social life, in contradistinction to the clan, were found in the
tribe and the union of tribes, the position of the individual was not
essentially altered. It only changed, so to speak, quantitatively:
moral consciousness received greater satisfaction and was more
completely realised as the sphere of practical interaction became
wider; and that was all. The divine ancestor of a given clan found
brothers in the ancestors of other clans, each other’s deities were
mutually recognised, the religions of separate peoples were amalgamated
and to a certain extent received a universal meaning (at the periods of
tribal festivities), but the character of worship remained the same.
The expression of human solidarity--the defence of one’s kinsmen and
the duty of avenging their wrongs--also remained intact when the tribe
and the union of tribes came to be formed. Essential change took place
only with the appearance of the fatherland and the state. The national
religion may have developed out of ancestor worship, but the people
have themselves forgotten its origin; similarly, the dispassionate
justice of the state is essentially different from blood-vengeance.
Here we have not simply an expansion of the old order based upon
kinship, but the appearance of a new one. And in connection with this
new order of the national state there may have arisen, and there did
arise, a conflict of principle between the constituent forces of
society--a conflict which might, to a superficial observer, appear as
the conflict between the individual and the society as such.
VII
Neither the tribe, nor the union of tribes, nor the national state--the
fatherland--destroys the original social cell; it only alters its
signification. The change may be expressed in the following short but
perfectly correct formula: _the state order transforms the clan into
the family_. Indeed, until the state is formed, family life, strictly
speaking, does not exist. The group of individuals held together by a
more or less intimate blood-tie, which in primitive times forms the
social unit, differs from the real family in one essential respect. The
distinguishing characteristic of the family is that it is a form of
private, in contradistinction to public, life: ‘a public family’ is a
contradiction in terms. But the difference between public and private
could only have arisen with the formation and the development of the
state which essentially stands for the public aspect of common life.
Until then, so long as the legal and political functions of the social
life were still undifferentiated--when judgment and execution, war and
peace were still the private concerns of the primitive groups connected
by the blood-tie--such groups, even the smallest of them, obviously
could not possess the distinguishing characteristic of the family
or home. They acquired this new character only when the functions
in question were taken over by the state as a public or national
organisation.
Now this transformation of the clan, _i.e._ of the political and
social union, into the family, _i.e._ into an exclusively social,
private, or home union, could be looked upon in two ways. It might be
regarded as involving the purification of the tie of kinship which
thus acquires greater inward dignity, or as involving its external
lessening and degradation.[90] Since the duties of the individual
to his clan were for a long time the sole expression of individual
morality, conservative and passive natures might regard the submission
of the clan to a new and higher unity of the state or fatherland as
immoral. The personal consciousness was for the first time confronted
with the question as to which of the two social unions it was to side
with--with the more narrow and intimate, or with the wider and more
remote. But whichever way this question might be settled by this or
that individual, it is in any case clear that this is not a question
of conflict between the individual and society, nor even between two
kinds of social relation--the relation of kinship and of nationality.
It is simply a question whether human life should stop at the stage of
kinship or be further developed by means of the organisation of the
state.
In the social group determined by kinship with its moral conditions and
institutions, the human individual can realise his inner dignity better
than in the state of brutal isolation. History has proved that the
further development or improvement of the individual demands the more
complex conditions of life which are to be found in civilised states
only. The immature fancy of the young poet may glorify the half-savage
life of nomadic gypsies; the unanswerable criticism of his view is
contained in the simple fact that Pushkin, a member of a civilised
community, could create his _Gypsies_, while the gypsies, in spite of
all their alleged advantages, could not create a Pushkin.[91]
All the things whereby our spiritual nature is nurtured, all that lends
beauty and dignity to our life in the sphere of religion, science
and art, has sprung from the foundation of ordinary civilised life,
conditioned by the order of the state. It has all been created not by
the clan but by the fatherland. When the clan life still predominated,
the men who took their stand with the fatherland, which till then was
non-existent or only just dawning on their own inner vision, were
bearers of a higher consciousness, of a better individually-social
morality. They were benefactors of humanity and saints of history, and
it is not for nothing that the grateful city-states of Greece and other
countries did homage to them as their heroes--the eponyms.
Social progress is not an impersonal work. The conflict of individual
initiative with its immediate social environment led to the foundation
of a wider and more important social whole--the fatherland. The
bearers of the _super-tribal_ consciousness, or, more exactly, of the
half-conscious striving towards a wider moral and social life, felt
cramped in the narrow sphere of the clan life, broke away from it,
gathered a band of _free followers_ round themselves, and founded
states and cities. The pseudo-scientific criticism has arbitrarily
converted into a myth the fugitive Dido who founded Carthage, and the
outlaw brothers, founders of Rome. In quite historical times, however,
we find a sufficient number of instances to inspire us with legitimate
confidence in those legends of antiquity. Personal exploit breaking
down the given social limits for the sake of creating new and higher
forms of political and social life, is a fact so fundamental that it is
bound to be met with at all periods of human development.[92]
The historical as well as the naturally-scientific experience shows
that it is impossible for a given organised group to break up or
undergo any substantial transformation (for instance, to enter into
another and a greater whole) apart from the activity of the finite
units which compose it. The ultimate unit of human society is the
individual who has always been the active principle of historical
progress, _i.e._ of the transition from the narrow and limited forms of
life to social organisations that are wider and richer in content.
VIII
A given narrow social group (say, a clan) has a claim upon the
individual, for it is only in and through it that he can begin to
realise his own inner dignity. But the rights of the community
over the individual cannot be _absolute_, for a given group in its
isolation is only one relative stage of the historical development,
while human personality may pass through all the stages in its
striving for infinite perfection, which is obviously not exhausted or
finally satisfied by any limited social organisation. In other words,
_in virtue of his inner infinity the individual can be absolutely
and entirely at one with the social environment not in its given
limitations, but only in its infinite completeness, which becomes
gradually manifest as the forms of social life, in their interaction
with individual persons, become wider, higher, and more perfect_. It
is only in a community that personal achievement is fruitful, but in
a community which develops. Unconditional surrender to any limited
and immovable form of social life, so far from being the duty of the
individual, is positively wrong, for it could only be to the detriment
of his human dignity.
An enterprising member of the clan is, then, morally right in rebelling
against the conservatism of the clan, and in helping to create the
state which transforms the once independent social groups into
elementary cells of a new and greater whole. But this implies that
the new social organisation has no _absolute_ rights over the old,
tribal, or, henceforth, _family_ relations. The order of the state
is a _relatively_ higher but by no means a perfect form of social
life, and it therefore has only a _relative_ advantage over the
organisation based upon kinship. And although the latter is merely
a transitory stage in the social development, it contains a moral
element of absolute value, which retains its force in the state and
must be sacred to it. Indeed, two aspects are clearly apparent in
primitive morality. In the first place, certain moral conceptions are
connected with the idea of the clan as an independent or autonomous
form of common life--which, in fact, it had been once, but ceased to
be when the state was formed. This is the transitory and supersedable
element of the clan morality. In the second place, certain natural
duties arise from the intimate tie of kinship and common life, and
these obviously retain all their significance in the transition to
the state, or in the transformation of the clan into the family. The
hard shell of the clan organisation has burst and fallen apart, but
the moral kernel of the family has remained, and will remain to the
end of history. Now when the transition from one organisation to
another has just been effected, the representatives of the newly-formed
state-power, conscious of its advantages over the clan structure,
might easily ascribe to the new order an absolute significance which
does not belong to it, and place the law of the state above the law
of nature. In conflicts which arise on this ground, moral right is no
longer on the side of these representatives of the _relatively_ higher
social order, but on the side of the champions of what is _absolute_
in the old, and of what must remain equally sacred under _any_ social
order. Conservatism now ceases to be a blind or selfish inertness, and
becomes a pure consciousness of supreme duty. Woman, the incarnation
of the conservative principle, the bulwark of low routine, now becomes
the embodiment of moral heroism. Sophocles’s Antigone impersonates
the element of absolute value contained in the old order of life--the
element which retains its permanent significance as the clan becomes
the family within the new organisation of the state. She has no thought
of the political autonomy of the clan, of the right of blood-vengeance,
etc.; she simply stands up for her unconditional right to fulfil her
unconditional duty of piety and sisterly love--to give honourable
burial to her nearest kinsman who can receive it from no one but her.
She has no enmity towards the moral foundations of the state; she
simply feels--and quite rightly--that apart from these foundations
the demands of the positive law are not absolute but are limited by
the natural law which is sanctified by religion and safeguards family
duties against the state itself if need be, when it appropriates what
does not belong to it. The conflict between Creon and Antigone is not
a conflict between two moral forces--the social and the individual; it
is a conflict of the moral and the anti-moral force. It is impossible
to agree with the usual view of Antigone as of the bearer and
champion of personal feeling against a universal law, embodied in the
representative of the state--Creon. The true meaning of the tragedy is
entirely different. A religious attitude to the dead is a moral duty,
the fulfilment of which lies at the basis of all social life; personal
feeling expresses merely the subjective aspect of the matter. In our
own day, the burial of dead relatives and the homage paid to them is
not due to personal feeling only; and this was still more the case in
ancient times. The feeling may not be there, but the duty remains.
Antigone had heartfelt affection for both her brothers, but sacred duty
bound her to the one who needed her religious help. Being the pattern
of a moral individual, Antigone at the same time is the representative
of true social order, which is only preserved by the fulfilment of
duty. She does not in the least conceal her feelings, and yet as the
motive of her action she gives not her feelings but a sacred obligation
which has to be fulfilled to the end (φίλη μετ’ αὐτοῦ κείσομαι, φίλου
μέτα,--ὅσια πανουργήσασα). This obligation is not of course an abstract
duty, but an expression of the eternal order of reality:
“I owe a longer allegiance to the dead than to the living, in that
world _I shall abide for ever_. But if thou wilt be guilty of
dishonouring laws which _the gods_ have stablished in honour”....
To Creon’s question, “And thou didst dare to transgress the law?” she
answers not by referring to her personal feeling but to the absolute
supremacy of the eternal moral order which cannot be cancelled by civil
laws:
“For it was not Zeus that had published me that edict: not such are
the laws set among men by the Justice who dwells with the gods below;
nor deemed I that thy decrees were of such force, that a mortal could
override the unwritten and unfailing statutes of heaven.”
As for Creon, he certainly does not represent the principle of the
state, the moral basis of which is the same as that of the family,
though with the advantage of a fuller realisation. He is the
representative of the state that has become perverted or has put
itself into a false position--of the state that has _forgotten its
place_. But since such perversion does not form part of the essence
or the purpose of the state, it can only arise from the evil passions
of its representatives--in this case, of Creon. It would then be
right to say, in direct opposition to the popular view, that Antigone
stands for the universal and Creon for the individual element. Both
statements, however, would be incorrect and inexact. It is clear that
the opposition between the individual and society, the particular and
the general, does not as such ever correspond to reality. The true
opposition and conflict is not sociological but purely moral; it is
the conflict between good and evil, each of which finds expression
both in the individual and in the social life. Cain killed Abel not
because he represented the principle of individuality as against the
family union--for in that case all developed ‘personalities’ would
have to kill their brothers; he killed him because he stood for the
principle of _evil_, which may manifest itself both individually and
collectively, privately or publicly. Creon in his turn forbade the
citizens to fulfil certain religiously-moral duties, not because he was
the head of the state, but because he was wicked and followed the same
principle which was active in Cain previously to any state. Every law
is of course a state enactment, but Creon’s position is determined not
by the fact that he enacted a law, but that he enacted an _impious_
law. This is not the fault of the state-power but of Creon’s own moral
worthlessness; for it could hardly be maintained that the function of
the state consists precisely in enacting impious and inhuman laws.
Creon then does not stand for the principle of the state but for the
principle of evil which is rooted in the personal will, though it also
finds expression and embodiment in the life of the community--in the
present case in the form of a bad law of the state. On the other hand,
Antigone, who lays down her life for the fulfilment of a religious
and moral duty that lies at the basis of social life, is simply the
representative of the principle of good, which is also rooted in the
personal will, but is realised in the true communal life.
All human conflict is _in the last resort_ reducible not to the
relative sociological oppositions but to the absolute opposition of the
good and the self-asserting evil. The inmost essence of the question
is always one and the same; but it does not follow that the various
historical situations in which it is revealed again and again are
therefore devoid of interest and importance of their own even from the
ethical point of view. The inner essence of good and evil can only be
clearly known through their typical manifestations, Thus, the evil
which expresses itself as the perversion of the idea of the state, or
as putting the law of the state above the law of morality, is quite a
specific form of evil. It is a higher grade of evil than, for instance,
a simple murder or even fratricide; but precisely because it is more
complex and subtle, it is more excusable from the subjective point of
view and is less blameworthy than the cruder crimes. Therefore Creon,
for instance, though socially he is more pernicious, is personally less
guilty than Cain.
There is another important shade of meaning in this profound tragedy.
Speaking generally, the state is a higher stage of historical
development than the clan. This higher stage had just been attained in
Greece. The memory of how it came to be established, of the struggle
and the triumph, is still fresh in the minds of its representatives.
This recent victory of the new over the old, of the higher over the
lower, is not merely accidental. In view of the obvious advantages of
the state union over the feuds of the clans, its triumph is recognised
as something necessary, rightful, and progressive. Hence Creon’s
self-confidence at the beginning of the play. The bad law proclaimed by
him, putting as it does the loyalty to the new state above the original
religious duties, is not merely an abuse of the power of the state,
but an abuse of _victory_--not of the local victory of the Thebans
over the Argives, but of the general victory of the state order--of
the city state--over the clan. Creon cannot therefore be looked upon
simply as a tyrant, or a representative of personal arbitrariness and
material power--and this is not the way in which the ancients regarded
him.[93] The law he enacted was supposed to be the expression of the
common-will of the citizens. The short preface by Aristophanes the
grammarian, usually placed at the beginning of the tragedy, begins
thus: “Antigone who buried Polinices _against the order of the city_
(or the state)--παρὰ τὴν πρόσταξιν τῆς πόλεως.” In the play itself,
Ismene justifies her refusal to help Antigone by saying that she cannot
do violence to the will of her fellow-citizens. Creon, too, bases his
argument not upon the principle of autocracy but upon the unconditional
significance of patriotism:
“If any makes a friend of more account than his fatherland, that man
has no place in my regard.”
The ethico-psychological basis of the bad law lies of course in Creon’s
bad will. This will, however, is not merely senseless and arbitrary but
is connected with a general although a false idea according to which
the power of the state and the laws of the state are higher than the
moral law. Creon formulates this false idea with perfect clearness:
“Whomsoever the city may appoint, that man must be obeyed, in little
things and great, in just things and _unjust_.”
This idea, outrageously false as it is, has been and still is
the inspiration of men who have not even Creon’s excuse, namely,
intoxication with the recent victory of the state order over the tribal
anarchy. In those half-historical times no clear protest--such as
Sophocles puts into the mouth of his Antigone--may have been raised
by the better consciousness against this idea, but, at the epoch of
Sophocles himself, the best minds were well aware that historical
progress in bringing about new forms of society cannot possibly
supersede the essential foundations of all social life. They understood
that although such progress is both important and necessary, it is
relative and subordinate to a higher purpose, and that it loses all
justification when it is turned against the unconditional moral
good, the realisation of which is the sole object of the historical
development. And however highly we might value those who further the
triumphant march of progress, the highest dignity of man, worthy of
whole-hearted sympathy and approval, consists not in winning temporal
victories, but in observing _eternal limits_ equally sacred both for
the past and for the future.
FOOTNOTES:
[88] This meaning of the image and likeness of God is essentially
the same as that indicated in Part II. It is clear, indeed, that an
infinite power of conception and understanding can only give us the
_image_ (‘the schema’) of perfection, while an infinite striving,
having for its purpose the _actual_ realisation of perfection, is the
beginning of our _likeness_ to God, who is the real and not only the
ideal perfection.
[89] I am speaking of kinship in the wide sense and have in mind a
group of persons forming one self-contained community, united by the
blood-tie and intermarriage, whether the connection between them takes
the form of mother-right or of father-right.
[90] This double point of view may be brought out by an analogous
example from quite a different sphere of relations. The loss by the
Pope of his political power, or the abolition of the Church-state, may
be regarded even by good and genuine Roman Catholics in two different
and, indeed, opposite ways. It may be taken to be either a favourable
condition for the _increase_ of the inward moral authority of the Pope,
or a lamentable detraction and _decrease_ in the scope of his political
activity.
[91] The same poet, however, ‘with reverence’ dedicates one of his more
mature works to the _historian of the Russian Empire_.
[92] The absurdity of the point of view generally assumed by the
negative historical criticism escapes general ridicule simply owing to
the ‘darkness of time,’ which conceals the objects upon which it is
exercised. If its favourite methods and considerations were applied,
_e.g._, to Mahomet or Peter the Great, there would be as little left of
these historical heroes as of Dido or Romulus, Every one who has read
Whateley’s admirable pamphlet on Napoleon will agree that the solar
significance of this mythological hero is proved in it, in accordance
with the strict rules of the critical school, and is worked out with a
consistency, clearness, and completeness not often to be found in the
more or less famous works of the negative critics, although the latter
wrote without the least irony but with the most serious intentions.
[93] It will be remembered that the Greek word τύραννος did not
originally have a bad meaning, but designated every monarch. In the
same trilogy of Sophocles, the first play is called Οἰδίπους τύραννος,
which is rightly translated _Oedipus rex_; and the word ought to be
translated in the same way in the _Antigone_ in reference to Creon.
CHAPTER II
THE CHIEF MOMENTS IN THE HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE
INDIVIDUALLY-SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS
I
With the establishment of the national state the moral outlook of the
individual is no doubt considerably widened and a greater field is
opened for the exercise of his good feelings and of his active will
in moral conduct. The conception of the deity becomes higher and more
general, a certain religious development takes place. Altruism, or
moral solidarity with other human beings, increases quantitatively or
in extension and becomes qualitatively higher, losing its dominant
character of natural instinct and being directed upon invisible and
ideal objects--the state, the fatherland. These ideal objects are
sensuously realised in the unity of language, customs, in the actual
representatives of authority, etc., but, as is clear to every one,
they are not exhausted by these concrete facts. The nation does not
disappear with the change of its customs, the state does not cease
to exist when its particular rulers pass away. The spiritual nature
and the ideal significance of objects such as the nation and the
state are preserved in any case, and the individual’s moral relation
to them, expressing itself as true patriotism or civic virtue, is in
this sense, other conditions being equal, a higher stage of morality
than the simple feeling of kinship or of the blood-tie. On the other
hand, however, it is often pointed out that as the range of moral
relations or the social environment becomes wider, the inner personal
basis of morality loses its living force and reality. It is urged that
the intensity of moral motives is in inverse ratio to their objective
extension; that it is impossible to love one’s country as sincerely
and immediately as one’s friends or relatives, and that the living
interest in one’s private welfare can never be compared with the
abstract interest in the welfare of the state, not to speak of the
general welfare of humanity. The interest in the latter is indeed often
denied as fictitious.
Leaving aside for the moment the question of humanity, it must be
admitted that the argument concerning the inverse relation between
the intensity and the extension of moral feelings has a foundation in
fact. But to be correctly understood it requires the following three
reservations:
(1) Independently of the relation of individual persons, taken
separately, to the more or less wide social whole, there exists
_collective_ morality, which embraces these persons in their
totality--as a crowd or as a people. There is such a thing as the
criminal crowd, upon which the criminologists have now turned their
attention; still more prominent is the senseless crowd, the human
herd; but there is also the splendid, the heroic crowd. The crowd
excited by brutal or bestial instincts lowers the spiritual level
of individuals that are drawn into it. But the human mass animated
by collectively-moral motives lifts up to its level individuals
in whom these motives are, as such, devoid of genuine force. At
the kinship-group stage, the striving of the best men for a wider
collective morality conditioned the appearance of the state or the
nation, but once this new social whole, real and powerful in spite
of its ideal nature, has been created, _it begins to exert direct
influence not only upon the best, but also upon the average and even
the bad men that form part of it_.
(2) Apart from collective morality, the quantitative fact that most men
taken separately are bad patriots and poor citizens, is qualitatively
counterbalanced by the few high instances of true patriotism and civic
virtue which could not have arisen in the primitive conditions of life,
and only became possible when the state, the nation, the fatherland had
come into being.
(3) Finally, whether the moral gain obtained by the widening of the
social environment in the national state be great or small, it is in
any case a _gain_. The good contained in the tribal morality is not
annulled by this extension but is merely modified and made more pure as
it assumes the form of family ties and virtues, which are supplemented
and not replaced by patriotism. Thus, even from the individual point
of view, our love for millions of our fellow-citizens, even though it
cannot be as great as our love for some dozens of our friends, is a
direct gain, for the wider love that is less intense does not destroy
the more intense one. Consequently, from whatever point of view we
look at it, the extension of the sphere of life from the limits of the
clan to the state unquestionably means moral progress. This progress
is apparent both in man’s relation to the gods and to his neighbours,
and also, as will be presently shown, in man’s relation to his lower
material nature.
II
The moral principle which demands from man subordination to the higher
and solidarity with his neighbours, requires him to dominate physical
nature as the basis upon which reason works. This domination has for
its immediate object the body of the individual himself--hence the
ascetic morality in the narrow sense of the term. But the material life
of the single individual is only a portion of the general material
life that surrounds him, and to separate this portion from the whole
is neither logically legitimate nor practically possible. So long as
the outer nature completely overwhelms man, who, helpless and lost in
virginal forests among wild beasts, is compelled to think of nothing
but the preservation and maintenance of his existence, the thought
of the mastery of the spirit over the flesh can hardly even arise,
let alone the attempt to carry it out. Man who starves from necessity
is not given to fasting for ascetic purposes. Suffering all kinds of
privations from his birth onwards, living under the constant menace
of violent death, man in the savage state is an unconscious and
involuntary ascetic, and his marvellous endurance has as little moral
worth as the sufferings of small fish pursued by pikes or sharks.
The manifestation of the inner moral power of the spirit over the flesh
presupposes that man is to a certain extent secure from the destructive
powers of external nature. Now such security cannot be attained by a
single individual--it requires social union. Although ascetic morality
in some of its aspects seeks to sever the social ties, it is clear
that such a striving could only have arisen on the basis of an already
existing society. Both in India of the Brahmins and in Christian Egypt
ascetic hermits were the product of a civilised social environment.
They had spiritually outgrown it, but without it they themselves would
have been historically and physically impossible. Solitary hermits who
had voluntarily forsaken society for the desert by their very presence
subdued wild beasts, which had no reason whatever for being subdued by
the enforced solitude of vagrant savages, inferior to them in physical
strength, but inwardly very much on their level. For the victory both
over evil beasts without and over evil passions within a certain amount
of civilisation was necessary, which could only be attained through the
development of social life. Consequently ascetic morality is not the
work of the individual taken in the abstract; it can only be manifested
by man as a social being. The inner foundations of the good in man do
not depend upon the forms of social life, but the actual realisation of
them does presuppose such forms.
At the early beginnings of social life--at the kinship-group
stage--ascetic morality is purely negative in character. In addition to
the regulation of the sexual life by marriage, we find prohibitions of
certain kinds of food (_e.g._ of the ‘totemic’ animals, connected with
a given social group as its protecting spirits or as the incarnation of
its ancestors), and also the restriction of meat foods to sacrificial
feasts (thus, among the Semitic peoples especially, the flesh of
domestic animals was originally for religious uses only.[94])
But in the conditions of the tribal life asceticism could not from the
very nature of the case go beyond such elementary restrictions. So long
as personal dignity finds its realisation in a social organisation
determined by kinship, or, at any rate, is conditioned by it, there
can be no question of the ideal of complete continence or of the moral
duty to struggle with such passions upon which the very existence
of the tribe depends. The virtuous tribesman must be distinguished
by vindictiveness and acquisitiveness, and has no right to dream of
perfect purity. The ideal representative of tribal morality is the
Biblical Jacob, who had two wives and several concubines, who begat
twelve sons, and increased the family property without troubling about
the means whereby he did it.
The formation of the state had an enormous, though indirect, influence
upon ascetic morality in the wide sense of the term, _i.e._ upon that
aspect of morality which is concerned with the material nature of man
and of the world, and aims at the complete mastery of the rational
spirit over the blind material forces. Power over nature is utterly
impossible for a lonely savage or for the bestial man, and only a
rudimentary degree of it is acquired at the barbarous stage of the
tribal life. Under the conditions of civilised existence in strong and
extensive political unions it becomes considerable and lasting, and is
continually on the increase. The means of spiritual development for the
individual, the school of practical asceticism for the masses of the
people, and the beginning of subjugating the earth for humanity, is to
be found in the military and theocratic empires which united men into
large groups for carrying on the work of civilisation in four different
quarters of the globe--between the Blue and the Yellow rivers, between
the Ind and the Ganges, between the Tigris and Euphrates, and,
finally, in the valley of the Nile. These military and theocratic
monarchies--which Araktcheev’s ‘military settlements’[95] recalled to
us in miniature--were, of course, very far from the ideal of human
society. But their great historical importance as a necessary moral
school for primitive humanity is recognised even by the champions of
absolute anarchism.[96]
Speaking generally, _in order to rise above the compulsory form of
social morality, savage humanity had to pass through it--in order to
outgrow despotism it had to experience it_. More particularly, three
considerations are undoubtedly involved here. (1) The harder the
original struggle with primitive nature was, the more necessary it was
for men to be united into wide but closely-connected communities. And
the wide extension of a social group could only be combined with an
intimate and strong tie between its members by means of the strictest
_discipline_, supported by the most powerful of all sanctions, namely,
the religious sanction. Therefore political unions which had for the
first time subdued wild nature and laid the corner-stone of human
culture were bound to have the character of a religious and military
monarchy, or of compulsory theocracy. This work of civilisation done
under the pressure of the moral and the material needs--this ‘Egyptian
labour’--was by its very nature a school of human solidarity for the
masses and, from the point of view of its objective purpose and result,
it was the first achievement of collective asceticism in humanity, the
first historical triumph of reason over the blind forces of matter.
(2) The compulsory character of this collective achievement prevents
us from ascribing ideal worth to it, but does not altogether deprive
it of moral significance. For compulsion was not merely material. It
rested in the last resort upon the faith of the masses themselves in
the divine character of the power which compelled them to work. However
imperfect in its form and content that faith might be, to subordinate
one’s life to it, to endure at its behest all kinds of privation and
hardship, is in any case a moral course of action. Both its general
historical result and its inner psychological effect upon each
individual composing the mass of the people had the character of true,
though imperfect, asceticism--that is, of victory of the spiritual
principle over the carnal. If the innumerable Chinese genuinely
believe that their Emperor is the son of the sky; if the Hindus were
seriously convinced that the priests sprang from the head of Brahma
and the kings and princes from his arms; if the Assyrian king really
was in the eyes of his people the incarnation of the national deity
Assur, and the Pharaoh truly was for the Egyptians the manifestation
of the solar deity--then absolute submission to such rulers was for
these peoples a religiously-moral duty, and compulsory work at their
command an ascetic practice. This, however, did not apply to slaves
in the strict sense--prisoners of war to whom their masters’ gods
were _strange gods_. And even apart from this national limitation the
whole structure of these primitive religiously-political unions was
essentially imperfect because the gods who received the voluntary and
involuntary human sacrifices (both in the literal and in the indirect
sense) did not possess absolute inner worth. They stood merely for the
infinity of force, not for the infinity of goodness. Man is morally
superior to such gods by his power of renunciation; and therefore in
sacrificing himself for these gods and their earthly representatives
he does not find the higher for the sake of which it is worth while to
sacrifice the lower. If the meaning of the sacrifice is to be found
in the progress of civilisation, this meaning is purely relative, for
progress itself is obviously only a means, a way, a direction, and
not the absolute and final goal. But human personality contains an
element of intrinsic value, which can never be merely a means--the
possibility, namely, inherent in it, of infinite perfection through
the contemplation of and union with the absolute fulness of being. A
society in which this significance of personality is not recognised
and in which the individual is regarded as having only a relative
value, as a means for political and cultural ends--even the most lofty
ones,--cannot be the ideal human society but is merely a transient
stage of the historical development. This is particularly true of the
military and theocratic monarchies with which universal history begins.
(3) The primitive forms of the religiously-political union were so
imperfect that they made further progress inevitable, and at the
same time they naturally produced the external conditions necessary
for that progress. Within the limits of the tribal life each member
of a given social group was both physically and morally compelled
to prey, plunder, and kill, to fight wild beasts, breed cattle, and
produce numerous offspring. Obviously there was no room there for
the higher spiritual development of the human personality. It only
became possible when, with the compulsory division of labour in the
great religiously-political organisations of the past, there arose, in
addition to the masses doomed to hard physical work, the leisurely,
propertied class of free men. By the side of warriors there appeared
professional priests, scribes, diviners, etc., among whom the higher
consciousness was first awakened. This great historical moment is
recorded in the Bible in the significant and majestic story of the
best representative of the patriarchal order, Abraham, with the crowd
of his armed dependants, bowing down before the priest of the Most
High, Melchizedek, who was _without descent_ and came before him with
the gifts of the new higher culture--bread and wine and the spiritual
blessing of Truth and Peace.[97]
While by the sword of the great conquerors the hard collective work of
the masses was gradually made to extend over a wider and wider area,
securing the external material success of human culture, the inner
work of thought among the leisured and peaceful representatives of the
nationally-theocratic states was leading human consciousness to a more
perfect ideal of individual and social _universalism_.
III
In the course of the world-history the first awakening of human
self-consciousness took place in the land where its sleep had most
abounded with fantastic and wild dreams--in India. To the overwhelming
variety of Indian mythology corresponded a confusing variety of
religious, political, and customary forms and conditions of life.
Nowhere else had the theocratic order been so complex and burdensome,
so full of national and class exclusiveness. Not from Egypt or China,
not from the Chaldeans, Phoenicians, or the Greco-Roman world, but
from India have we borrowed conceptions expressive of the extreme
degree of separation between the classes of men[98] and of the denial
of human dignity. The ‘pariahs’ were deprived of human dignity as
standing outside the law; men belonging to castes within the law and
even to the highest of them were deprived of all freedom owing to a
most complex system of religious and customary rites and regulations.
But the more narrow and artificial the fetters fashioned by the spirit
for itself and out of itself, the more they testify to its inner
strength and to the fact that nothing external can finally bind and
conquer it. The spirit awakes from the nightmare of sacrificial rites,
compulsory actions, and ascetic tortures, and says to itself: All this
is my own invention which in my sleep I took to be reality; if only I
can keep awake, the fear and the pain will vanish. But what will then
remain? A subtle and significant, though not at first sight a clear,
answer is given to this question by _the religion of awakening_. It
perpetuates the moment when human personality turns from external
objects into itself, and comes to know its purely negative or formal
infinity devoid of all definite content. The individual is aware of his
infinitude, freedom, and universality simply because he transcends all
given determination, relation, and character, because he is conscious
of something within himself which is more and higher than this caste,
this nationality, this cult, this manner of life--of something
that is higher than _all this_. Whatever objective determination a
self-conscious person might put before himself, he does not stop there;
he knows that he had himself posited it and that his own creation is
not worthy of him and therefore he forsakes it: ‘_all is empty_.’
All that belongs to the external world is rejected, nothing is found
to be worthy of existence, but man’s spiritual power of rejecting
remains; and it is very significant that Buddhism recognises this
power not as belonging to the solitary individual, but as having an
individually-social form of the so-called _Triratna_, _i.e._ ‘three
jewels’ or ‘three treasures,’ in which every Buddhist must believe:
“I take my refuge in the Buddha; I take my refuge in the doctrine or
the law (_Dharma_); I take my refuge in the order of the disciples
(_Sangha_).” Thus even in the consciousness of its negative infinity
human personality cannot remain separate and isolated, but by means of
a universal doctrine is inevitably led to a social organisation.
All is deception except three things that are worthy of belief: (1)
the spiritually-awakened man; (2) the word of awakening; (3) the
brotherhood of those who are awake. This is the true essence of
Buddhism which still nurtures millions of souls in distant Asia.[99]
This is the first lasting stage of human universalism that rose above
the national and political exclusiveness of the religious and social
life.
Born in the country of caste, Buddhism did not in the least reject the
division of society into castes, or seek to destroy it; its followers
simply ceased to believe in the principle of that organisation, in the
absolute hereditary inequality of the classes. Appearing in the midst
of a nation with a distinct character of its own, it did not reject
nationality, but simply transferred human consciousness into the domain
of other, universal and super-national ideas. In consequence of this,
this Indian religion, the outcome of Hindu philosophy, was able, when
finally rejected in India, to take root among many various peoples of
different race and different historic education.
The negative infinity of human personality had been apparent to
individual philosophers before the time of Buddhism.[100] But it was
in Buddhism that this view found its first historical expression
in the collective life of humanity. Owing to his morally-practical
universalism which proceeded from the heart even more than from the
mind, Buddha Sakya-muni created a form of common life hitherto unknown
in humanity--the brotherhood of beggar-monks from every caste and
nation,--the ‘listeners’ (Shravaki) of the true doctrine, the followers
of the true way. Here for the first time the worth of the individual
and his relation to society was finally determined not by the _fact_ of
being born into a certain class or a definite national and political
organisation, but by the inner _act_ of choosing a certain moral ideal.
The theoretical conceptions of the first Buddha and the conditions of
life of his monastic brotherhood have undergone a number of changes
in the course of history, but the moral essence of his teaching and
work has remained in a clear-cut, crystallised form in the Lamaian
monasteries of Mongolia and Tibet.
The moral essence of Buddhism as an individually-social system has,
during the two and a half thousand years of its historical existence,
evinced itself as the feeling of religious reverence for the blessed
master, who was the first to awake to the true meaning of reality,
and is the spiritual progenitor of all who subsequently became awake;
as the demand for holiness or perfect _absence of will_ (the inner
asceticism in contradistinction to the external mortification of the
flesh which had been and still is practised by the ‘Gymnosophists,’
and which did not satisfy Buddha Sakya-muni); and, finally, as the
commandment of universal benevolence or kindly compassion to all
beings. It is this latter, the simplest and most attractive aspect of
Buddhism, that brings to light the defects of the whole doctrine.
IV
What, from the Buddhistic point of view, is the difference between
the man who is spiritually awake and the man who is not? The latter,
influenced by the delusions of sense, takes apparent and transitory
distinctions to be real and final, and therefore desires some things
and fears others, is attracted and repelled, feels love and hate. The
one who has awakened from these dream emotions understands that their
objects are illusory and is therefore at rest. Finding nothing upon
which it would be worth his while to concentrate his will, he becomes
free from all willing, preference, and fear, and therefore loses all
cause for dissension, anger, enmity and hatred, and, free from these
passions, he experiences for everything, without exception, the same
feeling of benevolence or compassion. But why should he experience
precisely _this_ feeling? Having convinced himself that _all is empty_,
that the objective conditions of existence are vain and illusory,
the awakened sage ought to enter a state of perfect _impassibility_,
equally free both from malice and from pity. For both these opposed
feelings equally presuppose to begin with a conviction of the reality
of living beings; secondly, their distinction from one another (_e.g._
the distinction between the man who suffers in his ignorance and
appeals to my pity, and the perfectly blessed Buddha who stands in no
need of it); and, thirdly, pity, no less than malice, prompts us to
perform definite actions, determined by the objective qualities and
conditions of the given facts. Now all this is absolutely incompatible
with the fundamental principle of universal emptiness and indifference.
The moral teaching of Buddhism demands active self-sacrifice, which is
involved in the very conception of a Buddha. The perfect Buddha--such
as Gautama Sakya-muni--differs from the imperfect or solitary Buddha
(Pratyeka Buddha) precisely by the fact that he is not satisfied
by his own knowledge of the agonising emptiness of existence, but
decides to free from this agony all living beings. This decision was
preceded in his former incarnations by individual acts of extreme
self-sacrifice, descriptions of which abound in Buddhist legends.
Thus in one of his previous lives he gave himself up to be devoured
by a tiger in order to save a poor woman and her children. Such holy
exploits, in contradistinction to the aimless self-destruction of the
ancient ascetics of India, are a direct means to the highest bliss for
every one who is ‘awake.’ A well-known and typical story is told of
one of the apostles of Buddhism--Arya-Deva. As he was approaching a
city, he saw a wounded dog covered with worms. To save the dog without
destroying the worms, Arya-Deva cut a piece off his own body and placed
the worms upon it. At that moment both the city and the dog disappeared
from his eyes, and he entered at once into Nirvana.
Active self-sacrifice out of pity for all living beings, so
characteristic of Buddhist morality, cannot be logically reconciled
with the fundamental principle of Buddhism--the doctrine that all
things are empty and indifferent. To feel equal pity for every
one, beginning with Brahma and Indra, and ending with a worm, is
certainly not opposed to the principle of indifference; but as soon
as the feeling of universal compassion becomes the work of mercy,
the indifference must be given up. If instead of a dog with worms,
Arya-Deva had met a man suffering from vice and ignorance, pity to
_this_ living creature would require from him not a piece of his
flesh, but words of true doctrine--while to address words of rational
persuasion to a hungry worm would be no less absurd than to feed with
his own flesh a satisfied, but erring, man. _Equal pity to all beings
demands not the same, but quite a different active relation to each
one of them._ Even for a Buddhist this difference proves to be not
merely illusory, for he too would certainly admit that had Arya-Deva
not distinguished a worm or a dog from a human being, and offered
moral books to suffering animals, he would hardly be likely to have
performed any holy exploit and deserved Nirvana. _All-embracing pity_
necessarily involves _discriminating truth_, which gives each his due:
a piece of meat to the animal, and words of spiritual awakening to the
rational being. But we cannot stop at this. Pity for every one compels
me to desire for all and each the supreme and final blessedness which
consists not in satiety, but in complete freedom from the pain of
limited existence and of the necessity of rebirth. This freedom, this
only true blessedness, the worm--so long as it remains a worm--cannot
attain; it is possible only to a self-conscious and rational being.
Therefore if I am to extend my pity to the lower creatures, I cannot be
content with simply alleviating their suffering at a given moment. I
must help them to attain the final end through rebirth in higher forms.
But the objective conditions of existence are rejected by Buddhism as
an illusion and empty dream, and consequently the ascent of living
beings up the ladder of rebirths depends exclusively on their own
actions (the law of _Karma_). The form of the worm is the necessary
outcome of former sins, and no help from without can lift that worm to
the higher stage of dog or elephant. Buddha himself could directly act
only upon rational self-conscious beings, and that only in the sense
that his preaching enabled them to accept or to reject the truth, and,
in the first case, to escape from the torture of rebirth, and, in the
second, continue to endure it. The work of salvation that those who
are ‘awake’ can accomplish amounts simply to pushing their sleeping
neighbours, some of whom are awakened by it, while others merely
exchange one series of bad dreams for another, still more agonising.
The principle of active pity to all living beings, however true it
is in itself, can, from the Buddhist point of view, have no real
application. We are utterly incapable of bringing true salvation to
the lower creatures, and our power of influencing rational creatures
in this respect is extremely limited. Whatever their commandments and
legends may be, the very formula of the faith[101] indicates that the
true sphere of moral relations and activity is for the Buddhist limited
to the brotherhood of those who, like himself, are ‘awake,’ and support
one another in a peaceful life of contemplation--the last remainder of
their former activities--before they finally pass into Nirvana.
V
The significance of Buddhism in the world-history lies in the fact
that in it the human individual was for the first time valued not as
the member of a tribe, a caste, a state, but as the bearer of a higher
consciousness, as a being capable of awakening from the deceptive
dream of everyday existence, of becoming free from the chain of
causality. This is true of man belonging to any caste or nationality,
and in this sense the Buddhist religion signalises a new stage in the
history of the world--the universal as opposed to the particular tribal
or national stage. It is clear, however, that the universality of
Buddhism is merely abstract or negative in character. It proclaims the
principle of indifference, rejects the importance of the caste or the
national distinctions, gathers into a new religious community men of
all colours and classes--and then leaves everything as it was before.
The problem of gathering together the _disjecta membra_ of humanity and
forming out of them a new and higher kingdom, is not even contemplated.
Buddhism does not go beyond the universalism of a monastic order.
When the transition is effected from the clan to the state, the
former independent social wholes--the clans--enter as subordinate
parts into the new and higher whole, the organised political union.
Similarly, the third and highest stage of human development--the
universal--demands that states and nations should enter as constituent
parts into the all-embracing new organisation. Otherwise, however broad
the theoretical principles might be, the positive significance in
concrete life will entirely remain with the already existing national
and political groups. ‘All men’ and, still more, ‘all living beings’
will simply be an abstract idea symbolically expressed by the monastery
that is severed from life. Buddhism remains perfectly strange to the
task of truly uniting all living beings, or even the scattered parts of
humanity, in a new, universal kingdom. It therefore proves to be merely
the first rudimentary stage of the human understanding of life.
The personality manifests here its infinite worth in so far as the
absolute self negates all limitation, in so far as it asserts, “I am
not bound by anything, I have experienced all things, and know that
all is an empty dream and I am above it all.” _Negation of existence
through the knowledge of it_--this is in what, from the Buddhist point
of view, the absolute nature of the human spirit consists. It lifts man
above all earthly creatures and even above all gods, for they are gods
by nature only, while the awakened sage becomes god through his own
act of consciousness and will: he is an _auto-god_, a _god self-made_.
All creation is material for the exercise of will and of knowledge, by
means of which the individual is to become divine. Single individuals
who have entered upon the path that leads to this end form the normal
society or brotherhood (the monastic order) which is included in the
Buddhist confession of faith (I take my refuge ... in the Sangha).
But this society obviously has significance temporarily only, until
its members attain perfection; in Nirvana communal life, like all
other determinations, must disappear altogether. In so far as the
absolute character of the personality is understood in Buddhism in the
negative sense only, as freedom from all things, the individual stands
in no need of completion. All his relations to other persons simply
form a ladder which is pushed away as soon as the height of absolute
indifference is attained. The negative character of the Buddhist ideal
renders morality itself, as well as all social life, a thing of purely
transitory and conditional significance.
The religiously-moral feeling of reverence (_pietas_) has in Buddhism
no true and abiding object. The sage who knows all things and has
become free from everything finds no longer anything to worship. When
Buddha Sakya-muni attained to the supreme understanding, not only
Indra with the host of all the Vedanta deities, but the supreme god of
the all-powerful priests, Brahma, came like a humble listener to hear
the new doctrine, and, becoming enlightened, worshipped the teacher.
And yet Buddha was a man, who by his own power became god or reached
the absolute state--and this is the supreme goal for every human
being. Buddhists reverence the memory and the relics of their teacher
to the point of idolatry, but this is only possible so long as the
worshippers are still imperfect. The perfect disciple who has attained
Nirvana no longer differs from Buddha himself, and loses all object
of religious feeling. Therefore, in principle, the Buddhist ideal
destroys the possibility of the religious relation, and, in its inmost
essence, Buddhism is not only a religion of negation, but a religion of
self-negation.
The altruistic part of morality also disappears at the higher stages
of the true way, for then all distinctions are seen to be illusory,
including those which evoke in us a feeling of pity towards certain
objects, events, and states. “Be merciful to all beings,” proclaims
the elementary moral teaching of the Sutras. “There are no beings,
and all feeling is the fruit of ignorance,” declares the higher
metaphysics of Abhidhamma.[102] Not even the ascetic morality has
positive justification in Buddhism, in spite of its monasteries. These
monasteries are simply places of refuge for contemplative souls who
have given up worldly vanity and are awaiting their entrance into
Nirvana. But the positive moral asceticism--struggle with the flesh for
strengthening the spirit and _spiritualising the body_--lies altogether
outside the range of Buddhist thought. The spirit is for it only the
knower, and the body a phantom known as such. Bodily death, the sight
of which had so struck Prince Siddhartha, merely proves that life is
illusion, from which we must become free; but no Buddhist would dream
of resurrection. If, however, the supreme goal of asceticism is absent,
the means towards it can have no significance. From the point of view
of absolute indifference ascetic rules, like all other, lose their
own inherent meaning. They are preserved in the external practice of
Buddhism simply as pedagogical means for spiritual babes, or as the
historical legacy of Brahmanism. The perfect Buddhist will certainly
not refrain from plentiful food, or distinguish between meat and
vegetable diet. It is very remarkable that according to the legend,
the truth of which there is no reason to doubt, the founder of this
religion, which is supposed to demand strict vegetarianism, died of
having unwisely partaken of pig’s flesh.
VI
Like every negative doctrine Buddhism is dependent upon what it
denies--upon this material world, this sensuous and mortal life. “All
this is illusion,” it repeats--and it gets no further, for to it this
illusion is everything. It knows with certainty only what it denies. Of
what it affirms, of what it regards as not illusory, it has no positive
idea at all, but determines it negatively only: Nirvana is inaction,
immovability, stillness, non-existence. Buddhism knows only the lower,
the illusory; the higher and the perfect it does not know, but merely
_demands_ it. Nirvana is only a postulate, and not the idea of the
absolute good. The _idea_ came from the Greeks and not from the Hindus.
Human reason, having discovered its own universal and absolute
nature by rejecting everything finite and particular, could not
rest content with this first step. From the consciousness that the
material existence is illusory it was bound to pass to that which is
not illusory, to that for the sake of which it rejected deceptive
appearance. In Indian Buddhism the personality finds its absolute
significance in the rejection of being that is unworthy of it. In Greek
thought, which found its practical embodiment in Socrates, and was put
into a theoretical form by his pupil, the absolute value of personality
is justified by the affirmation of being that is worthy of it--of
the world of ideas and ideal relations. Greek idealism no less than
Buddhism realises that all transitory things are illusory, that the
flux of material reality is only the phantom of being, is essentially
non-being (τὸ μὴ ὄν). The practical pessimism of the Buddhist is
entirely shared by the Greek consciousness.
“Whoso craves the ampler length of life, not content to desire a modest
span, him will I judge with no uncertain voice: he cleaves to folly.
For the long days lay up full many things nearer grief than joy; but as
for thy delights, their place shall know them no more, when a man’s
life hath lapsed beyond the fitting term.”[103]
Although there is here involved the conception of _measure_ so
characteristic of the Greek mind, reflection does not stop at this. Not
only a disproportionately long life, but _all_ life is nothing but pain.
“Not to be born is, past all prizing, best; but when a man hath seen
the light, this is next best by far, that with all speed he should go
thither, whence he hath come.
“For when he hath seen youth go by, with its light follies, what
troublous affliction is strange to his lot, what suffering is not
therein?--envy, frictions, strife, battles, and slaughters; and last of
all, age claims him for her own--age, dispraised, infirm, unsociable,
unfriended, with whom all woe of woe abides.”[104]
It was as clear to the Greek higher consciousness as to the Hindu that
human will blindly striving for material satisfaction cannot find it
under any material conditions, and that therefore the real good from
this point of view is not the enjoyment of life but the absence of life.
“The Deliverer comes at the last to all alike--when the doom of Hades
is suddenly revealed, without marriage song, or lyre, or dance--even
Death at the last.”[105]
This pessimistic conception expressed by poetry was also confirmed
by Greek philosophy in sentences which have become the alphabetic
truths of all idealistic and spiritualistic morality: sensuous life
is the prison of the spirit, body is the coffin of the soul, true
philosophy is the practice of death, etc. But although the Greek genius
appropriated this fundamental conception of Buddhism, it did not stop
there. The non-sensuous aspect of reality revealed to it its ideal
content. In the place of Nirvana the Greeks put the Cosmos of eternal
intelligible essences (Platonic Ideas) or the organism of universal
reason (in the philosophy of the Stoics). Human personality now affirms
its absolute significance not by merely denying what is false, but
by intellectually participating in what is true. The personal bearer
of this higher universal consciousness is not the monk who renounces
the illusion of the real being, in accordance with the principle of
indifference, but the philosopher who shares in the fulness of the
ideal being in the inner unity of its many forms. Neither the one nor
the other wishes to live by the senses, but the second lives by his
intellect in the world of pure Ideas, that is, of what is worthy of
existence, and is therefore true and eternal. It is a dualistic point
of view: all that exists has a true positive aspect, in addition to the
false, material side. With regard to the latter the Greek philosophers
adopt an attitude as negative as the Hindu ‘Gymnosophists.’ That which
to the senses and sensibility is a deceptive appearance contains for
reason ‘a reflection of the Idea,’ according to Plato, or ‘the seed of
Reason,’ according to the Stoics (λόγοι σπερματικοί). Hence in human
life there is an opposition between that which is conformable to Ideas
and in harmony with Reason, and that which contradicts the ideal norm.
The true sage is no longer a simple hermit or a wandering monk, who
has renounced life and is mildly preaching the same renunciation to
others; he is one who boldly denounces the wrong and irrational things
of life. Hence the end is different in the two cases. Buddha Sakya-muni
peacefully dies after a meal with his disciples, while Socrates,
condemned and put to prison by his fellow-citizens, is sentenced by
them to drink a poisoned cup. But in spite of this tragic ending, the
attitude of the Greek idealist to the reality unworthy of him is not
one of decisive opposition. The highest representative of humanity at
this stage--the philosopher--is conscious of his absolute worth in so
far as he lives by pure thought in the truly-existent intelligible
realm of Ideas or of the all-embracing rationality, and despises the
false, the merely phenomenal being of the material and sensuous world.
This contempt, when bold and genuine, rouses the anger of the crowd
which is wholly engrossed with the lower things, and the philosopher
may have to pay for his idealism with his life--as was the case with
Socrates. But in any case his attitude to the unworthy reality is
merely one of contempt. The contempt is certainly different in kind
from that characteristic of Buddhism. Buddha despises the world because
everything is illusion. The very indefiniteness of this judgment,
however, takes away its sting. If all is equally worthless, no one
in particular is hurt by it, and if nothing but Nirvana is opposed
to the bad reality, the latter may sleep in peace. For Nirvana is an
absolute state and not the norm for relative states. Now the idealist
does possess such a norm and he despises and condemns the life
that surrounds him not because it inevitably shares in the illusory
character of everything, but because it is abnormal, irrational,
opposed to the Idea. Such condemnation is no longer neutral, it has an
element of defiance and demand. It is slighting to all who are bound by
worldly irrationality and therefore leads to hostility, and sometimes
to persecution and the cup with poison.
And yet there is something accidental about this conflict. Socrates
condemned Athenian customs all his life long but he was not persecuted
for it until he was an old man of seventy; the persecution was
obviously due to a change in political circumstances. The irrationality
of the Athenian political order was a local peculiarity; the customs
of Sparta were better. The greatest of Socrates’ pupils, Plato, went
later on to Sicily in order to found there, with the help of Dionysius
of Syracuse, an ideal state in which philosophers would receive the
reins of government instead of a cup of poison. He did not succeed,
but on returning to Athens he was able to teach in his academy without
hindrance, and lived undisturbed to a profound old age. The disciples
of Socrates, as well as other preachers of idealism, never suffered
systematic persecution; they were disliked but tolerated. The fact
is that idealism by the nature of the case has its centre of gravity
in the intelligible world. The opposition it establishes between the
normal and the abnormal, the right and the wrong, though comparatively
definite, remains essentially intellectual and theoretical. It touches
upon the reality it condemns but does not penetrate to the heart of
it. We know how superficial were the practical ideals of Plato, the
greatest of the idealists. They come much nearer to the bad reality
than to what truly is. The realm of Ideas is an all-embracing,
absolutely-universal unity; there are no limitations, dissensions,
or hostility in it. But Plato’s pseudo-ideal state, though involving
some bold conceptions and a general beauty of form, is essentially
connected with such limitations of which humanity soon freed itself not
in idea only but in reality. His state of philosophers is nothing more
than a narrow, local, nationally Greek community based upon slavery,
constant warfare, and such relations between the sexes as remind one
of stables for covering. It is clear that the political problem is not
in any inner connection with Plato’s main interest and that he does
not really care in what way men are going to live upon earth, where
truth does not and will not dwell. He finds his own true satisfaction
in the contemplation of eternal intelligible truth. The natural impulse
to realise or embody truth in the environment is checked by two
considerations, which idealism necessarily involves. The first is the
conviction that though the ideal truth can be reflected or impressed
upon the surface of real existence, it cannot become substantially
incarnate in it. The second is the belief that our own spirit is
connected with this reality in a purely transitory and external
fashion, and therefore can have no absolute task to fulfil in it.
The dying Socrates rejoiced at leaving this world of false appearance
for the realm of what truly is. Such an attitude obviously excludes
in the last resort all practical activity; there can in that case be
neither any obligation nor any desire to devote oneself to the changing
of this life, to the salvation of this world. Platonic idealism, like
Buddhist nihilism, lifts up human personality to the level of the
absolute, but does not create for it a social environment corresponding
to its absolute significance. The brotherhood of monks, like the state
of philosophers, is merely a temporal compromise of the sage with the
false existence. His true satisfaction is in the pure indifference
of Nirvana, or in the purely intelligible world of Ideas. Are we to
say, then, that for idealism too the actual life is devoid of meaning?
We discover at this point so great an inner contradiction in the
idealistic line of thought that human consciousness is unable to stop
at this stage and to accept it as the highest truth.
VII
If the world in which we live did not share in the ideal or the
true being at all, idealism itself would be impossible. The direct
representative of the ideal principle in this world is, of course,
the philosopher himself, who contemplates that which truly is. But
the philosopher did not drop down from heaven; his reason is only the
highest expression of the universal human reason embodied in _the
word_ which is an essentially universal fact and is the real idea or
the sensible reason. This was clearly perceived by Heraclitus, worked
out and explained by Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Zeno the Stoic.
But the presence of the higher principle is not limited to the human
world. The purposive organisation and movements of living creatures
and the general teleological connection of events provided Socrates
himself with his favourite argument for proving the presence of reason
in the world. The ideal principle, however, is found not only where
there is evidence of purpose; it extends to all determinate being and
excludes only the principle directly opposed to it--the unlimited,
the chaos (τὸ ἄπειρον = τὸ μὴ ὄν). Measure, limit, norm, necessarily
involve Reason and Idea. But if so, the opposition, so essential for
idealism, between the world of sensible appearances and the world of
intelligible essences proves to be relative and changeable. Since all
determinate existence participates in Ideas, the difference can only
be in the degree of the participation. A plant or an animal exhibits
a greater wealth of definitely-thought content, and stands in more
complex and intimate relations to all other things than a simple stone
or an isolated natural event. Therefore we must admit that animal and
vegetable organisms have a greater share of the Idea or a greater
degree of ideality than a stone or a pool of water. Further, every
human being as possessing the power of speech or capable of rational
thought, presents, as compared with an animal, a greater degree of
ideality. The same relation holds between an ignorant man given to
passions and vices and the philosopher whose word is an expression of
reason not only in the formal sense but in its concrete application.
Finally, even philosophers differ from one another in the degree to
which they have mastered the higher truth. This difference in _the
degree of rationality_ in the world, ranging from a cobblestone to
the ‘divine’ Plato, is not anything meaningless or opposed to the
Idea. It would be that if reason demanded indifference and the ‘Idea’
designated uniformity. But reason is the universal connectedness of
all things, and the Idea is the form of the inner union of the many
in the one. (Take, _e.g._, the idea of the organism which includes
many parts and elements subservient to a common end; or the idea of
the state combining a multitude of interests in one universal good; or
the idea of science, in which many pieces of information form a single
truth.) Therefore our reality, in which innumerable things and events
are combined and coexist in one universal order, must be recognised
as essentially rational or conformable to the Idea. Condemnation of
this reality on the part of the idealist can in justice refer not
to the general nature of the world, or to the differences of degree
that follow from it and are essential to the higher unity, but only
to such mutual relation of degrees as does not correspond to their
inner dignity. The Idea of man is not violated but completed by the
fact that in addition to intellect man has active will and sensuous
receptivity. But since intellect, which contemplates universal truth,
is essentially higher than desires and sensations, which are limited
to the particular, it ought to dominate them. If, on the contrary,
these lower aspects gain the upper hand in the life of man, his
Idea becomes distorted and what takes place in him is abnormal and
meaningless. In the same way, the distinction of state or class is
not opposed to the idea of civic community provided the interrelation
between the classes is determined by their inner quality. But if a
group of men who have more capacity for menial work than for knowledge
and realisation of higher truth dominate the community and take into
their hands the government and the education of the people, while men
of true knowledge and wisdom are forced to devote their powers to
physical labour, then the state contradicts its Idea and loses all
its meaning. The supremacy of the lower faculties of the soul over
reason in the individual, and the supremacy of the material class over
the intellectual in society, are instances of one and the same kind
of distortion and absurdity. This is how idealism regards it when it
resolutely denounces the fundamental evil both of the mental and of the
social life of man. It is for thus denouncing it that Socrates had to
die, but, strange to say, not even this tragic fact made his disciples
realise that in addition to the _moral_ and _political_ there exists in
the world a third kind of _evil_--the _physical_ evil, _death_. This
illogical limitation to the first two anomalies--the bad soul and the
bad society,--this artificial break between the morally-social and the
naturally-organic life is characteristic of the idealist point of view
as of an intermediary and transitional stage of thought, a half-hearted
and half-expressed universalism.
And yet it is clear that the dominion of death in the world of the
living is the same kind of _disorder_, the same distortion of degrees,
as the mastery of blind passions in the rational soul or the mastery
of the mob in human society. There is no doubt that the inwardly
purposive structure and life of the organism realises the ideal
principle in nature in a greater measure and a higher degree than do
the elementary forces of inorganic substance. It is clear then that
the triumph of these forces over life, their escape from its power and
the final disruption of the organism by them, is contradictory to the
normal, ideal order, is senseless or anomalous. Life does not destroy
the lower forces of substance but subordinates them to itself and
thereby vivifies them. It is clear that such subordination of the lower
to the higher is the norm, and that therefore the reverse relation,
involving, as it does, the destruction of the higher form of existence
in its given reality, cannot be justified or pronounced legitimate from
the point of view of reason and of the Idea. Death is not an Idea, but
the rejection of the Idea, the rebellion of blind force against reason.
Therefore Socrates’ joy at his death was, strictly speaking, simply an
excusable and touching weakness of an old man wearied by the troubles
of life, and not an expression of the higher consciousness. In a mind
occupied with the essence of things and not with personal feeling, this
death ought to evoke, instead of joy, a double grief. Grievous was the
sentence of death as a social wrong, as the triumph of the wicked and
ignorant over the righteous and the wise; grievous was the process of
death as a physical wrong, as the triumph of the blind and soulless
power of a poisonous substance over a living and organised body, the
abode of a rational spirit.
_All_ the world--not merely the mental and political, but the physical
world as well--suffers from the violated norm and stands in need of
help. And it can be helped not by the will-lessness of the ascetic,
renouncing all life and all social environment, not by the intellectual
contemplation of the philosopher who lives by thought alone in the
realm of Ideas, but by the living power of the entire human being
possessing absolute significance not negatively or ideally only, but
as a concrete reality. Such a being is the perfect man or the God-man,
who does not forsake the world for Nirvana or the realm of Ideas, but
comes into the world in order to save it and regenerate it and make
it the Kingdom of God, so that the perfect individual could find his
completion in the perfect society.
VIII
The absolute moral significance of human personality demands perfection
or fulness of life. This demand is not satisfied either by the mere
negation of imperfection (as in Buddhism) or by the merely ideal
participation in perfection (as in Platonism and all idealism). It can
only be satisfied by perfection being _actually present and realised
in the whole man and in the whole of human life_. This is what true
Christianity stands for and wherein it essentially differs from
Buddhism and Platonism. Without going at present into the metaphysical
aspect of Christianity, I am simply referring here to the fact that
Christianity--and it alone--is based upon the idea of the really
perfect man and perfect society, and therefore promises to fulfil the
demand for true infinity, inherent in our consciousness. It is clear
that in order to attain this purpose it is necessary first of all to
cease to be satisfied with the limited and unworthy reality, and to
renounce it. It is equally clear, however, that this is only the first
step, and that if man goes no further he is left with a mere negation.
This first step which the universal human consciousness had to take,
but at which it ought not to stop, is represented by Buddhism. Having
renounced the unworthy reality, I ought to replace it by what is
worthy of existence. But to do so I must first understand or grasp the
very idea of worthy existence--this is the second step, represented
by idealism. And once more it is clear that we cannot stop at this.
Truth which is thinkable only and not realisable--truth which does not
embrace the whole of life--is not what is demanded, is not absolute
perfection. The third and final step which Christianity enables us to
take consists in a positive realisation of worthy existence in all
things.
The Nirvana of the Buddhists _is external to everything_--it is
_negative universalism_. The ideal cosmos of Plato represents
only the intelligible or _the thinkable aspect of everything_--it
is _incomplete_ universalism. The Kingdom of God, revealed by
Christianity, alone _actually_ embraces _everything_, and is
_positive_, _complete_, and _perfect_ universalism. It is clear that
at the first two stages of universalism the absolute element in man is
not developed to the end, and therefore remains _fruitless_. Nirvana
lies outside the boundaries of every horizon; the world of Ideas, like
the starry heaven, envelops the earth but is not united to it; the
absolute principle incarnate in the Sun of Truth alone penetrates to
the inmost depths of earthly reality, brings forth a new life, and
manifests itself as a new order of being--as the all-embracing Kingdom
of God: _virtus ejus integra si versa fuerit in terram_.[106] And
without the earth there can be no heaven for man.
We have seen that Buddhism, unable to satisfy the unconditional
principle of morality and bring about the fulness of life or the
perfect society, is destructive, when consistently worked out, of the
chief foundations of morality as such. The same thing must be said
with regard to Platonism. Where is a consistent idealist to find an
object for his piety? The popular gods he regards sceptically, or
at best with wise restraint. The ideal essences, which are for him
the absolute truth, cannot be an object of religious worship neither
for his mortal ‘body,’ which knows nothing about them, nor for his
immortal spirit, which knows them too intimately and, in immediate
contemplation, attains complete equality with them. Religion and
religious morality is a bond between the higher and the lower--a bond
which idealism, with its dual character, breaks up, leaving on the one
side the divine incorporeal and sterile spirit, and on the other, the
material body utterly lacking in what is divine. But the bond thus
severed by idealism extends farther still. It is the basis of pity as
well as of reverence. What can be an object of pity for a consistent
idealist? He knows only two orders of being--the false, material, and
the true, ideal being. The false being, as Anaximander of Miletus had
taught before Plato, _ought_ in justice to suffer and to perish, and
it deserves no pity. The true, from its essence, _cannot_ suffer, and
therefore cannot excite pity--and this was the reason why the dying
Socrates did nothing but rejoice at leaving a world unworthy of pity
for a realm where there is no object for it. Finally, idealism provides
no real basis for the ascetic morality either. A consistent idealist
is ashamed of the _general_ fact of having a body, in the words of
the greatest of Plato’s followers--Plotinus, but such shame has no
significance from the moral point of view. It is impossible for man
so long as he lives on earth to be incorporeal, and, according to the
indisputable rule _ad impossibilia nemo obligatur_, the shame of one’s
corporeality either demands that we should commit suicide or demands
nothing at all.
If instead of taking Buddhism and Platonism to be what they really
were, viz. necessary stages of human consciousness, we regard either
the one or the other as the last word of universal truth, the question
is, what precisely had they given to humanity, what did they gain for
it? Taken in and for themselves they have neither given nor promised
anything. There had been from all eternity the opposition between
Nirvana and Sansara--empty bliss for the spiritually awake, and empty
pain for the spiritually asleep; there had been the inexorable law of
causal actions and caused states--the law of Karma, which through a
series of innumerable rebirths leads a being from painful emptiness to
empty bliss. As it was before Buddha, so it remained after him, and so
it will remain for all eternity. From the point of view of Buddhism
itself, not one of its followers capable of critical reflection can
affirm that Buddha had changed anything in the world order, had created
anything new, had actually saved any one. Nor is there any room for
promise in the future. The same thing must in the long-run be said of
idealism. There is the eternal realm of intelligible essences which
truly is and the phenomenal world of sensuous appearance. There is
no bridge between the two; to be in the one means not to be in the
other. Such duality has always been and will remain for ever. Idealism
gives no reconciliation in the present and no promise of it in the
future.[107]
Christianity has a different message. It both gives and promises to
humanity something new. It gives the living image of a personality
possessing not the merely negative perfection of indifference or the
merely ideal perfection of intellectual contemplation, but perfection
absolute and entire, fully realised, and therefore victorious over
death. Christianity _reveals_ to men the absolutely perfect and
therefore physically immortal personality. It promises mankind a
perfect society built upon the pattern of this personality. And since
such a society cannot be created by an external force (for in that
case it would be imperfect), the _promise_ of it sets a _task_ before
humanity as a whole and each man individually, to co-operate with the
perfect personal power revealed to the world in so transforming the
universe that it might become the embodiment of the Kingdom of God. The
final truth, the absolute and positive universalism obviously cannot be
either exclusively individual or exclusively social: it must express
the completeness and fulness of the individually-social life. True
Christianity is a perfect synthesis of three inseparable elements: (1)
the _absolute event_--the revelation of the perfect personality, the
God-man--Christ, who had bodily risen from the dead; (2) the absolute
_promise_--of a community conformable to the perfect personality, or,
in other words, the promise of the Kingdom of God; (3) the absolute
_task_--to further the fulfilment of that promise by regenerating all
our individual and social environment in the spirit of Christ. If any
one of these three foundations is forgotten or left out of account
the whole thing becomes paralysed and distorted. This is the reason
why the moral development and the external history of humanity have
not stopped after the coming of Christ, in spite of the fact that
Christianity is the absolute and final revelation of truth. That which
has been fulfilled and that which has been promised stands firmly
within the precincts of eternity and does not depend upon us. But the
task of the present is in our hands; the moral regeneration of our life
must be brought about by ourselves. It is with this general problem
that the special task of moral philosophy is particularly concerned.
It has to define and explain, within the limits of historical fact,
what the relation between all the fundamental elements and aspects
of the individually-social whole ought to be in accordance with the
unconditional moral norm.
FOOTNOTES:
[94] See Robertson Smith’s _The Religion of the Semites_.
[95] The so-called ‘military settlements’ were villages in which
every peasant was compelled to be a soldier and to live under
military discipline. Minute regulations with regard to the home
life, work, dress, etc., were enforced with ruthless severity and
made the life of the settlers intolerable. The idea of establishing
military settlements belonged to Alexander I. and was carried out
by Araktcheev, his favourite, who founded the first settlement in
1810. Military settlements were finally abolished by Alexander II. in
1857.--_Translator’s Note._
[96] I would like especially to mention the interesting work by Leon
Metchnikov, _La Civilisation et les grands fleuves_. See my article
about it, “Iz istorii philosophii” (Concerning the philosophy of
history), in the _Voprosi Philosophii_ (1891), and also Professor
Vinogradov’s article in the same magazine. One worthy critic imagined
that in speaking of the military theocracy as the historical school of
asceticism I was referring to the _personal intentions_ of the Egyptian
Pharaohs and Chaldean kings!!
[97] I am referring here, of course, simply to the historical meaning
of the fact, and not to its mystical significance.
[98] Although the word _caste_ is Portuguese and not Indian, it had
arisen (in the sense in question) precisely for the designation of the
social relations of India.
[99] It should be noted, by the way, that after the fashion set by
Schopenhauer, who was prejudiced in favour of Buddhism, the number
of Buddhists is usually exaggerated beyond all measure; one hears of
400, 600, 700 million followers of this religion. These figures would
be probable were China and Japan wholly populated by Buddhists. In
truth, however, the teaching of Buddha in its various modifications is
the religion of the masses only in Ceylon, Indo-China, Nepal, Tibet,
Mongolia, and among the Bouriats and Kalmucks; this amounts at most
to 75 or 80 millions. In China and Japan Buddhism is simply one of
the permitted religions which is more or less closely followed by the
educated people, who do not, however, give up their national cult;
in a similar manner in Russia, for instance, under Alexander I. many
Orthodox people used to frequent the meetings of the Freemasons.
[100] Many fantastic ideas used to prevail with regard to the antiquity
of the Hindu philosophy, but they are beginning to disappear in the
light of the more scientific inquiry. Most of their philosophic
wealth the Hindus acquired in later times, partly under the direct
influence of Greeks after Alexander the Great, and partly later still
with the help of the Arabs who brought Aristotle to the East no less
than to the West. But, on the other hand, there is no doubt that even
the Greeks--not to speak of Arabs--on their first acquaintance with
India found there a peculiar local philosophy of the ‘naked wise men’
(_Gymnosophists_) as a typical and traditional institution of ancient
standing. From their outward appearance these Indian adamites cannot
be identified with the followers of Buddhism; most probably they were
adepts of ascetic mysticism--Yoga, which existed before the time of
Buddha. Still more ancient was the pantheism of the Upanishads. There
is ground to believe that the immediate forerunner of Sakya-muni
was the author of the system of spiritualistic dualism (expounded
in Sankya-Karika), although the person and even the name of this
sage--Kapila--are somewhat doubtful.
[101] See above.
[102] The Buddhist doctrine is divided into three sections of the Holy
Law, called, therefore, ‘The three baskets’ (Tripitaka): Sutra contains
the moral doctrine, Vinâya the monastic rules, and Abhidhamma the
transcendental wisdom.
[103] The _Oedipus Coloneus_.
[104] _Ibid._
[105] _Ibid._
[106] “Its power is whole when it turns to the earth” (_Tabula
smaragdina_).
[107] Plato’s thought rose for a moment to the conception of Eros as
the bridge between the world of true being and the material reality,
but did not follow it out. In enigmatic expressions the philosopher
indicated this bridge, but was incapable of crossing it himself or
leading others across it.
CHAPTER III
ABSTRACT SUBJECTIVISM IN MORALITY
I
At the historical stage reached by human consciousness in Christianity,
moral life reveals itself as a universal and all-embracing _task_.
Before going on to discuss its concrete historical setting, we must
consider the view which, on principle, rejects morality as a historical
problem or as the work of collective man, and entirely reduces it to
the subjective moral impulses of individuals. This view arbitrarily
puts such narrow limits to the human good as in reality it has never
known. Strictly speaking, morality never has been solely the affair of
personal feeling or the rule of private conduct. At the patriarchal
stage the moral demands of reverence, pity, and shame were inseparably
connected with the duties of the individual to his kinsmen. The
‘moral’ was not distinguished from the ‘social,’ or the individual
from the collective. And if the result was a morality of rather a
low and limited order, this was not due to the fact of its being a
collective morality, but to the generally low level and narrow limits
of the tribal life, which expressed merely the rudimentary stage of
the historical development. It was low and limited, however, only by
comparison with the further progress of morality, and certainly not by
comparison with the morality of savages living in caves and in trees.
When the state came into being, and the domestic life became to a
certain extent a thing apart, morality in general was still determined
by the relation between individuals and the collective whole to which
they belonged--henceforth a wider and a more complex one. It was
impossible to be moral apart from a definite and positive relation to
the state; morality was in the first place a civic virtue. And the
reason that this _virtus antiqua_ no longer satisfies us, is not that
it was a _civic_ and not merely a _domestic_ virtue, but that the civic
life itself was too remote from the true social ideal, and was merely a
transition from the barbarous to the truly human culture. Morality was
rightly taken to consist in honourably serving the social whole--the
state, but the state itself was based upon slavery, constant wars,
etc.; what is to be condemned is not the social character of morality,
but the immoral character of the social whole. In a similar way we
condemn the ecclesiastical morality of the Middle Ages, not of course
because it was ecclesiastical, but because the Church itself was then
far from being a truly moral organisation, and was responsible for evil
as well as for good--the terrible evil of religious persecutions and
torture--thus violating the unconditional principle of morality in its
own inner domain.
Christianity as the ‘Gospel of the Kingdom’ proclaims an ideal that is
unconditionally high, demands an absolute morality. Is this morality
to be _subjective only_, limited to the inner states and individual
actions of the subject? The question contains its own answer; but to
make the matter quite clear, let us first grant all that is true in
the exclusively-subjective interpretation of Christianity. There is no
doubt that a perfect or absolute moral state must be inwardly fully
experienced or felt by the subject--must become _his own_ state, the
content of his life. If perfect morality were recognised as subjective
in this sense, the difference would be purely verbal. But something
else is really meant. The question is, how is this moral perfection to
be attained by the individual? Is it enough that each should strive to
make himself inwardly better and act accordingly, or is it attained
_with the help of_ a certain social process the effects of which are
collective as well as individual? The adherents of the former theory,
which reduces everything to individual moral activity, do not reject,
of course, either the social life or the moral improvement of its
forms. They believe, however, that such improvement is simply the
inevitable consequence of the personal moral progress: like individual,
like society. As soon as each person understands and reveals to
others his own true nature, and awakens good feelings in his soul,
the earth will become paradise. Now it is indisputable that without
good thoughts and feelings there can be neither individual nor social
morality. It is equally indisputable that _if_ all individual men were
good, society would be good also. But to think that the actual virtue
of the few best men is _sufficient_ for the moral regeneration of
all the others, is to pass into the world where babies are born out
of rose-bushes, and where beggars, for lack of bread, eat cakes. The
question we are mainly concerned with is not whether the individual’s
moral efforts are sufficient to make _him_ perfect, but whether those
unaided individual efforts can induce _other people_, who are making no
moral efforts at all, to _begin_ to make them.
II
The insufficiency of the subjective good and the necessity for a
collective embodiment of it is unmistakably proved by the whole course
of human history. I will give one concrete illustration.
At the end of Homer’s _Odyssey_ it is related, with obvious sympathy,
how this typical hero of the Hellenes re-established justice and order
in his house, having overcome at last the enmity of gods and men and
destroyed his rivals. With his son’s help he executed those of his
servants who, during his twenty years’ absence, when everybody had
given him up for dead, sided with Penelope’s suitors and did not oppose
the latter making themselves at home in Odysseus’s house:
“Now when they had made an end of setting the hall in order, they
led the maidens forth from the stablished hall, and drove them up in
a narrow space between the vaulted room and the goodly fence of the
court, whence none might avoid; and wise Telemachus began to speak
to his fellows, saying: ‘God forbid that I should take these women’s
lives by a clean death, these that have poured dishonour on my head
and on my mother, and have lain with the wooers.’ With that word he
tied the cable of a dark-prowed ship to a great pillar and flung it
round the vaulted room, and fastened it aloft, that none might touch
the ground with her feet. And even as when thrushes, long of wing, or
doves fall into a net that is set in a thicket, as they seek to their
roosting-place, and a loathly bed harbours them, even so the women held
their heads all in a row, and about all their necks nooses were cast,
that they might die by the most pitiful death. And they writhed with
their feet for a little space, but for no long while. Then they led out
Melanthius through the doorway and the court and cut off his nostrils
and his ears with the pitiless sword, and drew forth his vitals for
the dogs to devour raw, and cut off his hands and feet in their cruel
anger” (_Odyssey_, xxii. 457-477).
Odysseus and Telemachus were not monsters of inhumanity; on the
contrary, they represented the highest ideal of the Homeric epoch.
Their personal morality was irreproachable, they were full of piety,
wisdom, justice, and all the family virtues. Odysseus had, into the
bargain, an extremely sensitive heart, and in spite of his courage and
firmness in misfortune, shed tears at every convenient opportunity.
This very curious and characteristic feature attaches to him throughout
the poem. As I have not in literature come across any special reference
to this peculiar characteristic of the Homeric hero, I will allow
myself to go into some detail.
At his first appearance in the _Odyssey_ he is represented as weeping:--
“Odysseus ... sat weeping on the shore even as aforetime, straining
his soul with tears and groans and griefs, and as he wept he looked
wistfully over the unharvested deep” (v. 82-84; also 151, 152, 156-158).
In his own words: “There I abode for seven years continually, and
watered with my tears the imperishable raiment that Calypso gave me”
(vii. 259-260).
He wept at the thought of his distant native land and family, and also
at remembering his own exploits:--
“... The Muse stirred the minstrel to sing the songs or famous men....
The quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus.... This song
it was that the famous minstrel sang; but Odysseus caught his great
purple cloak with his stalwart hands, and drew it down over his head,
and hid his comely face, for he was ashamed to shed tears beneath his
brows in presence of the Phaeacians” (viii. 73-86).
Further:--
“This was the song that the famous minstrel sang. But the heart of
Odysseus melted, and the tear wet his cheeks beneath the eyelids. And
as a woman throws herself wailing about her dead lord, who hath fallen
before his city and the host, warding from his town and his children
the pitiless day ... even so pitifully fell the tears beneath the brows
of Odysseus” (viii. 521-525).
He weeps on being told by Circe of the journey--though a perfectly safe
one--he has to make to Hades:--
“Thus spake she, but as for me, my heart was broken, and I wept as I
sat upon the bed, and my soul had no more care to live and to see the
sunlight” (x. 496-499).
It is no wonder that Odysseus weeps when he sees his mother’s shadow
(xi. 87), but he is affected just as much by the shadow of the worst
and most worthless of his followers, of whom “an evil doom of some god
was the bane and wine out of measure” (xi. 61).
“There was one, Elpenor, the youngest of us all, not very valiant in
war, neither steadfast in mind. He was lying apart from the rest of my
men on the housetop of Circe’s sacred dwelling, very fain of the cool
air, as one heavy with wine. Now when he heard the noise of the voices
and of the feet of my fellows as they moved to and fro, he leaped up
of a sudden and minded him not to descend again by the way of the tall
ladder, but fell right down from the roof, and his neck was broken from
the bones of the spine, and his spirit went down to the house of Hades”
(x. 552-561).
“At the sight of him I wept and had compassion on him” (xi. 55).
He weeps, too, at the sight of Agamemnon:--
“Thus we twain stood sorrowing, holding sad discourse, while the big
tears fell fast” (xi. 465-466).
He weeps bitterly at finding himself at last in his native Ithaca
(xiii. 219-221), and still more so on beholding his son:--
“... In both their hearts arose the desire of lamentation. And they
wailed aloud, more ceaselessly than birds, sea-eagles or vultures
of crooked claws, whose younglings the country folk have taken from
the nest, ere yet they are fledged. Even so pitifully fell the tears
beneath their brows” (xvi. 215-220).
Odysseus shed tears, too, at the sight of his old dog Argus:--
“Odysseus looked aside and wiped away a tear that he easily hid from
Eumaeus” (xvii. 304-305).
He weeps before assassinating the suitors, he weeps as he embraces the
godlike swine-herd Eumaeus, and the goodly cow-herd Philoetius (xxi.
225-227), and also after the brutal murder of the twelve maid-servants
and the goat-herd Melanthius:--
“A sweet longing came upon him to weep and to moan, for he remembered
them every one” (xxii. 500-501).
The last two chapters of the _Odyssey_ also have, of course, an
abundant share of the hero’s tears:--
“... in his heart she stirred yet a greater longing to lament, and he
wept as he embraced his beloved wife and true” (xxiii. 231-232).
And further:--
“Now when the steadfast goodly Odysseus saw his father thus wasted with
age and in great grief of heart, he stood still beneath a tall pear
tree and let fall a tear” (xxiv. 233-235).
So far as the personal, subjective feeling is concerned Odysseus was
obviously quite equal to the most developed and highly-strung man of
our own day. Speaking generally, Homeric heroes were capable of all the
moral sentiments and emotions of the heart that we are capable of--and
that not only in relation to their neighbours in the narrow sense of
the term, _i.e._ to men immediately connected with them by common
interests, but also in relation to people remote and distant from
them. The Phaeacians were strangers to the shipwrecked Odysseus, and
yet what kindly human relations were established between him and them!
And if, in spite of all this, the heroes of antiquity performed with a
clear conscience deeds which are now morally impossible for us, this
was certainly not due to their lack of personal, subjective morality.
These men were certainly as capable as we are of good human feelings
towards both neighbours and strangers. What then is the difference
and what is the ground of the change? Why is it that virtuous, wise,
and _sentimental_ men of the Homeric age thought it permissible and
praiseworthy to hang frivolous maid-servants like thrushes and to
chop unworthy servants as food for the dogs, while at the present day
such actions can only be done by maniacs or born criminals? Reasoning
in an abstract fashion one might suppose that although the men of
that distant epoch had good mental feelings and impulses, they had
no conscious good _principles_ and rules. Owing to the absence of a
formal criterion between right and wrong, or a clear consciousness of
the distinction between good and evil, morality was purely empirical
in character, and even the best of men, capable of the finest moral
emotions, could indulge unchecked in wild outbursts of brutality. In
truth, however, we find no such formal defect in the thought of the
ancients.
Men of antiquity, just like ourselves, both had their good and bad
qualities as a natural fact, and drew the distinction of principle
between good and evil, recognising that the first was to be preferred
unconditionally to the second. In those same poems of Homer which often
strike us by their ethical barbarisms, the idea of moral duty appears
with perfect clearness. Certainly Penelope’s mode of thought and
expression does not quite coincide with that of Kant; nevertheless the
following words of the wife of Odysseus contain a definite affirmation
of the moral good as an eternal, necessary, and _universal_ principle:--
“Man’s life is brief enough! And if any be a hard man and hard at
heart, all men cry evil on him for the time to come, while yet he
lives, and all men mock him when he is dead. But if any be a blameless
man and blameless of heart, his guests spread abroad his fame over _the
whole earth_, and many people call him noble” (xix. 328-334).
III
The _form_ of moral consciousness, the idea, namely, of the good as
absolutely binding and of evil as absolutely unpermissible, was present
in the mind of the ancients as it is in our own. It might be thought,
however, that the important difference between us and them in the
moral valuation of the same actions is due to the change in the actual
_content_ of the moral ideal. There can be no doubt that the Gospel
has raised our ideal of virtue and holiness and made it much higher
and wider than the Homeric ideal. But it is equally certain that this
perfect ideal of morality, when it has no objective embodiment and is
accepted purely in the abstract, produces no change whatever either in
the life or in the actual moral _consciousness_ of men, and does not
in any way raise their practical _standards_ for judging their own and
other people’s actions.
It is sufficient to refer once more to the representatives of mediæval
Christianity, who treated the supposed enemies of their Church with
greater cruelty than Odysseus treated the enemies of his family--and
did so with a clear conscience, and even with the conviction of
fulfilling a moral duty. At a time more enlightened and less remote the
American planters who belonged to the Christian faith, and therefore
stood under the sign of an unconditionally high moral ideal, treated
their black slaves on the whole no better than the pagan Odysseus
treated his faithless servants, and, like him, considered themselves
_right_ in doing so. So that not only their actions but even their
practical consciousness remained unaffected by the higher truth which
they theoretically professed in the abstract.
I. I. Dubasov’s _Historical Sketches of the Tambov District_ contain an
account of the exploits of K., a landowner in the district of Yelatma,
who flourished in the ’forties of the present century. The Commission
of Inquiry established that many serfs (children especially) had been
tortured by him to death, and that on his estate there was not a single
peasant who had not been flogged, and not a single serf-girl who had
not been outraged. But more significant than this ‘misuse of power’
was the relation of the public to it. When cross-examined, most of the
gentry in the district spoke of K. as ‘a true gentleman.’ Some added,
“K. is a true Christian and observes all the rites of the Church.”
The Marshal of Nobility wrote to the Governor of the province: “All
the district is alarmed by the _troubles_ of Mr. K.” In the end the
‘true Christian’ was excused from legal responsibility, and the local
gentry could set their hearts at rest.[108] The same sympathy from
men of his own class was enjoyed by another and still more notorious
Tambov landowner, Prince U. N. G--n, of whom it was written with good
reason to the Chief of the Police: “Even animals on meeting U. N.
instinctively seek to hide wherever they can.”[109]
Some three thousand years elapsed between the heroes of Homer and the
heroes of Mr. Dubasov, but no essential and stable change had taken
place in the conduct and the moral consciousness of men with regard to
the enslaved part of the population. The same inhuman relations that
were approved of by the ancient Greeks in the Homeric age were regarded
as permissible by the American and Russian slave-owners in the first
half of the nineteenth century. These relations are revolting to us
now, but our ethical standards have been raised not in the course
of the three thousand years, but only of the last _thirty years_ (in
our case and that of the Americans, and a few dozens of years earlier
in Western Europe). What, then, had happened so recently? What has
produced in so short a period the change which long centuries of
historical development were unable to accomplish? Has some new moral
conception, some new and higher ideal of morality appeared in our day?
There has been and there could have been nothing of the kind. No ideal
can be conceived higher than that revealed eighteen hundred years
ago. That ideal was known to the ‘true Christians’ of the American
States and the Russian provinces. They could learn no new idea in this
respect; but they _experienced a new fact_. The idea restricted to
the subjective sphere of personal morality could not during thousands
of years bear the fruit which it bore in the course of the few years
when it was embodied as a social force, and became the _common task_.
Under very different historical conditions the organised social whole
invested with power decided, both in America and in Russia, to put an
end to the too glaring violation of Christian justice--both human and
divine--in the life of the community. In America it was attained at
the price of blood, through a terrible civil war; in Russia--by the
authoritative action of the Government. It is owing to this fact alone
that the fundamental demands of justice and humanity, presupposed by
the supreme ideal though not exhaustive of it, were transferred from
the narrow and unstable limits of subjective feeling to the wide and
firm ground of objective reality and transformed into a universally
binding law. And we see that this external political act immediately
raised the standard of our inner consciousness, that is, achieved a
result which millenniums of moral preaching alone could not achieve.
The social movement and the action of the Government were of course
themselves conditioned by the previous moral preaching, but that
preaching had effect upon the majority, upon the social environment as
a whole, only when _embodied_ in measures organised by the Government.
Owing to external restraint, brutal instincts were no longer able to
find expression; they had to pass into a state of inactivity, and
were gradually _atrophied_ from lack of exercise; in most people they
disappeared altogether and were no longer passed on to the generations
that followed. At present even men who openly sigh for the serfdom
make _sincere_ reservations with regard to the _abuse_ of the owners’
power, while forty years ago that abuse was regarded as compatible with
‘true nobility,’ and even with ‘true Christianity.’ And yet there is no
reason to believe that the fathers were intrinsically worse than the
sons.
Let it be granted that the heroes of Mr. Dubasov’s chronicle, whom the
Tambov gentry defended simply from class interests, were really below
the average of the society around them. But apart from them there
was a multitude of perfectly decent men, free from all brutality,
who _conscientiously_ felt they had a right to make full use of the
privileges of their class--for instance, to sell their serfs like
cattle, retail or wholesale. And if such things are now impossible even
for scoundrels,--however much they might wish for them,--this objective
success of the good, this concrete improvement of life cannot possibly
be ascribed to the progress of personal morality.
The moral nature of man is unchangeable in its inner subjective
foundations. The relative number of good and bad men also, probably,
remains unchanged. It would hardly be argued by any one that there are
now more righteous men than there were some hundreds or thousands of
years ago. Finally, there can be no doubt that the highest moral ideas
and ideals, taken in the abstract, do not as such produce any stable
improvement in life and in moral consciousness. I have referred to
an indisputable and certain fact of history: the same and even worse
atrocities which were committed by a virtuous pagan of the Homeric poem
with the approval of the community were done thousands of years after
him by the champions of Christian faith--the Spanish inquisitors, and
by Christian slave-owners, also with the approval of the community, and
this in spite of the fact that a higher ideal of individual morality
has meanwhile been evolved. In our day such actions are only possible
for lunatics and professional criminals. And this sudden progress is
solely due to the fact that the organised social force was inspired by
moral demands and transformed them into an objective law of life.
IV
The principle of the perfect good revealed in Christianity does
not abolish the external structure of human society, but uses it
as a form and an instrument for the embodiment of its own absolute
moral content. It demands that human society should become morally
_organised_. Experience unmistakably proves that when the social
environment is not morally organised, the subjective demands of the
good in oneself and in others are inevitably lowered. It is not, then,
really a choice between personal or subjective and social morality,
but between weak and strong, realised and unrealised morality. At
every stage the moral consciousness inevitably strives to realise
itself both in the individual and in the society. The final stage
differs from the lower stages, not, of course, by the fact that
morality at its highest remains for ever subjective, _i.e._ powerless
and unrealised--this, indeed, would be a strange advantage!--but by
the fact that the realisation must be full and _all-embracing_, and
therefore requires a far more difficult, long, and complex process
than was necessary in the case of the former collective embodiments of
morality. In the patriarchal life the degree of the good of which it
is capable becomes realised freely and easily--without any _history_.
The formation of extensive nationally political groups, which is to
realise a greater sum and a higher grade of the good, fills many
centuries with its history. The moral task left us by Christianity--to
form the environment for the actual realisation of _absolute_ and
_universal_ good--is infinitely more complex. The positive conception
of this good embraces the totality of human relations. Humanity morally
regenerated cannot be poorer in content than natural humanity. The
task then consists not in abolishing the already existing social
distinctions, but in bringing them into right, good, or moral relation
with one another. When the higher animal forms came to be evolved in
the course of the cosmical process, the lower form--that of worm--was
not excluded as intrinsically unworthy, but received a new and more
fitting position. It ceased to be the sole and obvious foundation of
life, but decently clothed it still exists within the body in the form
of the alimentary canal--a subservient part of the organism. Other
forms, predominant at the lower stages, were also preserved, both
materially and formally, as subordinate constituent parts and organs of
a higher whole. In a similar way, Christian humanity--the highest form
of collective spiritual life--finds realisation not by destroying the
different forms of the social life evolved in the course of history,
but by bringing them into due relation to itself and to each other, in
harmony with the unconditional principle of morality.
The demand for such harmony deprives moral subjectivism, based on
the wrongly conceived view of the autonomy of the will, of all
justification. The moral will must be determined to action solely
through itself; any subordination of it to an _external_ rule or
command violates its autonomy and must therefore be recognised as
unworthy--this is the _true_ principle of moral autonomy. But the
organisation of social environment in accordance with the principle
of the _absolute good_ is not a limitation but a _fulfilment_ of
the personal moral will--it is the very thing which it desires.
As a moral being I _want_ the good to reign upon earth, I _know_
that alone I cannot bring this to pass, and I _find_ a collective
organisation intended for this purpose of mine. It is clear that such
an organisation does not in any sense limit me but, on the contrary,
removes my individual limitations, widens and strengthens my moral
will. Every one, in so far as his will is moral, inwardly participates
in this universal organisation of morality, and it is clear that
relative external limitations, which may follow therefrom for the
individual persons, are sanctioned by their own higher consciousness
and consequently cannot be opposed to moral freedom. For the moral
individual one thing only is important in this connection, namely,
that the collective organisation should be _really_ dominated by the
_unconditional principle of morality_, that the social life should
_indeed_ conform to moral standards--to the demands of justice and
mercy in all human affairs and relations--that the individually-social
environment should _really_ become _the organised good_. It is clear
that in subordinating himself to a social environment which is itself
subordinate to the principle of the absolute good and conformable to
it, the individual cannot lose anything. Such a social environment is
from the nature of the case incompatible with any arbitrary limitation
of personal rights and still less with rude violence or persecution.
_The degree of subordination of the individual to society must
correspond to the degree of subordination of society to the moral
good_, apart from which social environment has no claim whatever upon
the individual. Its rights arise simply from the moral satisfaction
which it gives to _every person_. This aspect of moral universalism
will be further developed and explained in the next chapter.
As to the autonomy of the _bad will_, no organisation of the good
can prevent conscious evil-doers from desiring evil for its own
sake and from acting in that direction. The organisation of the
good is concerned merely with external limitations of the evil
reality--limitations that inevitably follow from the nature of man
and the meaning of history. These objective limits to objective evil,
necessarily presupposed by the organisation of the good but not by any
means exhaustive of it, will be discussed later on in the chapters on
punishment and on the relation between legal justice and morality.
FOOTNOTES:
[108] _Ocherki iz istorii Tambovskago Kraia_, by I. I. Dubasov, vol.
i., Tambov, 1890, pp. 162-167.
[109] _Ibid._ p. 92.
CHAPTER IV
THE MORAL NORM OF SOCIAL LIFE
I
The true definition of society as an _organised morality_ disposes
of the two false theories that are fashionable in our day--the view
of _moral subjectivism_ which prevents the moral will from being
concretely realised in the life of the community, and the theory of
_social realism_, according to which given social institutions and
interests are of supreme significance in and for themselves, so that
the highest moral principles prove at best to be simply the means or
the instrument for safeguarding those interests. From this point of
view, at present extremely prevalent, this or that _concrete form_
of social life is essential _per se_, although attempts are made to
give it a moral justification by connecting it with moral norms and
principles. But the very fact of seeking a moral basis for human
society proves that neither any concrete form of social life nor social
life _as such_ is the highest or the final expression of human nature.
If man were defined as essentially a social animal (ζῶον πολιτικόν)
and _nothing more_, the _intension_ of the term ‘man’ would be very
much narrowed and its _extension_ would be considerably increased.
Humanity would then include animals such as ants, of whom social life
is as essential a characteristic as it is of man. Sir John Lubbock, the
greatest authority on the subject, writes: “Their nests are no mere
collections of independent individuals, nor even temporary associations
like the flocks of migratory birds, but organised communities labouring
with the utmost harmony for the common good.”[110] These communities
sometimes contain a population so numerous that, in the words of
the same naturalist, of human cities London and Pekin can alone be
compared to them.[111] Far more important are the three following
inner characteristics of the ants’ community. They have a complex
social organisation. There is a distinct difference between different
communities in the degree of that organisation--a difference completely
analogous to the gradual development in the forms of human culture
from the hunting to the agricultural stage. It proves that the social
life of ants did not arise in any accidental or exceptional fashion
but developed according to certain general sociological laws. Finally,
the social tie is remarkably strong and stable, and there is wonderful
practical solidarity between the members of the ants’ community, so far
as the common good is concerned.
With regard to the first point, if division of labour be the
characteristic feature of civilised life, it is impossible to deny
civilisation to ants. Division of labour is in their case carried out
very sharply. They have very brave soldiers armed with enormously
developed pincer-like jaws by which they adroitly seize and snap off
the heads of their enemies, but who are incapable of doing anything
else. They have workmen remarkable for their skill and industry. They
have gentlemen with opposite characteristics who go so far that they
can neither feed themselves nor move about and only know how to use
other ants’ services. Finally, they have slaves (not to be confused
with workmen[112]) who are obtained by conquest and belong to other
species of ants, which fact does not, however, prevent them from being
completely devoted to their masters. Apart from such division of
labour, the high degree of civilisation possessed by ants is proved
by their keeping a number of domestic animals (_i.e._ tamed insects
belonging to other zoological groups), “So that we may truly say,”
Sir John Lubbock remarks, of course with some exaggeration, “that our
English ants possess a much greater variety of domestic animals than we
do ourselves.”[113]
Some of these domestic insects carefully brought up by ants serve
for food (in particular the plant-lice _aphidae_, which Linnaeus
calls ants’ cows (_Aphis formicarum vacca_)); others perform certain
necessary work in the community, _e.g._ act as dustmen; the third, in
Lubbock’s opinion, are kept simply for amusement like our pug-dogs or
canaries. The entomologist André has made a list of 584 species of
insects which are usually found in ants’ communities.
At the present time many large and well-populated communities of ants
live chiefly on the large stores of vegetable products they collect.
Crowds of working ants skilfully and systematically cut blades of
grass and stems of leaves--_reap_ them, as it were. But this semblance
of agriculture is neither their only nor their original means of
subsistence. “We find,” writes Lubbock, “in the different species of
ants different conditions of life, curiously answering to the earlier
stages of human progress. For instance, some species, such as _Formica
fusca_, live principally on the produce of the chase; for though they
feed partly on the honey-dew of aphides, they have not domesticated
those insects. These ants probably retain the habits once common to
all ants. They resemble the lower races of men, who subsist mainly by
hunting. Like them they frequent woods and wilds, live in comparatively
small communities, and the instincts of collective action are but
little developed among them. They hunt singly, and their battles
are single combats, like those of the Homeric heroes. Such species
as _Lassius flavus_ represent a distinctly higher type of social
life; they show more skill in architecture, may literally be said to
have domesticated certain species of aphides, and may be compared
to the pastoral stage of human progress, to the races which live on
the produce of their flocks and herds. Their communities are more
numerous; they act much more in concert; their battles are not mere
single combats, but they know how to act in combination. I am disposed
to hazard the conjecture that they will gradually exterminate the
mere hunting species, just as savages disappear before more advanced
races. Lastly, the agricultural nations may be compared with the
harvesting ants. Thus there seem to be three principal types, offering
a curious analogy to the three great phases--the hunting, pastoral, and
agricultural stages in the history of human development.”[114]
In addition to the complexity of social structure and the graduated
stages in the development of culture, ants’ societies are also
noted, as has been said above, for the remarkable stability of the
social tie. Our author continually remarks on ‘the greatest harmony
that reigns between members of one and the same community.’ This
harmony is _exclusively_ conditioned by the common good. On the
ground of many observations and experiments, Sir John Lubbock proves
that whenever an individual ant undertakes something useful for the
community and exceeding its own powers, _e.g._ attempts to bring to
the ant-heap a dead fly or beetle it has come across, it always calls
and finds comrades to help it. When, on the contrary, an individual
ant gets into trouble which concerns it alone, this does not as a
rule excite any sympathy whatever and no help is rendered to it. The
patient scientist had a number of times brought separate ants into
a state of insensibility by chloroform or spirits and found that
their fellow-citizens either did not take the slightest notice of
the unfortunate ones or threw them out as dead. Tender sympathy with
personal grief is not connected with any social function and therefore
does not form part of the idea of social life as such. But the feeling
of civic duty or the devotion to general order are so great among ants
that they never have any quarrels or civil wars. Their armies are
intended solely for outside wars. And even in the highly developed
communities, which have a special class of dustmen and a breed of
domestic clowns, not a single observer could discover any trace of
organised police or gendarmerie.
II
Social life is at least as essential a characteristic of these insects
as it is of man. If, however, we do not admit that they are equal to
ourselves--if we do not agree to bestow upon each of the innumerable
ants living in our forests the rights of man and of citizen, it means
that man has another and a more essential characteristic, one that is
independent of social instincts and, on the contrary, conditions the
distinctive character of _human_ society. This characteristic consists
in the fact that each man, as such, is a moral being--_i.e._ a being
who, apart from his social utility, has absolute worth and absolute
right to live and freely develop his positive powers. It directly
follows from this that _no man under any conditions and not for any
reason may be regarded as only a means_ for purposes extraneous to
himself. We cannot be merely an _instrument either for the good of
another person_ or for the good of a _whole class_ or even for the
so-called _common good_, _i.e._ the good of the majority of men.
This ‘common good’ or ‘general utility’ has a claim not upon man as
a person, but upon his activity or work to the extent to which that
work, being useful for the community, secures at the same time a worthy
existence to the worker. The right of the person as such is based upon
his human dignity inherent in him and inalienable, upon the formal
infinity of reason in every human being, upon the fact that each person
is unique and individual, and must therefore be an end in himself and
not merely a means or an instrument. This right of the person is from
its very nature _unconditional_, while the rights of the community
with regard to the person are _conditioned_ by the recognition of
his individual rights. Society, therefore, can compel a person to do
something only through an act of his own will,--otherwise it will
not be a case of laying an obligation upon a person, but of making
use of a thing. This does not mean, of course (as one of my critics
imagined), that in order to pass a legal or administrative measure, the
central power must ask the individual consent of each person. The moral
principle in its application to politics logically involves not an
absurd _liberum veto_ of this kind, but the right of each responsible
person freely to change his allegiance as well as his religion. In
other words, _no social group or institution has a right forcibly to
detain any one among its members_.
The human dignity of each person or his nature as a moral being does
not in any way depend upon his particular qualities or his social
utility. Such qualities and utility may determine man’s external
position in society and the relative value set upon him by other
people; they do not determine his own worth and his human rights. Many
animals are by nature far more virtuous than many human beings. The
conjugal virtue of pigeons and storks, the maternal love of hens, the
gentleness of deer, the faithfulness and devotion of dogs, the good
nature of seals and dolphins, the industry and civic virtues of ants
and bees, etc., are characteristic qualities adorning our younger
brothers, while they are by no means predominant in the majority of
human beings. Why is it then that it has never occurred to any one to
deprive the most worthless of men of his human rights in order to pass
them to the most excellent of animals as a reward for its virtue? As to
utility, not only one strong horse is more useful than a number of sick
beggars, but even inanimate objects, such as the printing-press or the
steam-boiler, have undoubtedly been of far more use to the historical
process as a whole than entire tribes of savages or barbarians. And yet
if (_per impossibile_) Gutenberg and Watt had, for the sake of their
great inventions, intentionally and consciously to sacrifice the life
even of a single savage or barbarian, the usefulness of their _work_
would not prevent their _action_ from being decidedly condemned as
immoral--unless indeed the view be taken that the purpose justifies the
means.
If the common good or the general happiness is to have the significance
of a moral principle, they must be in the full sense general, _i.e._
they must refer not merely to many or to the majority of men but
to _all without exception_. That which is truly the good of all is
for that very reason the good of _each_--no one is excluded and,
therefore, in serving _such_ a social good as an end, the individual
does _not_ thereby become merely a means or an instrument of something
extraneous and foreign to himself. True society which recognises
the absolute right of each person is not the negative limit but the
positive complement of the individual. In serving it with whole-hearted
devotion, the individual does not lose but _realises_ his absolute
worth and significance. For when taken in isolation he is only
_potentially_ absolute and infinite, and becomes so actually only by
being inwardly united to all.[115]
_The only moral norm is the principle of human dignity or of the
absolute worth of each individual, in virtue of which society is
determined as the inward and free harmony of all._[116] It is just as
impossible that there should be many moral norms in the strict sense
of the term, as it is impossible that there should be many supreme
goods or many moralities. It is not difficult to show that religion
(as concretely given in history), family, and property do not as such
contain a moral norm in the strict sense of the term. A thing which,
taken by itself, may or may not be moral, must obviously be determined
as one or the other by means of something else. It cannot, therefore,
be a moral norm on its own account--that is, it cannot give to other
things a character which it itself does not possess. Now there is no
doubt that religion may or may not be moral. Such religions as, for
instance, the cult of Moloch or Astarte (the survivals or analogies of
which are to be met now and then to this day), cannot possibly serve as
a moral norm of anything, since their very essence is directly opposed
to all morality. When, therefore, we are told that religion is the
norm and the moral foundation of society, we must first see whether
religion itself has a moral character and agrees with the principle of
morality; and this means that the ultimate criterion is that principle
and not religion as such. The only reason why we regard Christianity as
the true foundation and norm of all that is good in the world is that,
being a perfect religion, Christianity contains the unconditional moral
principle in itself. But if a separation be introduced between the
demand for moral perfection and the actual life of Christian society,
Christianity at once loses its absolute significance and becomes
historically accidental.
If now we take the family, it cannot be denied that the family too
may or may not be moral, both in individual cases and in the whole
given structure of society. Thus the family of ancient Greece had no
moral character. I refer not to the exceptional heroic families in
which wives murdered their husbands and were killed by their sons, or
sons killed their fathers and married their mothers, but to the usual
normal family of a cultured Athenian, which required as its necessary
complement the institution of hetæras and worse things than that. The
Arabic family (before Islam), in which new-born girl babies, if there
were more than one or two of them, were buried alive, had no moral
character either, though it was stable in its way. The very stable
family of the Romans in which the head of the house had the right of
life and death over his wife and children, also cannot be said to have
been moral. Thus the family, like religion, has no intrinsically moral
character, and, before it can become the norm for anything else, must
itself be put upon a moral basis.
As to property, to recognise it as the moral foundation of
normal society, _i.e._ as something sacred and inviolable, is
neither logically nor, in my own case (and I think in that of my
contemporaries), psychologically possible. The first awakening of
conscious life and thought in our generation was accompanied by
the thunder of the destruction of property in its two fundamental
historical forms of serfdom and slavery. And this abolition of
property, both in America and in Russia, was demanded and accomplished
_in the name of social morality_. The alleged inviolability was
brilliantly disproved by the fact of so successful a violation,
approved by the conscience of all. It is obvious that property is a
thing which stands in need of justification, and so far from containing
a moral norm, demands such a norm _for itself_.
All historical institutions--whether religious or social--are of a
mixed character. But there is no doubt that the moral norm can only
be found in a pure principle, and not in a mixed fact. A principle
which unconditionally affirms that which _ought_ to be is something
essentially inviolable. It may be rejected and disobeyed, but this
is detrimental not to the principle but to the person who rejects
and disobeys it. The law which proclaims ‘you ought to respect the
human dignity of each person, you ought to make no one a means or an
instrument,’ does not depend upon any fact, does not affirm any fact,
and therefore cannot be affected by any fact.
The principle of the absolute worth of human personality does not
depend upon any one or anything; but the moral character of societies
and institutions depends entirely upon it. We know in ancient and
modern heathendom of highly civilised great national bodies in which
the institutions of family, of religion, of property were extremely
stable, but which nevertheless were devoid of the moral character of a
human society. At best they resembled communities of wise insects in
which the mechanism of the good order is present, but that which the
mechanism is to subserve--the good itself--is absent, for the bearer of
it, the free personality, is not there.
III
A vague and distorted consciousness of the essence of morality and of
the true norm of human society exists even where the moral principle
has apparently no application. Thus, in the despotic monarchies of
the East, the real man or person was rightly regarded as possessed
of full rights, but such dignity was ascribed to one man only. Thus
transformed, however, into an exclusive and externally determined
privilege, human right and worth loses its moral character. The sole
bearer of it ceases to be a person, and since as a concrete real being
it cannot become a pure ideal, it becomes an idol. The moral principle
demands of the individual that he should respect human dignity as
such--that is, should respect it in other people as in himself. It
is only in treating others as persons that the individual is himself
determined as a person. The Eastern despot, however, finds in his world
no persons possessed of rights, but only rightless things. And since it
is thus impossible for him to have personal moral relations to any one,
he inevitably himself loses his personal moral character, and becomes a
thing--the most important, sacred, divine, worshipped thing--in short,
a fetish or an idol.
In the civic communities of the classical world the fulness of rights
was the privilege not of one man but of a few (in the aristocracies)
or of many (in the democracies). This extension was very important for
it rendered possible, though within narrow limits only, independent
moral interaction of individuals, and consequently personal
self-consciousness, and realised, at any rate for the given social
union, the idea of justice or equality of rights.[117] But the moral
principle is in its essence universal, since it demands the recognition
of the absolute inner worth of man as such, without any external
limitations. The communities of the ancients, however,--the aristocracy
of Sparta, the Athenian demos, and the peculiar combination of the
two--_senatus populusque Romanus_--recognised the true dignity of man
only within the limits of their civic union. They were not therefore
societies based upon the moral principle, but at best approached and
anticipated such a society.
This structure of life has more than merely a historical interest for
us: in truth, we have not outlived it yet. Consider, indeed, what it
was that limited the moral principle and prevented its realisation in
the world of antiquity. There were three classes of men who were not
recognised as bearers of any rights or as objects of any duties. They
were therefore in no sense an _end_ of action, were not included in the
idea of the _common good_ at all, and were regarded merely as material
_instruments_ of, or material _obstacles_ to, that good. Namely,
these were (1) _enemies_, _i.e._ originally all strangers,[118] then
(2) _slaves_, and, finally, (3) _criminals_. In spite of individual
differences the legalised relation to these three categories of men
was essentially the same, for it was equally immoral. There is no need
to represent the institution of slavery, which replaced the simple
slaughter of the prisoners of war, in an exaggeratedly horrible form.
Slaves had means of livelihood secured to them, and on the whole
were not badly treated. This, however, was an accident--though one
of frequent occurrence--and not a duty, and, therefore, had no moral
significance. Slaves were valued for their utility, but this had
nothing to do with the recognition of their worth as human beings. In
contradistinction to these useful things, which ought to be looked
after for reasons of expediency, external and internal enemies, as
_things_ unquestionably _harmful_, were to be mercilessly exterminated.
With regard, however, to the enemy in war, mercilessness might be
tempered by the respect for his force or the fear of revenge; but with
regard to defenceless criminals, real or supposed, cruelty knew no
limits. In cultured Athens, persons accused of ordinary crimes were
tortured as soon as they were taken into custody, previously to any
trial.
All these facts--war, slavery, executions--were legitimate for the
ancient world, in the sense that they logically followed from the
view held by every one, and were conditioned by the general level of
consciousness. If the worth of man as an independent individual and the
fulness of his rights and dignity depend exclusively upon his belonging
to a certain civic union, the natural consequence is that men who do
not belong to that union and are strange and hostile to it, or men who,
though they belong to it, violate its laws and are a menace to common
safety, are by that very fact deprived of human rights and dignity, and
that with regard to them all things are lawful.
This point of view, however, came to be changed. The development
of ethical thought first among the Sophists and in Socrates, then
among the Greco-Roman Stoics, the work of Roman lawyers and the
very character of the Roman Empire, which embraced many peoples and
nations, and therefore inevitably widened the theoretical and practical
outlook,--all this has gradually effaced the old limits and established
a consciousness of the moral principle in its formal universality
and infinity. At the same time, in the East the religiously moral
teaching of the Jewish prophets was evolving a living ideal of absolute
human dignity. And while a Roman in the theatre of the eternal city
proclaimed, by the mouth of the actor, the new word ‘_homo sum_’ as the
expression of the highest personal dignity, instead of the old ‘_civis
Romanus_,’ another Roman in a remote Eastern province and at a scene
more tragic completed the statement of this new principle by simply
pointing to the actual personal incarnation of it: _Ecce homo_!
The inner change which took place in humanity as the result of the
interaction of the events in Palestine and the Greco-Roman theories
ought, it would seem, to have been the beginning of an entirely new
order of things. Indeed, a complete regeneration of the physical world
was expected; and yet the social and moral world of heathendom still
stands essentially unchanged. This will not be an object for grief
and wonder if the problem of the moral regeneration of humanity is
considered in its full scope. It is clear from the nature of the case,
and is foretold in the Gospels,[119] that this problem can only be
solved by a gradual process before the final catastrophe comes. The
process of such preparation is not yet completed, but is being carried
on, and there is no doubt that from the fifteenth and especially from
the end of the eighteenth century there has been a noticeable change
in the rate of the historical progress. It is important from the
practically moral point of view to make clear to ourselves what has
been done already and what still remains to be done in certain definite
directions.
IV
When men of different nationality and social position were spiritually
united in worshipping a _foreigner and a beggar_--the Galilean who
was executed as a _criminal_ in the name of national and class
interests--international wars, rightlessness of the masses, and
executions of criminals were _inwardly_ undermined. Granted that the
inner change took eighteen centuries to manifest itself even to a small
extent; granted that its manifestation is becoming noticeable just
at the time when its first mover--the Christian faith--is weakened,
and seems to disappear from the surface of consciousness--still,
man’s inner attitude towards the old heathen foundations of society
is changing, and the change shows itself more and more in his life.
Whatever the thoughts of individual men may be, advanced humanity as
a collective whole has reached a degree of moral maturity, a state of
feeling and consciousness, which is beginning to make impossible for
it things which to the ancient world were natural. And even individual
men, if they have not renounced reason altogether, hold, in the form of
rational conviction if not in the form of religious faith, the moral
principle which does not permit the legalisation of collective crimes.
The very fact of the remotest parts of humanity coming into contact, of
getting to know one another and becoming mutually connected, does much
to abolish the barriers and estrangement between men, natural from the
narrow point of view of the ancients, for whom the Straits of Gibraltar
were the extreme limit of the universe, and the banks of the Dnieper or
the Don were populated by men with dogs’ heads.
International wars are not yet abolished, but the point of view with
regard to them has changed in a striking degree, especially of late.
The _fear_ of war has become the predominant motive of international
policy, and no Government would venture to confess to harbouring plans
of conquest. Slavery in the proper sense has been finally and wholly
abolished. Other crude forms of personal dependence which survived till
the last century, and, in places, till the middle of the present, have
also been done away with. What remains is only the indirect economic
slavery, but this too is a question whose turn has come. Finally,
the point of view with regard to criminals has since the eighteenth
century been clearly tending to become more moral and Christian. And
to think that this progress--belated, but quick and decisive--along
the path mapped out nineteen centuries ago, should cause anxiety for
the moral foundations of society! In truth, a false conception of
these foundations is the chief obstacle to a thorough moral change
in the social life and consciousness. Religion, family, property
cannot as such, that is, simply as existent facts, be the norm or the
moral foundation of society. The problem is not to preserve these
institutions at any cost _in statu quo_ but to make them conformable to
the one and only moral standard, so that they might be wholly permeated
by the one moral principle.
This principle is essentially universal, the same for all. Now,
religion as such need not be universal, and all religions of
antiquity were strictly national. Christianity, however, being the
embodiment of the absolute moral ideal, is as universal as the moral
principle itself, and at the beginning it had this character. But
historical institutions, which in the course of history came to be
connected with it, ceased to be universal and therefore lost their
pure and all-embracing moral character. And so long as we affirm our
religion, _first_, in its denominational peculiarity, and _then only_
as universal Christianity, we deprive it both of a sound logical
basis and of moral significance, and make it an obstacle in the way
of the spiritual regeneration of humanity. Further, universality
expresses itself not only by the absence of external, national,
denominational and other limitations, but still more by freedom from
inner limitations. To be truly universal, religion must not separate
itself from intellectual enlightenment, from science, from social
and political progress. A religion which fears all these things has
obviously no faith in its own power and is inwardly permeated with
unbelief. While claiming to be the sole moral norm of society, it fails
to fulfil the most elementary moral condition of being genuine.
The positive significance of the _family_, in virtue of which it
may, in a sense, be the moral norm of society, is apparent from the
following consideration. It is physically impossible for a _single_
individual concretely to realise in his everyday life his moral
relation to _all_. However sincerely a man may recognise the absolute
demands of the moral ideal, he cannot, in real life, apply these
demands to _all_ human beings, for the simple reason that the ‘all’
do not concretely exist for him. He cannot give _practical_ proof of
his respect for the human dignity of the millions of men about whom
he knows nothing; he cannot make them _in concreto_ the positive end
of his activity. And yet, unless the moral demand is _completely_
realised in _perceptible_ personal relations, it remains an abstract
principle which enlightens the mind, but does not regenerate the life
of man. The solution of this contradiction is that moral relations
ought to be fully realised within a certain limited environment in
which each man is placed in his concrete everyday existence. This is
precisely the true function of the family. Each member of it is not
only intended and meant to be, but actually is, an end for all the
others; each is perceptibly recognised to have absolute significance,
each is irreplaceable. From this point of view the family is the
pattern and the elementary constitutive cell of universal brotherhood
or of human society as it ought to be. But in order to preserve such
a significance, the family obviously must not become the embodiment
of mutual egoism. It must be the first stage from which each of its
members may be always able to ascend, as much as in him lies, to a
greater realisation of the moral principle in the world. The family is
either the _crowning stage_ of egoism or the _beginning_ of world-wide
union. To uphold it in the first sense does not mean to uphold a ‘moral
foundation’ of society.
Property as such has no moral significance. No one is morally bound
either to be rich or to enrich other people. General equality of
property is as impossible and unnecessary as sameness in the colouring
or in the quantity of hair. There is one condition, however, which
renders the question as to the distribution of property a moral
question. It is inconsistent with human dignity and with the moral norm
of society that a person should be unable to support his existence,
or, that in order to do so he should spend so much time and strength
as to have none left for looking after his human, intellectual and
moral improvement. In that case man ceases to be an end for himself
and for others, and becomes merely a material instrument of economic
production, on a level with soulless machines. And since the moral
principle unconditionally demands that we should respect the human
dignity of all and each, and regard every one as an end in himself
and not only as a means, a society that desires to be morally normal
cannot remain indifferent to such a position of any one of its members.
It is its direct duty to secure to each and all a certain _minimum_
of well-being, just as much as is necessary to support a worthy human
existence. The way to attain this is a problem for economics and not
for ethics. In any case it ought to be, and therefore it can be, done.
All human society, and especially society that professes to be
Christian, must, if it is to go on existing and to attain to a higher
dignity, conform to the moral standard. What matters is not the
external preservation of certain institutions, which may be good or
bad, but a sincere and consistent striving inwardly to improve _all_
institutions and social relations which may be good, by subordinating
them more and more to the one unconditional moral ideal of the _free
union of all in the perfect good_.
Christianity put forward this ideal as a practical task for all peoples
and nations, answered for its being realisable--given a good will on
our part--and promised help from above in the execution of it--help, of
which there is sufficient evidence both in personal and in historical
experience. But just because the task Christianity sets before us is
a moral and therefore a free one, the supreme Good cannot help man by
thwarting the evil will or externally removing the obstacles which that
will puts in the way of the realisation of the kingdom of God. Humanity
as represented by individuals and nations must itself outlive and
overcome these obstacles, which are to be found both in the individual
evil will and in the complex effects of the _collective evil will_.
This is the reason why progress in the Christian world is so slow, and
why Christianity _appears_ to be lifeless and inactive.
FOOTNOTES:
[110] _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, by Sir John Lubbock, 7th ed., p. 119.
[111] _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, by Sir John Lubbock, 7th ed., p. 119.
[112] Working ants (like working bees) do not form a distinct
species; they are descended from the common queen but are sexually
under-developed.
[113] _Ibid._ p. 73.
[114] P. 91.
[115] See above, Part III., Chapter I., ‘The Individual and Society.’
[116] This position is logically established in moral philosophy in its
elementary part, which, thanks to Kant, became as strictly scientific
in its own sphere as pure mechanics is in another.
[117] In the despotic monarchies of the East there could be no question
of any _equality of rights_--there was only the negative equality of
general rightlessness. But equal distribution of an injustice does
not render it just. The idea of equality taken in the abstract is
mathematical only, not ethical.
[118] Hospitality to peaceful strangers is a fact of very ancient
date, but can hardly be said to be primitive. In Greece its founder
was supposed to be Zeus--the representative of the _third_ generation
of gods (after Chronos and Uranus). Before being a guest in the sense
of simply a friendly visitor, the stranger was a ‘guest’ in the sense
of ‘merchant,’ and earlier still he was only regarded in the sense of
the Latin _hostis_ (enemy). In times still more ancient, accounts of
which have been handed down in classical tradition, a good guest was
met with still greater joy than in the later, hospitable times, but
only as a savoury dish at the family feast. Apart from such extremes,
the prevalent attitude to strangers in primitive society was no doubt
similar to that observed by Sir John Lubbock among ants. When a
stranger ant belonging to a different community, though one of the same
species, came to an ant heap, ants would drag it about for a while by
its antennae till it was half-dead, and then either finish it off or
drive it away.
[119] In the parables of the leaven, of wheat and tares, of the mustard
seed, etc.
CHAPTER V
THE NATIONAL QUESTION FROM THE MORAL POINT OF VIEW
The work of embodying perfect morality in the collective whole of
mankind is hindered, in addition to individual passions and vices, by
the inveterate forms of collective evil which act like a contagion.
In spite of the slow but sure progress in the life of humanity, that
evil shows itself now, as it did of old, in a threefold hostility, a
threefold immoral relation--between different nations, between society
and the criminal, between the different classes of society. Listen to
the way in which the French speak of the Germans, the Portuguese of
the Dutch, the Chinese of the English, and Americans of the Chinese.
Consider the thoughts and feelings of the audience at a criminal trial,
the behaviour of a crowd using lynch law in America, or settling
accounts with a witch or a horse-stealer in Russia. Hear or read the
remarks exchanged between socialist workmen and representatives of
the propertied classes at meetings, and in the newspapers. It will
then become evident that apart from the anomalies of the personal
will we must also take into account the power of the superpersonal
or collective hostility in its three aspects. The national, the
penal and the socially economic questions have, independently of all
considerations of internal and external policy, a special interest for
the moral consciousness. To deal with them from this point of view is
all the more essential, because a new and worse evil has been added
of late to the calamity of the hereditary disease--namely, the rash
attempt to cure it by preaching new forms of social violence on the
one hand, and a passive disintegration of humanity into its individual
units on the other.
I
Man’s relation to nationality is in our day generally determined in
two ways: as _nationalistic_ or as _cosmopolitan_. There may be many
shades and transition stages in the domain of feeling and of taste, but
there are only two clear and definite points of view. The first may be
formulated as follows: _We must love our own nation and serve it by all
the means at our command, and to other nations we may be indifferent.
If their interests conflict with ours, we must take up a hostile
attitude to the foreign nations._ The essence of the cosmopolitan view
is this: _Nationality is merely a natural fact, devoid of all moral
significance; we have no duties to the nation as such (neither to our
own nor to any other); our duty is only to individual men without any
distinction of nationality._
It is at once apparent that neither view expresses the right attitude
towards the fact of national difference. The first ascribes to this
fact an absolute significance which it cannot possess, and the second
deprives it of all significance. It will be easily seen also that each
view finds its justification solely in the _negative_ aspect of the
_opposite_ view.
No rational believer in cosmopolitanism would, of course, find fault
with the adherents of nationalism for loving their own country. He
would only blame them for thinking that it is permissible, and in some
cases even obligatory, to hate and despise men of a different race
and nationality. In the same way the most ardent nationalist will
not, unless he is altogether devoid of reason, attack the champions
of cosmopolitanism for demanding justice for other nations, but will
accuse them of being indifferent to their own. So that in each of
these views even its direct opponents cannot help distinguishing the
good side from the bad, and the question naturally arises whether
these two sides are necessarily connected. Does love for one’s own
people necessarily imply the view that all means of serving it are
permissible, and justify an indifferent and hostile relation to other
nations? Does the same _moral_ relation to all human beings necessarily
mean indifference to nationality in general, and to one’s own in
particular?
The first question is easily solved by analysing the content of the
idea of true patriotism or love for one’s country. The necessity for
such an elementary analysis will be recognised by every one. For every
one will agree that patriotism may be _irrational_, do harm instead of
the intended good, and lead nations to disaster; that patriotism may be
_vain_, and based on unfounded pretensions; and, finally, that it may
be directly _false_, and serve merely as a cloak for low and selfish
motives. In what, then, does true or real patriotism consist?
When we really love some one, we wish and strive to obtain for them
both moral and material good,--the latter, however, only on condition
of the former. To every one whom I love I wish, among other things,
material prosperity, provided, of course, that it is attained by
honourable means and made good use of. But if, when my friend is
in need, I were to assist him in making his fortune by fraud, even
supposing that he would be certain to escape punishment--or, if he
were a writer, and I advised him to increase his literary fame by a
successful plagiarism, I should be rightly considered by every one to
be either a madman or a scoundrel, and certainly not a good friend.
It is clear then that the goods which love leads us to desire for our
neighbours differ both in their external character and in their inner
meaning for the will. Spiritual goods exclude, by the very conception
of them, the possibility of being attained by bad means; one cannot
steal moral dignity, or plunder justice, or appropriate benevolence.
These goods are _unconditionally_ desirable. Material goods, which,
from the nature of the case, admit of bad means, are on the contrary
desirable _on condition_ that such means are not used, _i.e._ on
condition that material ends are subordinate to the moral end.
Up to a certain point every one will agree with this elementary truth.
Every one would grant that it is wrong to enrich oneself at the cost of
a crime, or to enrich a friend, one’s own or his family, or even one’s
town or province at the cost of a crime. But this elementary moral
truth which is as clear as day suddenly becomes dim and altogether
obscure as soon as we get to _one’s country_. Everything becomes
permissible in the service of its supposed interests, the purpose
justifies the means, the black becomes white, falsehood is preferred
to truth, violence is extolled as a virtue. Nationality here becomes
the final end, the highest good and the standard of good for human
activity. Such undue glorification is, however, purely illusory, and
is in truth degrading to the nation. The highest human goods cannot,
as we have seen, be attained by immoral means. By admitting bad means
into our service of the nation and by _justifying_ them we limit the
national interest to the lower material goods which may be obtained
and preserved by wrong and evil methods. This is a direct _injury_ to
the very nation we wish to serve. It means transferring the centre of
gravity of the national life from the higher sphere to the lower, and
serving national _egoism_ under the guise of serving the nation. The
moral worthlessness of _such_ nationalism is proved by history itself.
There is abundant evidence that nations prospered and were great only
so long as they did not make themselves their final end, but served
the higher, the _universal_ ideal ends. History shows also that the
very conception of the nation as a final and ultimate bearer of the
collective life of humanity is ill-founded.
II
The division of humanity into definite and stable groups possessing
a national character is a fact which is neither universal nor first
in the order of time. Not to speak of savages and barbarians, who are
still living in separate families, clans or nomadic bands, division
into nations did not exclusively predominate even in the civilised
part of humanity when the tribe was finally superseded by the ‘city’
or ‘country.’ The country and the nation, though more or less closely
associated, do not altogether coincide. In the ancient world we
find hardly any clear division into nations at all. We find either
independent civic communities, _i.e._ groups smaller than the nation
and united politically only and not by the bond of nationality--such
as the cities of Phoenicia, Greece and Italy--or, on the contrary,
groups larger than the nation--the so-called ‘world empires’ which
included many peoples, from the Assyro-Babylonic down to the Roman.
In these crude precursors of the universal unity of mankind national
considerations had merely a material significance and were not the
determining factor. The idea of nationality as the supreme principle
of life found neither the time nor the place for its application in
the ancient world. The opposition between one’s own people and aliens
was then far more sharp and ruthless than it is now, but it was not
determined by nationality. In the kingdom of Darius and Xerxes men of
different race and nationality were all regarded as members of one
body, since they were equally subject to one common authority and one
supreme law. Enemies or aliens were the men who were _not yet_ brought
under the rule of ‘the great king.’ On the other hand, in Greece, the
fact that Spartans and Athenians spoke the same language, had the
same gods and realised that they belonged to the same nation, did not
prevent them from treating each other as foreigners throughout their
history, or even from being mortal enemies. Similar relations held
between other cities or civic communities of Greece, and only once in a
thousand years did the true national or pan-Greek patriotism actively
show itself, namely, during the Persian war. The coincidence--and that
only an approximate one--between practical solidarity and national
character hardly lasted for forty years, and was superseded by a
fierce and prolonged slaughter of the Greeks by the Greeks during
the Peloponnesian war. This state of deadly struggle between small
communities belonging to one and the same nation was considered
perfectly normal and continued up to the moment when all these
communities together lost their independence. They lost it not in order
to form a national unity, but in order that the Greek nation might,
under the power of foreign kings, immediately pass from its state of
political disruption to becoming the uniting and civilising element in
the whole of the ancient world. The opposition between fellow-citizens
and aliens (_i.e._ inhabitants of another city, though a Greek one)
had now lost its meaning as a supreme political principle, and was not
replaced by the opposition between their own and other nations. What
remained was the wider opposition between Hellenism and barbarism,
meaning by the former participation in the higher intellectual and
æsthetic culture, and not necessarily the fact of being a Greek by
birth, or of using the Greek language. Not even the most arrogant
of Greeks ever regarded Horace and Vergil, Augustus or Mæcenas as
barbarians. Indeed the founders of the Hellenic ‘world empire’
themselves--the Macedonian kings Philip and Alexander, were not Greeks
in the ethnographical sense. And it was owing to these two foreigners
that Greeks immediately passed from the narrow local patriotism of
separate civic communities to the consciousness of themselves as
bearers of a world-wide culture, without ever returning to the stage
of the national patriotism of the Persian wars. As to Rome, the whole
of Roman history was a continuous transition from the policy of a city
to the policy of a world Empire--_ab urbe ad orbem_--without pausing
at a purely national stage. When Rome was defending herself against
the Punic invasion, she was merely the most powerful of the Italian
cities. When she crushed her enemy, she imperceptibly overstepped
the ethnographical and the geographical boundaries of Latinism and
became conscious of herself as a moving force in the world-history,
anticipating by two centuries the poet’s reminder--
But, Rome, ’tis thine alone, with awful sway,
To rule mankind and make the world obey.
Disposing peace and war thy own majestic way,
To tame the proud, the fetter’d slave to free.
Roman citizenship soon became accessible to all, and the formula ‘Rome
for the Romans’ appealed to no one on the banks of the Tiber: Rome was
for the world.
While Alexanders and Cæsars were politically abolishing in East
and West the vague limits of nationality, cosmopolitanism as a
philosophical doctrine was developed and disseminated by the
representatives of the two most popular schools of thought--the
wandering Cynics and the dispassionate Stoics. They preached the
supremacy of nature and reason, the unity underlying all existence
and the insignificance of all artificial and historical limitations
and divisions. They taught that man by his very nature and therefore
_every_ man had a supreme destination and dignity, consisting in
freedom from external affections, errors and passions, in the steadfast
courage of the man who “if the whole world were dashed to fragments,
would remain serene among the ruins.”[120] Hence they inevitably
recognised all the externally given determinations, social, national,
etc., as conventional and illusory. Roman jurisprudence,[121] in
its own sphere and from its own point of view, also supported the
philosophical ideas of natural and therefore universal reason, of
virtue which is the same for all, and of the equality of human rights.
As a result of this collective intellectual work the conception ‘Roman’
became identical with the conception of ‘universal,’ both in its
external range of application and in its inner content.[122]
III
At the beginning of the Christian era the Jewish people were the
only one within the civilised world of antiquity who had a strong
national consciousness. But in their case it was intimately associated
with their religion, with the true feeling of its inner superiority
and a presentiment of world-wide historical destiny. The national
consciousness of the Jews had no real satisfaction; it lived by hopes
and expectations. The short-lived greatness of David and Solomon was
idealised and transformed into a golden age. But the vital historical
instinct of the people who were the first to evolve a philosophy of
history (in the book of Daniel on the world empires and on the kingdom
of truth of the Son of man) did not allow them to stop at the glorified
image of the past and made them transfer their ideal into the future.
This ideal, however, had from the first certain features of universal
significance, and when, by the inspiration of the prophets, it was
transferred to the future it became finally free from all narrow
nationalistic limitations. Isaiah proclaimed the Christ as the banner
that is to gather all nations round Himself, and the author of the book
of Daniel entirely adopted the point of view of _universal_ history.
This universalistic conception of the Messiah, expressing the true
national self-consciousness of the Jews as the finest ideal flower
of the spirit of the people, was held only by the elect few. When
the banner for all the peoples was, as foretold by the prophets,
raised in Jerusalem and Galilee, the majority of the Jews with their
official leaders (the Sadducees), and partly with their unofficial
teachers (the Pharisees), proved to be on the side of the national
and religious exclusiveness as against the highest realisation of the
prophetic ideal. The inevitable conflict and breach between these two
tendencies--these ‘two souls,’[123] as it were--of the Jewish people
sufficiently explains (from the purely historical point of view) the
great tragedy of Golgotha, with which Christianity began.[124]
It would, however, be an obvious mistake to associate Christianity
with the principle of cosmopolitanism. There was no occasion for the
Apostles to preach against nationality. The dangerous and immoral
aspect of national divisions, namely, mutual hatred and malignant
struggle, no longer existed within the limits of the ‘universe’[125]
of that day; Roman peace--_pax Romana_--had abolished wars between
nations. Christian universalism was directed against other and more
profound divisions, which remained in full force in practical life
in spite of the ideas of the prophets, the philosophers, and the
jurists. There remained the distinction of religion between Judaism
and paganism, the distinction of culture between Hellenism (which
included educated Romans) and barbarism, and, finally, the worst
distinction--the socially-economic one--between freemen and slaves. It
had retained all its force in practice, in spite of the theoretical
protests of the Stoics. These divisions were in direct opposition
to the moral principle--which was not the case with the national
distinctions of that time. The latter had in the Roman Empire as
innocent a character as, for instance, the provincialism of Gascogne
or Brittany has in modern France. But the opposition between the
Jews and the Gentiles, the Hellenes and the barbarians, freemen and
slaves, involved the denial of all solidarity between them; it was
an opposition of the higher beings to the lower, the lower having
their moral dignity and human rights denied to them.[126] This is the
reason why St. Paul had to proclaim that in Jesus Christ there is
neither Jew nor Greek, neither bond nor free, but a new creation--a
_new_ creation, however, and not simple reduction of the old to one
denominator. In the place of the negative ideal of the dispassionate
Stoic unmoved by the downfall of the world, the Apostle puts the
positive ideal of a man full of compassion and at one with all that
lives, who shares in the sufferings of the universal man, Christ, and
in His death that redeems the world, and therefore participates in
His triumph over death and in the salvation of the whole world. In
Christianity the mind passes from the abstract _man in general_ of
the philosophers and jurists to the concrete _universal_ man. The old
hostility and estrangement between different sections of humanity is
thereby completely abolished. _Every_ man, if only he lets ‘Christ
be formed in him,’[127] _i.e._ if he enters into the spirit of the
perfect man, and determines all his life and activity by the ideal
revealed in the image of Christ, participates in the Godhead through
the power of the Son of God abiding in him. For the regenerated man
individuality, like all other characteristics and distinctions,
including that of nationality, ceases to be a _limit_, and becomes the
basis of positive union with the collective all-embracing humanity or
Church (in its true nature), which is complementary to him. According
to the well-known saying of St. Paul the peculiarities of structure
and of function which distinguish a given bodily organ from other
organs do not separate it from them and from the rest of the body, but
on the contrary are the basis of its definite positive participation
in the life of the organism, and make it of unique value to all the
other organs and the body as a whole. Likewise in the ‘body of Christ’
individual peculiarities do not separate one person from others, but
unite each with all, being the ground of his special significance for
all and of his positive interaction with them. Now this obviously
applies to nationality as well. The _all-embracing humanity_ (or the
Church which the Apostle preached) is not an abstract idea, but is _a
harmonious union of all the concrete positive characteristics of the
new or the regenerated creation_. It therefore includes the _national_
as well as the _personal_ characteristics. The body of Christ is a
_perfect_ organism and cannot consist of simple cells alone; it must
contain larger and more complex organs, which in this connection are
naturally represented by the different nations. The difference between
the personal and the national character is not one of principle[128]
but of greater stability and wider range in the case of the latter.
Since Christianity does not demand absence of individual character, it
cannot demand absence of national character. The spiritual regeneration
it demands both of individuals and of nations does not mean a loss
of the natural qualities and powers; it means that these qualities
are transformed, that a new direction and a new content are given
them. When Peter and John were regenerated by the spirit of Christ,
they did not lose any of their positive peculiarities and distinct
characteristic features. So far from losing their individuality, they
developed and strengthened it. This is how it must be with entire
nations converted to Christianity.
Actual adoption of the true religion containing the unconditional
principle of morality must sweep away a great deal from the national as
well as from the individual life. But that which is incompatible with
the unconditional principle and has therefore to be destroyed does not
constitute a positive characteristic or peculiarity. There is such a
thing as collective evil will, as historical sin burdening the national
conscience, as a wrong direction of the life and activity of a nation.
From all these wrongs a nation must set itself free, but such freedom
can only strengthen it, and increase and widen the expression of its
positive character.
The first preachers of the Gospel had no reason to occupy themselves
with the national question which the life of humanity had not yet
brought to the fore, since there were hardly any distinct, independent
nations conscious of themselves as such on the historical arena of the
time. Nevertheless we find in the New Testament definite indications
of _a positive_ attitude to nationality. The words spoken to the
Samaritan woman, “_salvation is of the Jews_,”[129] and the preliminary
direction to the disciples, “go rather to the lost sheep of the house
of Israel,”[130] clearly show Christ’s love for His own people. And
His final command to the Apostles, “Go ye therefore, and teach _all
nations_,”[131] implies that even outside Israel He contemplated not
separate individuals only, but entire peoples.[132] When St. Paul
became the Apostle of the Gentiles he did not thereupon become a
cosmopolitan. Though separated from the majority of his compatriots in
the all-important question of religion, he was not indifferent to his
people and their special destination:
“I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me
witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual
sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from
Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh: who are
Israelites; to whom pertaineth the adoption, and the glory, and the
covenants, and the giving of the law, and the service of God, and the
promises; whose are the fathers, and of whom, as concerning the flesh,
Christ came.... Brethren, my heart’s desire and prayer to God for
Israel is, that they might be saved.”[133]
IV
Before they could realise the ideal of universal humanity, nations had
first to be formed as distinct independent bodies. Let us consider
this process with special reference to Western Europe, where it is
finally completed. The Apostles’ successors, to whom the command to
teach all nations was handed down, soon came to deal with nations
in their infancy, standing in need of elementary upbringing before
they could be taught. The Church nurtured them conscientiously
and with self-sacrificing devotion, and then continued to act as
their guardian, making them pass through a school that was somewhat
one-sided though not bad. The historical childhood and youth of the
Romano-Germanic nations under the guardianship of the Roman Catholic
Church--the so-called Middle Ages--did not end in anything like a
normal way. The spiritual authorities failed to observe that their
nurslings had come of age, and, from natural human weakness, insisted
on treating them in the same old way. The anomalies and changes that
arose from this fact have no bearing on our subject. What is of
importance to us is the phenomenon which took place in the development
of every European nation. It undoubtedly indicates a certain general
ethico-historical law, for it was manifested under the most various and
often directly opposed conditions.
For reasons sufficiently obvious Italy was the first of European
countries to attain to national self-consciousness. The Lombard League
in the middle of the twelfth century clearly indicates national
awakening. The external struggle, however, was only an impetus that
called to life the true forces of the Italian genius. At the beginning
of the next century the newly-born Italian language was used by St.
Francis to express ideas and feelings of universal significance that
could be understood by Buddhists and Christians alike. At the same
period began Italian painting (Cimabue), and at the beginning of the
fourteenth century appeared Dante’s comprehensive poem, which would
alone have been sufficient to make Italy great. From the fourteenth
to the seventeenth centuries Italy, torn asunder by the hostilities
between the cities and the podestas, the Pope and the Emperor, the
French and the Spanish, produced all for which humanity loves and
values her, all, of which Italians may justly pride themselves. All
these immortal works of the philosophical and scientific, poetical and
artistic genius had the same value for other nations, for the world
as a whole as for the Italians themselves. Men to whom Italy’s true
greatness was due were no doubt real patriots. They set the greatest
value upon their country, but it was not in their case an empty
claim leading to false and immoral demands--they embodied the lofty
significance of Italy in works of absolute value. They did not consider
it true and beautiful to affirm themselves and their nationality, but
they _directly_ affirmed themselves in what is true and beautiful.
Their works were good not because they glorified Italy, but rather
they glorified Italy because they were good in themselves--good _for
all_. Under such conditions patriotism stands in no need of defence
and justification. It justifies itself in practice, evincing itself
as creative _power_ and not as fruitless reflection or ‘excitement of
idle thought.’ Corresponding to the inner intensity of the creative
work at this blossoming time of Italy was the wide extension of the
Italian race at that period. Its civilising influence extended to the
Crimea in the East and Scotland in the North-West. The first European
to penetrate to Mongolia and China was Marco Polo, an Italian. Another
Italian discovered the new world, and the third, enlarging that
discovery, left it his name. The literary influence of Italy was for
several centuries prevalent throughout Europe. Italian poetry, epic and
lyric, and the Italian novel were examples for imitation. Shakespeare
took from the Italians the subjects and the form of his plays. The
ideas of Giordano Bruno roused philosophical reflection both in England
and in Germany. The Italian language and Italian fashions universally
prevailed in the higher classes of society. And while the national
creative work and influence were at their highest, Italians were
obviously concerned not with keeping Italy for themselves--at that time
indeed it was for any one who liked to take it--but only with things
which made them be something for others and gave them a universal
significance. They cared for the objective ideas of beauty and
truth, which through their national spirit received a new and worthy
expression. What conception of nationality can be logically deduced
from this? It cannot be said, with Italy’s national history before us,
that nationality is something self-existent and self-contained, living
in itself and for itself, for this great nation proves to be simply a
special form of universal content, living _in_ that content, filled
with it and embodying it not for itself only but _for all_.
The _Spanish_ nation developed under very peculiar conditions. For
seven centuries Spain was the vanguard on the right flank of the
Christian world in its struggle with Mohammedanism. And just when the
left flank--Byzantium--was overthrown by the enemy, on the right flank
Spaniards won a final and decisive victory. This long and successful
struggle was justly regarded as the national glory of Spain. It is not
permissible for a Christian people to hate and despise Mohammedans--or
any one else--or seek to exterminate them; but to defend Europe
against invasion by them was a direct Christian duty. For in so far
as Christianity, in spite of all its historical perversions, contains
absolute truth, to which the future belongs, in so far the defence
even of the external boundaries of Christian faith and culture against
the destructive violence of the armed hordes of unbelievers is an
unquestionable merit from the point of view of humanity. Apart from the
question of religious belief, would it have been a gain for historical
progress had Western Europe met with the fate of Western Asia or of
the Balkan Peninsula?[134] In defending themselves against the Moors
the Spaniards were serving the common cause of humanity, and they
knew it. They would not dream of saying ‘Spain is for the Spaniards,’
for in that case why should they not go further and say ‘Castile is
for the Castilians, Arragon is for the Arragonians,’ etc.? They felt,
they thought, and they proclaimed that Spain was for all Christendom,
as Christianity was for all the world. Their feeling was perfectly
genuine, they really wished to serve their religion as a universal
religion, as the highest good for all, and one can only reproach
them with having a wrong or a one-sided conception of Christianity.
The continuous struggle for a common and just cause lasted for seven
centuries, and, being chiefly an external struggle waged by the force
of arms,[135] it created both the strength and the narrowness of the
national spirit of Spain. More than any other nation the Spaniards
distorted the truth of Christianity in their practical conception of it
and in their actions; more decisively than any one they associated it
with violence. According to the general custom of the Middle Ages, the
Spaniards based their practical view of the world upon the distinction
between the two swords--the spiritual sword of the monks under the rule
of the Pope, and the worldly sword of the knights under the rule of the
king. But in their case--more than in the case of any other nation--the
two swords were so closely connected as to become essentially alike.
The spiritual sword proved in the end to be as material and violent as
the worldly, though more painful and less noble than the latter. The
special part played by the Spanish nation in this respect is shown by
the fact that the Inquisition had twice been started by Spaniards--by
the monk Dominique in the thirteenth, and the king Ferdinand in the
fifteenth century.[136]
The struggle of Spanish knights with the bellicose Mohammedan invaders
was a gain to Christianity and the source of the greatness of Spain.
The work of the ‘spiritual sword’ against the _conquered_ Moors and
defenceless Jews was treason to the spirit of Christ, a disgrace to
Spain and the first cause of its downfall. The bitter fruits of the
fatal historical sin did not ripen at once. In following its old path
of external service to the Christian faith Spain did one good thing
more for the common cause--namely, she spread Christianity beyond the
ocean. Spanish knights and pirates acquired for Christian culture,
such as it was, the greater part of the new world. They saved a
whole country (Mexico) from such abominations and horrors of satanic
heathendom[137] as cause even the horrors of the Inquisition to fade
(and the Inquisition itself was abolished soon after). They founded in
Southern and Central America a dozen new States which take some part
in the common historical life of humanity. At the same time Spanish
missionaries--a real saint like the Jesuit Francis Xavier among
them--were the first to carry the Gospel to India and Japan. Spain,
however, still regarded as its main task the defence of Christianity
(as she understood it, _i.e._ of the Roman Church) from its immediate
and most dangerous enemies. In the fifteenth century it found such
enemies no longer in the Mohammedans but in the Protestants. At the
present time we can look upon the Reformation as a necessary moment
in the history of Christianity itself. But for people who lived at
that epoch it was impossible to take this view. They either themselves
became Protestants or regarded Protestantism as a hostile attack,
proceeding from the devil, against the Christian truth embodied in
the Church. For Spain, whose whole history was bound up with the
Catholic idea, there could be no choice. All the strength of the
most powerful country of the time was directed to crushing the new
religious movement. It was a work wrong in principle, revoltingly cruel
in practice, and a hopeless failure in its result. The moral guilt
of Spain, which made the Duke of Alba her national and ‘Christian’
hero, is beyond all doubt. One can only point to some extenuating
circumstances. The Spanish were sincerely, though blindly, convinced
that they were standing up for a good that is universal, for what
is most important and precious to humanity--the one true religion,
of which godless renegades, possessed by the spirit of evil, wanted
to rob mankind. In this national struggle against Protestantism the
Spanish defended a certain universal principle, namely, the principle
of the external guardianship of a divine institution over humanity. It
was a false and untenable universalism, but its champions sincerely
believed in it and served it disinterestedly without any selfish
considerations, whether nationally-political or personal. At the same
time the Spanish genius of Ignatius Loyola founded, with the purpose
of combating Protestantism by peaceful means, the order of Jesuits--an
order of which people may think what they like, but to which one thing
can certainly not be denied--viz. its universal and international
character. So that in making the struggle with Protestantism into a
national idea the Spanish did not separate it from the interests of the
common good, as they understood it. The unsuccessful external struggle
for Roman Catholicism undermined the kingdom of Spain, but did not
exhaust the spiritual forces of the Spanish nation. Moral energy shown
in the defence of a universal though a wrongly conceived cause found
another and a better expression in the realm of the spirit. In the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Spain made considerable national
contributions to the general treasury of higher culture in the domain
of art, poetry, and contemplative mysticism. In all these things the
Spanish genius was occupied with objects important not for the Spanish
nation only but for all mankind. Its work was extremely national in
character, but this came about naturally, without any deliberate
intention on the part of the authors. It undoubtedly had a universal
interest, and supported the glory of Spain at a time when her external
power was on the wane and her arms were justly suffering defeat. The
influence of Spanish culture rivalled that of the Italian in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, precisely at a time when half
Europe entertained a natural hostility towards the defenders of the old
religion.
The highest development of the _English_ national spirit may, for the
sake of brevity, be designated by five names: Bacon, Shakespeare,
Milton, Newton, and Penn. These five names have nothing to do with the
demands and pretensions of exclusive nationalism. They stand for what
is of importance and value to all mankind, and express the common debt
of humanity to England. The men who created the national greatness
of England never thought of nationalism as such. One was concerned
with the true knowledge of nature and of man, and was occupied with
the problem of a new and better scientific method; another sought
artistically to represent the human soul, human passions, characters
and destinies, and did not hesitate to borrow his subjects from
foreign literature and transfer the place of action to foreign
countries. The great leaders of the Puritan movement, who found their
prophet in Milton, thought above all things of ordering life in
accordance with the Biblical ideal, equally binding, in their view,
upon all nations. These Englishmen did not hesitate to recognise for
_their own_ and to carry beyond the ocean an ideal _Hebrew_ in its
first origin and _German_ in its Protestant form. And the greatest
representative of modern science discovered with his English intellect
a universal truth about the physical world as an interconnected whole,
containing, as a principle of its unity, that which he called the
‘sensorium of the Deity.’
A broadly conceived world of scientific experience, open on all sides
to the intellect; profound artistic humanism; high ideas of religious
and political freedom and a grand conception of the physical unity of
the universe--this is what the English nation produced through her
heroes and men of genius. ‘England for the English’ was not enough for
them; they thought that the whole world was for the English, and they
had a right to think so, because they themselves were for the whole
world. The wide diffusion of the English race was in close correlation
with the good qualities of the national character. British merchants,
of course, always observed their own interests; but it is not _any_
merchants who could succeed in colonising North America and forming a
new great nation of it. For the United States were built up, not by
the Redskins or Negroes, but by English people and English political
and religious ideas--ideas of universal significance. Nor is it _any_
merchants who could take firm possession of India and build a civilised
Australia on a perfectly virginal soil.[138]
The culminating point in the national history of _France_ is the epoch
of the great Revolution and of the Napoleonic wars, when the universal
significance of that country was most clearly apparent. The national
life was then at its highest, not perhaps from the point of view of
its content, but of its intensity and of the breadth of external
influence. No doubt, the rights of man and of citizen proclaimed to all
the world proved to be largely fictitious; no doubt the all-embracing
revolutionary trinity--_liberté_, _egalité_, _fraternité_--was realised
in a very peculiar fashion. But in any case the fact that the people
were carried away by these universal ideas showed that the spirit of
narrow nationalism was foreign to them. Did France want to be ‘for
the French’ only when she surrendered herself to a half-Italian in
order that he should direct her powers and sweep away in the whole of
Europe the old order of things, introducing everywhere the principles
of civic equality, religious and political freedom? Apart from this
epoch, indeed, France was always noted for a special kind of universal
receptivity and communicativeness, by a power and a desire to grasp the
ideas of others, give them a finished and popular form, and then to
send them forth into the world. This power makes the history of France
a vivid and emphatic _résumé_ of universal history, and is too obvious
and too well known to dwell upon.
Having first shown the greatness of her national spirit in the
Reformation, _Germany_ has in modern times (from the middle of the
eighteenth to the middle of the nineteenth century) occupied the
foremost place in the domain of higher culture, intellectual and
æsthetic--the place which Italy had held at the end of mediæval
and at the beginning of modern history. The universal character
and significance of the Reformation, of the poetry of Goethe, of
the philosophy of Kant or Hegel, stands in no need of proof or
demonstration. I will only observe that for Germany, as for Italy, the
period of the highest development of the spiritual forces of the nation
coincided with the period of political weakness and disruption.
The broad idealism of the _Polish_ spirit, receptive of foreign
influences to the point of enthusiasm and devotion, is only too
obvious. The universalism of the Poles caused the narrow nationalists
to reproach them of ‘treason to the cause of the Slavs.’ But those who
are familiar with the shining lights of Polish thought--Mickiewicz,
Krasinski, Tovianski, Slowacki--know how greatly the power of the
national genius showed itself in their universalistic work. As to our
own country, the Russian spirit has hitherto found no embodiment more
vivid and powerful than the Tsar, whose powerful arm has demolished our
national exclusiveness for ever, and the poet who had a special gift
to identify himself with the genius of other nations and yet remain
wholly Russian.[139] Peter the Great and Pushkin--these two names are
sufficient to prove that the dignity of our national spirit found its
realisation only in unreserved communion with the rest of humanity, and
not apart from it.
Without enumerating all the other nations, I will only mention Holland
and Sweden. The national glory and prosperity of the first were due to
her struggle for the faith against Spanish despotism. As a consequence
of it, the little country did not shut itself up in its dearly bought
independence, but became the abode of free thought for all Europe.
Sweden manifested her national greatness when, under Gustavus Adolphus,
she devoted herself to the service of the common cause of religious
freedom against the policy of compulsory uniformity.
V
The history of all nations which have had a direct influence upon the
destinies of humanity in ancient and modern times teaches one and
the same thing. At the period when their powers were unfolded to the
utmost, they took the greatness and the value of their nationality to
lie not in itself taken in the abstract, but in something universal,
_supernational_ that they believed in, that they served and that they
realised in their creative work--a work national in its origin and
means of expression, but wholly universal in its content and in its
objective result. Nations live and act not for their own sakes, nor
for the sake of their material interests, but of their idea, _i.e._
for the sake of what is most important to them and _can be of service
to the world as a whole_--they live not for themselves only, but for
all. That which a nation believes in and does in faith it is bound to
regard as _unconditionally_ good--not as its own good, but as good in
itself and therefore as good for all; and such it generally proves
to be. Historical representatives of a nation may wrongly understand
this or that aspect of a nationally-universal idea which they serve,
and then their service is bad and fruitless. Philip II. and the Duke
of Alba had a very wrong idea of ecclesiastical unity, and the Paris
Convention understood the idea of human rights no better. But the bad
understanding passes away and the idea remains, and, if it is really
rooted in the soul of a people, it finds new and better expression free
from the old imperfections.
The creative work of a nation, _i.e._ that which a nation concretely
realises in the world, is universal; the object of true national
_self-consciousness_ is universal also. A nation is not aware of itself
in the abstract, as of an empty subject separate from the content and
the meaning of its life. It is conscious of itself in relation to that
which it does and wants to do, in relation to what it believes in and
what it serves.
It is clear from history that a nation does not regard itself, taken
in the abstract, as the purpose of its life. In other words, it does
not set an absolute value upon its material interest apart from its
supreme ideal condition. But if this be so, the individual too has no
right in his love for his nation to separate it from the meaning of its
existence and to put the service of its material advantages above the
demands of morality. A nation in and through its true creative work and
self-consciousness affirms itself in the universal--in that which is of
value for every one and in which all are united. How then can a true
patriot, for the sake of a supposed ‘advantage’ to his nation, destroy
its solidarity with other nations, and despise or hate foreigners? A
nation finds its true good in the common good; how then can a patriot
take the good of his nation to be something distinct from and opposed
to everything else? It will clearly not be the ideal moral good which
the nation itself desires, and the supposed patriot will prove to be
opposed not to other nations but to his own in its best aspirations.
National hostility and opposition no doubt exist, just as cannibalism
once existed everywhere; they exist as a zoological fact, condemned
by the best consciousness of the peoples themselves. Made into an
abstract principle this zoological fact hangs over the life of nations,
obscuring its significance and destroying its inspiration--for _the
significance and the inspiration of the particular is only to be found
in its connection and harmony with the universal_.
As against false patriotism or nationalism, which supports the
predominance of the animal instincts of a people over its higher
national self-consciousness, cosmopolitanism is right in demanding that
the moral law shall be unconditionally applied to all, apart from all
difference of nationality. But it is the moral principle itself which,
when consistently worked out, prevents us from being satisfied with the
negative demand of cosmopolitanism.
Let it be granted that the immediate object of the moral relation
is the individual person. But one of the essential peculiarities of
that person--direct continuation and expansion of his individual
character--is his nationality (in the positive sense of character,
type, and creative power). This is not merely a physical, but also
a psychical and moral fact. At the stage of development now reached
by humanity the fact of belonging to a given nationality is to a
certain extent confirmed by the individual’s self-conscious will.
Thus nationality is an inner, inseparable property of the person--is
something very dear and close to him. It is impossible to stand in a
moral relation to this person without recognising the existence of
what is so important to him. The moral principle does not allow us to
transform a concrete person, a living man with his inseparable and
essential national characteristics into an empty abstract subject with
all his determining peculiarities left out. If we are to recognise the
inner dignity of this particular man this obligation extends to all
positive characteristics with which he connects his dignity; if we love
a man we must love his nation which he loves and from which he does
not separate himself. The highest moral ideal demands that we should
love all men as we love ourselves. But since men do not exist outside
of nations (just as nations do not exist apart from individual men),
and since this connection has already become moral and inward as well
as physical, the direct logical deduction is that _we must love all
nations as we love our own_. This commandment affirms patriotism as a
natural and fundamental feeling, as a direct duty of the individual to
the collective whole immediately above him, and at the same time it
frees that feeling from the zoological properties of national egoism or
nationalism, and makes it the basis of and the standard for a positive
relation to all other nations in accordance with the absolute and
all-embracing principle of morality. The significance of this demand of
loving other nations does not in any way depend upon the metaphysical
question as to whether nations are independent collective entities.
Even if a nation exists only in its visible individual representatives,
at any rate _in them_ it constitutes a positive peculiarity which one
may value and love in foreigners just as much as in men belonging to
our own people. If such a relation actually becomes a rule, national
_differences_ will be preserved and even intensified, while hostile
_divisions_ and aggressiveness, that are so fundamental an obstacle to
the moral organisation of humanity, will disappear.
The demand to love other nations as our own does not at all imply a
_psychological identity_ of feeling, but only an _ethical identity_
of conduct. I must desire the true good of all other nations as much
as that of my own. This ‘love of benevolence’ is identical if only
because the true good is one and indivisible. Such ethical love
involves, of course, a psychological understanding and approval of
the positive characteristics of other nations. Once the senseless and
ignorant national hostility has been overcome by the moral will, we
begin to know and to value other nations--we begin _to like_ them.
This ‘approving love,’ however, can never be identical with the
love we feel for our own people, just as the sincerest love to our
neighbours (according to the commandment of the Gospel) can never be
psychologically identical with the love for oneself, although it is
ethically equivalent to it. One’s own _self_, just as _one’s own_
nation, always retains the priority of a starting-point. When this
difficulty is cleared away, no serious objections can be raised against
the principle: _love all other nations as your own_.[140]
FOOTNOTES:
[120]
Si fractus illabatur orbis
Impavidum ferient ruinae.
[121] For confirmation of these statements see last chapter of Part
I. of _Natsionalny Vopros_ (_The national question_), by the present
author.
[122] Although the Stoic philosophy originated in Greece, independently
of Rome, it developed only in the Roman era, was particularly prevalent
among the Romans, and manifested its practical influence chiefly
through Roman lawyers.
[123]
Two souls live in my breast,
They struggle, and long to be parted.
GOETHE.
[124] That the best among the Pharisees took no part in the persecution
of Jesus Christ, and were favourable to primitive Christianity, is
shown in Professor Hvolson’s excellent article in the _Memuari Akademii
Nauk_ (_Proceedings of the Academy of Sciences_), 1893.
[125] Οἰκουμένη (_i.e._ γῆ), the Greek name for the Roman Empire.
[126] In speaking of the opposition between Judaism and paganism, I am
referring, of course, not to the teaching of Moses and the prophets
and sages--they all recognised in principle that the pagans had human
rights--but to the spirit of the crowd and its leaders.
[127] St. Paul’s expression.
[128] This is brought out by the fact that the only rational way of
accounting for the genesis of a stable national character, such as the
Jewish--which is not affected by the external influences of climate,
history, etc., is to suppose that it is the inherited, personal
character of the national ancestor. The inner truth of the Biblical
characteristic of Jacob--the ancestor of the Jews--and also of Ishmail,
the ancestor of the Northern Arabs, will be recognised by any impartial
reader, whatever his attitude to the historical side of the narrative
may be. Even granting that the man named Jacob, who did all that in
the book of Genesis he is said to have done, never existed at all,
anyway the Jews, or at any rate the chief tribe of Judah, must have had
a common progenitor; and starting with the national character of the
Jews we must conclude that that progenitor had precisely the typical
peculiarities which the Bible ascribes to Jacob. See S. M. Solovyov’s
_Nabludeniya nad istoricheskoiu zhiznyu narodov_ (_Observations on
the historical life of nations_), and also my _Filosofia Bibleiskoi
Istorii_ (_The Philosophy of the Biblical History_) in the _Istoria
Teokratii_ (_History of Theocracy_).
[129] St. John iv. 22.
[130] St. Matthew x. 6.
[131] St. Matthew xxviii. 19.
[132] The words in the Acts of the Apostles (i. 8), “Ye shall be
witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria,
and unto the uttermost part of the earth,” show still more clearly that
the Saviour of the world recognised a definite, local and national
starting-point for His world-wide work.
[133] Romans ix. 1-5, x. 1.
[134] At one time the Moorish culture in Spain was not inferior, and in
some respects it was superior to the Christian culture of the period.
But history clearly proves how short-lived all Mohammedan culture is.
The end with which it met in the Middle Ages in Damascus, Bagdad and
Cairo would no doubt have been repeated once more in the West. There
too it would have been replaced by stable barbarism, such as the
Turkish. And if the Bashi-Bazouks were to overrun London, and Saxony
were to be constantly raided by the Kurds, what would become of the
British Museum and the Leipzig Press? This is an argument _ad homines_.
But speaking quite seriously and wholly admitting the comparative
merits of Mohammedanism and the historical tasks it still has to
accomplish in Asia and Africa, it must be remembered that this religion
professedly renounces the absolute moral ideal, _i.e._ the principle
of the perfect manifestation of God in man, and has no right therefore
to dominate Christian peoples. To repulse the Mohammedan invasion of
Europe was therefore both a historical necessity and a historical merit
for the Christian nations which took a leading part in the struggle.
[135] Chiefly, but not exclusively, for Spain too had some truly
spiritual champions of Christianity. Such, _e.g._, was Raymond Lullius,
who devoted his life to spreading the true religion by means of
rational persuasion. He worked out a special method, which he thought
could render the dogmas of the faith as self-evident as the truths of
pure mathematics and formal logic. Later on he became a missionary, and
was assassinated in the Bastarian Colonies for peaceful preaching of
the Gospel.
[136] It is a curious coincidence that in both the East and the West
the first persecution for religious beliefs--namely, the persecution
of the Manichean heresy in the fourth century--was due to a
_Spaniard_--Theodosius the Great. It is curious too that the heresy of
the Albigenses, against which the Dominican inquisition was originally
intended, was a direct development of Manicheism, on account of which
the Emperor Theodosius had appointed his ‘inquisitors’ ten centuries
before. Shortly before that time the deplorable part which the
Spanish nation was to play with regard to religious persecutions was
foreshadowed by the fact that the first execution for religious belief
(viz. that of the Priscillian heretics) was due to the instigation of
two Spanish bishops. This unheard-of action called forth protests both
in Italy (St. Ambrose of Milan) and in France (St. Martin of Tours).
[137] For an impartial statement of the facts see A. Réville’s book on
the religion of Mexico and Peru.
[138] Hindus taught in English schools begin to complain--in the
English and their own newspapers, after the English style--that the
English yoke is burdensome and to say that their nation must be united
and obtain freedom for itself. Why is it that this had never occurred
to them before? The fact is that they obtained ideas, such as that of
nationality, national spirit, national dignity, patriotism, solidarity,
development, exclusively from the English. Left to themselves they had
not been able to arrive at them during the two and a half thousand
years of their history, in spite of their ancient wisdom.
[139] The well-known remark of Dostoevsky, who at his best was himself
equally all-embracing.
[140] I cannot regard as serious the objection made by one of my
critics that it is impossible to love one’s own and other nations
equally, because in war it is necessary to fight for one’s own people
against the others. I would have thought it obvious that _the moral
norm_ of international relations must be deduced from some other fact
than that of war. Otherwise we might be driven to take as the norm for
personal relations such facts as, _e.g._, a furious fight between an
actor and a Government clerk, which recently engaged the attention of
the newspapers.
CHAPTER VI
THE PENAL QUESTION FROM THE MORAL POINT OF VIEW
Having accepted the unconditional principle of morality as the standard
of all human relations we shall find no real inner difficulty in
applying it to international morality, _i.e._ to the question as to
how we ought to regard foreigners as such; neither the characteristics
of this or that people nor the general fact of belonging to a
foreign nation contain any moral limitation in virtue of which we
might _a priori_ regard a given foreigner as a worse man than any
of our compatriots. There is therefore no moral ground for national
inequality. The general demand of altruism--to love one’s neighbour
as oneself and another nation as one’s own--remains here in full
force. The fact of _international hostility_ must be unconditionally
condemned as directly opposed to the absolute norm and as essentially
anti-Christian.[141] The normal or the right attitude to foreign
nations is directly demanded by the unconditional principle of
morality. Its application involves great practical difficulties, both
historical and psychological, but it does not give rise to any inner
moral difficulties, complications, or questions. Such difficulties
arise when instead of the morally indifferent fact of nationality we
have to deal with a fact which undoubtedly belongs to the moral sphere,
namely, that of criminality.
The connotation and the denotation of this idea vary with regard to
detail according to time and place. Much that was formerly regarded as
criminal is no longer recognised as such. The very fact of criminality
which had once extended to the criminal’s family and relatives is, at
a certain stage of spiritual development, recognised as exclusively a
personal characteristic. But these historical changes do not affect the
nature of the case. Apart from the _supposed_ criminals of different
kinds, in all human societies there have always been and to the end of
the world there will be real criminals, _i.e._ men with an evil will
sufficiently strong and decided to be directly realised in practice
to the detriment of their neighbours and the danger of the community
as a whole. How then are we to regard these avowedly _bad_ people? It
is clear that from the point of view of the absolute moral principle
the demands of altruism which received their final expression in the
Christian commandments of love must extend to these men too. But the
question, in the first place, is how we are to combine love for the
evil-doer with love for his victim, and secondly, what should be the
_practical_ expression of our love for the evil-doer or criminal so
long as he is in this obviously abnormal moral condition. No one can
avoid this moral question. Even if a person never came into personal
contact with unquestionable crimes and criminals, as a member of
society he must know that there exists a very complex administrative,
legal and penal organisation intended for dealing with crime. He
must, therefore, in any case, determine his moral relation to these
institutions--and this in the last resort depends on his attitude to
crime and the criminal. What _ought_ this attitude to be from the
purely moral point of view? In dealing with this important question,
I will begin with the simplest case, which lies at the basis of all
further complications.
I
When one man is doing injury to another, _e.g._ when the stronger
man is beating the weaker, a person witnessing the injury--if he
takes the moral point of view--experiences a _double_ feeling and an
impulse to a twofold course of action. In the first place, he wants to
_defend the victim_, and in the second, _to bring the injurer to his
senses_. Both impulses have the same moral source--the recognition of
another person’s life and the respect for another person’s dignity,
psychologically based upon the feeling of pity or compassion. We
experience direct pity for the being who undergoes physical and
mental suffering; the mental suffering, of which he is more or less
clearly conscious, consists in the fact that human dignity has been
violated in his person. Such external violation of human dignity in the
injured is inevitably connected with the inward degradation of that
dignity in the injurer; in both cases it demands to be re-established.
Psychologically, our feeling for the victim is very different from
our feeling for the aggressor--the first is pure pity, and in the
second anger and moral indignation predominate. But to be moral, that
indignation must not pass into injustice towards the wrong-doer, into
denying his human right, although that right materially differs from
the right of the victim. The latter has a right to our defence, the
former has a right to be brought to reason by us. The moral basis of
the two relations is, however, in the case of rational beings, one and
the same--the absolute worth or dignity of human personality, which we
recognise in others as well as in ourselves. The twofold violation of
that dignity taking place in criminal assault--violation passive in the
injured and active in the injurer--calls forth a moral reaction in us,
which is essentially the same in both cases, in spite of the fact that
its psychological expression is different and even opposed. Of course,
when the injury directly or indirectly causes physical pain to the
victim, the latter excites a more strong and immediate feeling of pity;
but speaking generally, the injurer ought to rouse even greater pity,
for he inwardly loses his moral dignity. However this may be, the moral
principle demands that we should recognise the right of both to our
help in re-establishing the violated norm both in the one and in the
other.
This deduction from the moral principle, demanding that in the
case of crime, _i.e._ of injury to man by man, we should take up
a moral attitude to both parties, is far from being universally
recognised. It must be defended against two kinds of adversaries.
Some--and they are in the majority--recognise only the right of the
victim or of the injured person (or community) to be defended and
avenged. The wrong-doer or the criminal, once his guilt has been
proved, they regard, at any rate in practice, as a rightless, passive
object of retribution, _i.e._ of more or less complete crushing or
extermination--‘hanging is too good for him,’ ‘to the dog a dog’s
death,’ is the popular sincere expression of this point of view. Its
direct opposition to the moral principle and its incompatibility with
any degree of developed human feeling[142] explains and psychologically
excuses the extreme opposite view, which is beginning to gain ground
in our time. This view recognises the right of the injurer to be
brought to reason by means of verbal persuasion only, and admits of no
compulsion with regard to him--which practically amounts to depriving
the injured person or society of their right to defence. Their safety
is made to depend upon the _success_ of persuasion, _i.e._ on something
quite problematical, which no one can control or be held responsible
for. Let us carefully consider the two opposed doctrines, which, for
the sake of brevity, I will describe respectively as the doctrine of
_retribution_ and the doctrine of _verbal persuasion_.
II
The doctrine of retribution admits of a very real explanation and of
fictitious proof, and when dealing with it, it is very important not to
mix the one with the other. When an animal is attacked by another about
to devour it, the instinct of self-preservation urges it to defend
itself with its claws and teeth, or, if these are not strong enough, to
seek safety in flight. No one would look for moral motives in this case
any more than in the physical self-defence of man, whose natural means
of defence are replaced or supplemented by artificial weapons. Even
the savage, however, does not as a rule live by himself, but belongs
to some social group--a family, a clan, a band. Therefore when he
encounters an enemy the affair does not end with their single combat.
Murder or any other injury inflicted upon a member of a group is felt
by the group as a whole and rouses in it a feeling of resentment. In so
far as that feeling includes pity for the victim, we must recognise the
presence of a moral element in it. But no doubt the predominant part
is played by the instinct of collective self-preservation, like among
bees and other social animals. In defending one of its members, the
clan or the family is defending itself; in avenging one of its members,
it is avenging itself. But for the same reasons the aggressor too is
defended by his clan or family. Single combats thus develop into wars
between entire communities. The Homeric poems have preserved for us
this stage of social relations by immortalising the Trojan war, which
arose out of a private injury inflicted by Paris upon Menelaus. The
history of the Arabs before Mohammed is full of such wars. The ideas
of crime and punishment do not really exist at this stage at all; the
injurer is an enemy to be revenged upon, not a criminal to be punished.
The place which later on is occupied by legal justice is here entirely
taken up by the universally recognised and absolutely binding custom of
blood-vengeance. This custom applies, of course, to injuries between
members of different clans or tribes. But, speaking generally, other
kind of injuries are not found at this stage of the communal life. The
cohesion of the social group bound together by kinship is too strong,
and the prestige of the patriarchal power too great, for the individual
to rebel against it. It is almost as impossible as the conflict of
an individual bee with the rest of the hive. No doubt even at the
primitive stage man retained his power of arbitrary choice and did in
some few instances manifest it. But these exceptional cases were dealt
with by exceptional measures on the part of the patriarchal authority,
and did not call forth any general regulations. Things were changed
with the transition to the order of the state. When many clans and
tribes for any reason chose or were compelled to unite in one way or
another under one common leader with a more or less definite power they
lost their independence and forfeited the right of blood-vengeance.
It is curious that philosophers and jurists, from ancient times and
almost down to our own day, made _a priori_ theories with regard to the
origin of the state, as though all actual states had arisen in some
remote prehistoric times. This is due, of course, to the extremely
imperfect state of historical science. But what may be permissible to
Hobbes and even to Rousseau cannot be allowed on the part of modern
thinkers. The kinship-group stage through which all nations have passed
in one way or another is not anything enigmatic: the clan is a direct
consequence of the natural blood-tie. The question is, then, as to the
transition from the stage of kinship to that of the state--and this can
be an object of _historical observation_. It is sufficient to mention
the transformation which took place in quite historical times of
the disconnected tribes and clans of Northern Arabia into a powerful
Mohammedan state. Its theocratic character is not an exception:
such were to a greater or lesser extent all the important states of
antiquity. Consider the way in which a state comes to be formed. A
leader, military or religious, or most frequently both, impelled
by the consciousness of his historic calling and also by personal
motives, gathers round himself men from different clans and tribes,
thus forming an _inter-tribal_ nucleus. Around this nucleus entire
clans and tribes come to be grouped voluntarily or by compulsion,
receiving from the newly formed supreme power laws and government, and
to a greater or lesser extent losing their independence. When a social
group has a government organised on the principle of hierarchy with
a supreme central authority at the head, a regular army, a financial
system based upon taxation, and laws accompanied by penal sanctions,
such a group has the essential characteristics of a state. All the
characteristics enumerated were present in the Mohammedan community
during the later years of Mohammed’s life. It is remarkable that the
history of the original formation of this state confirms to a certain
extent the ‘social contract’ theory. All the chief actions of the Arab
prophet in this connection have been signalised by formal treaties,
beginning with the so-called ‘oath of women,’ and ending with the
conditions he dictated at Mecca after his final victory over the
tribe of the Koreishites and their allies. It should be noted, too,
that the fundamental point of all these treaties is the abolition of
blood-vengeance between the tribes and clans which are to enter the new
political union.
Hence arises the distinction, which did not exist before, between
private and public right. With regard to blood-vengeance and other
important matters, the interests of the collective group were identical
with the interests of the individual. This was all the more natural as
in a small social group such as the clan or the tribe all, or at any
rate most, of its members could know each other personally, and thus
each was for all, and all for each--a concrete unit. In the state,
however, the social group embraces hundreds of thousands or even
millions of men, and the concrete personal relation between the parts
and the whole becomes impossible. A clear distinction is drawn between
private and public interests and between the corresponding rights. In
opposition to our modern legal notions, at that stage murder, robbery,
bodily injuries, etc., are treated as the violations of private rights.
Formerly, at the kinship-group stage, all such crimes were regarded as
directly affecting the interests of the community, and the whole clan
retaliated upon the culprit and his kinsmen. When a wider political
union was formed, this right and duty of blood-vengeance was taken
away from the clan, but did not pass, unchanged, to the state. The new
common authority, the source of government and of law, could not at
once enter into the interests of all its numerous subjects to such an
extent as to defend them like its own. The head of the state cannot act
and feel like the elder of a clan. And we find that with regard to the
defence of private persons and property the state is at first content
with very little. For bodily injury or other violence to a free man,
and even for the murder of one, the culprit or his relatives pay to
the family of the victim compensation in money, the amount of which
is settled by mutual agreement (_compositio_), and is generally very
moderate. Ancient law-codes, _e.g._ the laws of the Salic Francs, or
our own _Russkaya Pravda_, which are relics of a primitive political
order, are full of the enumerations of fines differing according to
the sex of the person and to other circumstances. The direct and
rapid transition from merciless blood-vengeance, often accompanied
by long and devastating wars between entire tribes, to simple money
compensation is remarkable; but from the point of view indicated it is
perfectly natural.
At this stage of social development the only capital offences are,
strictly speaking, political crimes;[143] all other, murder included,
are regarded as private quarrels rather than crimes.
Such elementary opposition between public and private rights could not
be stable. Money-fine for every kind of injury to a private person
does not satisfy the injured party (_e.g._ the family of the murdered
man), nor does it deter the wrong-doer, especially if he be rich,
from committing further crimes. Under such conditions blood-vengeance
for private offences, abolished by the state as opposed to its very
conception, is renewed _de facto_ and threatens to destroy the _raison
d’être_ of the state: if each has to avenge his own wrongs, why should
he bear the hardships imposed by the new political order? To justify
the demands that private persons make upon it, the state must really
take upon itself to protect their interests; in order to abolish the
private right of blood-vengeance, the state must make it a public
right, _i.e._ must itself exercise it. At this new and higher stage
the solidarity of the central power with its individual subjects
becomes more clear. The distinction between crimes directed against
the government (political crimes) and those infringing upon private
interests only is still retained, but it is now merely a distinction
of degree. Each free man becomes a citizen, _i.e._ a member of the
state which undertakes to protect his safety; every violation of it is
regarded by the state authority as an attack upon its own rights, as
a hostile action against the social whole. All attacks against person
and property are regarded as violations of the law of the state, and no
longer as private offences, and are therefore, like political crimes,
for the _state_ itself _to avenge_.
III
The legal doctrine of retribution has then a historical foundation
in the sense that legal punishments still in use in our day
are a historical transformation of the primitive principle of
blood-vengeance. Originally, the injured person was avenged by a more
narrow social union called the clan, then by a wider and more complex
union called the state. Originally, the criminal lost all human rights
in the eyes of the clan he injured; now he became the rightless subject
of punishment in the eyes of the state, which revenges itself on him
for the violation of its laws. The difference consists chiefly in the
fact that at the patriarchal stage the act of vengeance itself was
accomplished very simply--the aggressor was, at the first opportunity,
killed like a dog--but the consequences were very complex, and took the
form of endless inter-tribal wars. In the state, on the contrary, the
act of vengeance, which the public authorities took upon themselves,
was performed slowly and with all sorts of ceremonies, but no further
complications ensued, for the criminal had no one sufficiently strong
to avenge him--he was defenceless before the power of the state.
But can the unquestionable fact that legal executions are a historical
transformation of blood-vengeance be used as an argument in favour
of the executions themselves, or in favour of the principle of
retaliation? Does this historical basis justify us in determining our
attitude towards the criminal by the idea of vengeance, the idea,
_i.e._, of paying evil for evil, pain for pain? Speaking generally,
logic does not allow us to make such deductions from the genetic
connection between two events. Not a single Darwinian, so far as I
am aware, drew the conclusion that because man is descended from the
lower animals he ought to be a brute. From the fact that the urban
community of Rome had been originally established by a band of robbers,
no historian has yet concluded that the true principle of the Holy
Roman Empire ought to have been brigandage. With regard to the question
before us, it is clear that since we are dealing with the _evolution_
of blood-vengeance there is no reason to regard this evolution as
completed. We know that the relation of society and of law to the
criminal has undergone great changes. Pitiless blood-vengeance was
replaced by money-fines, and these were replaced by ‘civil executions,’
extremely cruel at first, but, beginning with the eighteenth century,
getting more and more mild. There is not the slightest rational ground
to suppose that the limit of mercy has already been reached and that
the gallows and the guillotine, penal servitude for life, and solitary
confinement must for ever remain in the penal code of civilised
countries.
But while historical progress clearly tends to eliminate the principle
of vengeance or of exact retaliation from our treatment of criminals,
and finally to abolish it altogether, many philosophers and jurists
still continue to urge abstract arguments in defence of it. These
arguments are so feeble that no doubt they will be an object of
astonishment and ridicule to posterity, just as Aristotle’s arguments
in favour of slavery, or the ecclesiastical proofs of the flatness of
the earth, are a source of wonder to us now. The pseudo-arguments used
by the champions of the doctrine of retribution are not in themselves
worth considering. But since they are still repeated by authors
worthy of respect, and since the subject is of vital importance, the
refutation of them ought also to be repeated.
“Crime is a violation of right; right must be re-established;
punishment, _i.e._ equal violation of the criminal’s right,
performed in accordance with a definite law by public authority (in
contradistinction to private vengeance), balances the first violation,
and thus right is re-established.” This pseudo-argument turns on the
term ‘right.’ But concrete right is always _somebody’s_ right (there
must be a _subject of rights_). Whose right is then here referred
to? In the first place, apparently, it is the right of the injured
person. Let us put this concrete content in the place of the abstract
term. Peaceful shepherd Abel has no doubt a right to exist and to
enjoy all the good things of life; but a wicked man, Cain, comes and
deprives him of this right by murdering him. The violated right must
be re-established; to do so public authority comes on the scene and,
against the direct warning of Holy Writ (Genesis iv. 15), hangs the
murderer. Well, does this re-establish Abel’s right to live? Since no
one but an inmate of Bedlam would affirm that the execution of the
murderer raises the victim from the dead, we must take the word ‘right’
in this connection to mean, not the right of the injured person, but of
somebody else. The society or the state[144] may be the subject of the
right violated by the crime. All private rights (of life, of property,
etc.) are guaranteed by the state; it answers for their inviolability
in placing them under the defence of its laws. The law forbidding
private persons to take the life of their fellow-citizens at their own
discretion is proclaimed by the state in its own right, and therefore
the violation of the law (a murder) means violation of the right of
the state. The execution of the murderer re-establishes the right of
the state and the dignity of the law--not the right of the murdered
man.[145]
What justice this argument contains has nothing to do with the case.
There is no doubt that once laws exist, their violation must not be
overlooked, and that it is the business of the state to see to it. But
we are not dealing here with the general question of the punishability
of crime, for in this respect all crimes are identical. If a law is
sacred in itself as proceeding from the state, this is true of all
laws in an equal degree. They all equally express the right of the
state; and the violation of any law whatever is the violation of this
supreme right. Material differences between crimes have to do with the
particular interests which are infringed; but on its formal side, in
relation to what is _universal_, that is to the state _as such_, and
to its law and power, every crime, if, of course, it is committed by a
responsible agent, presupposes a will opposed to the law, a will that
sets it at nought and is therefore criminal--and from this point of
view all crimes ought logically to require the same punishment. But
the difference in punishments for the different crimes exists in all
legal codes, and it obviously presupposes, in addition to the general
principle of punishability, a certain other specific principle which
determines the particular connection between _this_ crime and _this_
punishment. The doctrine of retribution discovers this connection in
the fact that the right violated by a particular criminal action is
re-established by a corresponding or _equal_ action--for instance, a
murderer must be killed. There can, however, be no real correspondence
or equality. The most famous champions of the doctrine conceive of the
matter as follows: Right is something positive, say a + (plus); the
violation of it is something negative, - (a minus). If the negation
in the form of crime has taken place (_e.g._ a man has been deprived
of life), it must call forth equal negation in the form of punishment
(taking the murderer’s life). Then such double negation, or the
negation of the negative, will once more bring about a positive state,
_i.e._ re-establish the right: _minus multiplied by minus makes plus_.
It is difficult to take this ‘play of mind’ seriously; it should be
noted, however, that the idea of the _negation of the negative_
logically expresses a direct inner relation between two opposed acts.
Thus, for instance, if an impulse of ill-will in man is ‘negative,’
is, namely, a negation of the moral norm, the opposite act of will,
suppressing that impulse, will indeed be a ‘negation of the negative,’
and the result will be a positive one--man’s affirmation of himself
as normal. Similarly, if crime as an active expression of ill-will is
negative, the criminal’s active repentance will be a negation of the
negative (that is, not of the fact, of course, but of the inner cause
that produced it), and the result will again be positive--his moral
regeneration. But the execution of the criminal has obviously no such
significance; in this case the negation is directed, as in the crime
itself, upon something positive--upon human life. It cannot indeed
be maintained that the execution of the criminal negates his crime,
for that crime is an irrevocably accomplished fact, and, according to
the remark of the Fathers of the Church, God Himself cannot undo what
has been done. Nor does it negate the criminal’s evil will, for the
criminal has either repented of his crime--and in that case there is
no longer any evil will--or he remains obdurate to the end, and then
his will is inaccessible to the treatment he is receiving; and in any
case an external enforced action can neither cancel nor change the
inner state of will. What, then, is negated by the execution of the
criminal is not his evil will, but the positive good of life,--and
this is once more a simple negation, and not a ‘negation of the
negative.’ But a simple succession of two negatives cannot lead to
anything positive. The misuse of the algebraic formula makes the
argument simply ridiculous. In order that two minuses, that is, two
negative quantities, should make a plus, it is not sufficient to place
them one after another, but it is necessary to _multiply_ one by the
other. But there is no intelligible meaning in _multiplying crime by
punishment_.[146]
IV
The inherent absurdity of the doctrine of retribution or ‘avenging
justice’ is emphasised by the fact that, with a few exceptions, it has
no relation whatever to the existing penal laws. Strictly speaking,
there is only one case in which it appears to be applicable--that
of the death penalty for murder. Therefore the pseudo-philosophical
arguments in favour of this doctrine, the gist of which has been
considered above, refer to this single instance only--a bad omen for
a principle which lays claim to universal significance. In Russia,
where capital punishment is the penalty for certain political crimes
only, there is not even this one case of apparent correspondence. No
trace of equality between crime and punishment can be detected in the
case of parricide and penal servitude for life, or simple murder with
a view to robbery and twelve years’ penal servitude. The best argument
against the doctrine is the circumstance that it finds its fullest
application in the penal codes of some half-savage peoples, or in the
laws prevalent at the epoch of barbarism, when, _e.g._, for inflicting
a certain injury the culprit underwent a similar injury, for speaking
insolent words a person had his tongue cut out, etc. A principle the
application of which proves to be incompatible with a certain degree of
culture and refinement is condemned by the verdict of history.
In modern times the doctrine of re-establishing right by means of
equal retribution was, if I am not mistaken, defended by abstract
philosophers more than by jurists. The latter understand the
equalisation of crime with punishment in the relative and quantitative
sense only (the _measure_ of punishment). They demand, _i.e._, that
a crime more grave than another should be punished more severely,
so that there should be a scale of punishments corresponding to the
scale of crimes. But the basis and, consequently, the apex of the
penal ladder remains indefinite, and therefore the punishments may be
either inhumanly cruel or extremely mild. Such a scale of penalties has
existed in the penal codes in which all, or almost all, simple crimes
were punished by a fine: a larger fine was paid for the murder of a man
than for the murder of a woman, for a serious bodily injury than for
a slight one, etc. On the other hand, codes in which the penalty for
theft was hanging punished more heinous crimes by capital punishment
accompanied by various degrees of torture. What is in this case immoral
is the cruelty of the punishments, and not, of course, their graduated
character.
From the moral point of view it is of interest that the penal laws show
a tendency to preserve the cruel punishments as far as possible. This
tendency has no doubt become weaker, but it has not yet disappeared
altogether. Not finding a sufficiently secure foundation in the
pseudo-rational principle of ‘re-established right,’ it seeks empirical
support in the principle of _intimidation_. In truth, the latter
has always formed part of the doctrine of retribution. The popular
aphorism, ‘To a dog a dog’s death,’ has always been accompanied by the
addition, ‘as a warning to others.’
This principle can hardly be said to be wholly valid even from the
utilitarian and empirical point of view. No doubt fear is an important
human instinct, but it has no decisive significance for man. The
perpetually increasing number of suicides proves that, in many, death
itself inspires no fear. Prolonged solitary confinement or penal
servitude may in themselves be more terrible but they do not produce an
immediate intimidating effect. I will not dwell upon these and other
well-known arguments against the theory of intimidation, such as the
contention that the criminal always hopes to avoid detection and escape
punishment, or that the enormous majority of crimes are committed under
the influence of some passion which stifles the voice of sagacity.
The relative force of all these arguments is open to dispute. In-
disputable refutation of the deterrent theory is only possible from the
moral point of view. It is refuted, first, on the ground of principle,
as directly opposed to the fundamental law of morality, and, secondly,
by the fact that this opposition compels the champions of intimidation
to be inconsistent and gradually to relinquish, on the strength of
moral motives, the most clear and effective demands of their own
theory. It is understood, of course, that I am referring here to
intimidation as a fundamental principle of legal justice and not merely
as a psychological fact, which naturally accompanies any method of
dealing with crime. Even supposing it were intended to reform criminals
by means of moral exhortation alone, the prospect of such tutelage,
however mild and rational, might intimidate vain and self-willed men
and deter them from criminal actions. Obviously, however, this is not
what is meant by the theory which regards intimidation as the essence
and the direct object of punishment, and not as an indirect consequence
of it.
The moral principle asserts that human dignity must be respected in
every person, and that therefore no one may be made merely a _means_
of or an _instrument_ for the advantage of others. According to the
deterrent theory, however, the criminal who is being punished is
regarded as merely a means for intimidating others and safeguarding
public safety. The penal law may, of course, intend to benefit the
criminal himself, by deterring him, through fear of punishment, from
committing the crime. But once the crime has been committed, this
motive obviously disappears, and the criminal in being punished
becomes solely a means of intimidating others, _i.e._ a means to
an end external to him; and this is in direct contradiction to
the unconditional law of morality. From the moral point of view a
punishment inspiring fear would only be permissible as a threat; but a
threat which is never fulfilled loses its meaning. Thus, the principle
of penal intimidation can be moral only on condition of being useless,
and can be materially useful only on condition of being applied
immorally.
In point of fact the theory of intimidation finally lost its sting from
the time when all civilised and half-civilised countries abolished
cruel corporal punishments and capital punishment accompanied by
torture. It is clear that if the object of punishment is to intimidate
both the criminal and others, these means are certainly the most
effective and rational. Why then do the champions of intimidation
renounce the true and the only reliable means of intimidation? Probably
because they consider these means immoral and opposed to the demands of
pity and humanity. In that case, however, intimidation ceases to be the
_determining_ factor in punishment. It must be one or the other: either
the meaning of punishment is intimidation--and in that case execution
accompanied by torture must be admitted as pre-eminently intimidating;
or the nature of punishment is determined by the moral principle--and
in that case intimidation must be given up altogether, as a motive
essentially _immoral_.[147]
V
The circumstance that the most consistent forms of retribution and
intimidation have disappeared from modern penal codes, in spite of the
fact that from the first point of view such forms must be recognised as
the most just, and from the second as the most effective, is sufficient
to prove that a different, a moral point of view has penetrated into
this sphere and made considerable progress in it. This undoubted and
fairly rapid progress has failed to affect the penal codes of savage
or barbarian peoples alone--such as the Abyssinians or the Chinese;
and even they, indeed, are about to enter into the general life of
civilised humanity. Nevertheless, our own penal systems--I mean those
of Europe and America--still retain much unnecessary violence and
cruelty, which can only be explained as a dead legacy of the defunct
principles of retribution and intimidation. Among these vestiges of
the past are capital punishment, which is still being obstinately
defended though it has lost its grounds; indefinite deprivation of
liberty; penal servitude; exile into distant countries with unbearable
conditions of life, etc.
All this systematic cruelty is revolting to the moral feeling and
brings about a change in our original attitude towards the criminal.
Pity to the injured person and the impulse to defend him set us against
the injurer (the criminal). But when society, which is incomparably
stronger than the individual criminal, turns upon him its insatiable
hostility after he has been disarmed, and makes him undergo prolonged
suffering, it is _he_ who becomes the injured party and excites in us
pity and a desire to protect him. Although the legal theory and the
legal practice have decidedly renounced _consistent application_ of
the principles of retribution and intimidation, they have not given
up the principles themselves. The system of punishments that exists
in civilised countries is a meaningless and lifeless compromise
between these worthless principles on the one hand and certain demands
of humanity and justice on the other. In truth, what we find are
simply the more or less softened vestiges of the old brutality, with
no uniting thought, no guiding principle involved. The compromise
cannot help us to solve the question that is essential for the moral
consciousness: does the fact of crime deprive the criminal of his
human rights, or does it not? If it does _not_, how can we rob him
of the first condition of any right--of existence, as is done in the
case of capital punishment? And if the fact of crime does deprive
the criminal of his natural rights, what need is there of legal
ceremony with rightless beings? Empirically this dilemma is solved by
a distinction being drawn between crimes, some of which are taken to
deprive the criminal of human rights, and others merely to _limit_ them
to a greater or lesser extent. Both the principle and the degree of
such limitation are, however, changeable and indefinite, and the very
distinction between the two kinds of crime proves to be arbitrary and
to differ according to time and place. Thus, for instance, in Western
Europe political crimes do not involve the loss of human rights, while
in Russia the old view is still in full force, and these crimes are
regarded as the most heinous of all. One would have thought that so
important a fact as the transformation of man from an independent being
fully possessed of rights into passive material for punitary exercises
must depend upon some objective reason or determining principle, the
same for all times and at all places. In fact, however, it appears
that in order to change from a person into a thing, man must in one
country commit a simple murder; in another, a murder with aggravating
circumstances; in the third, some political crime, etc.
The extremely unsatisfactory condition of this important question,
the frivolous attitude to the life and destiny of men are revolting
to the intellect and conscience, and produce a reaction of the moral
feeling. Unfortunately, however, this reaction leads many moralists to
the opposite extreme, and induces them to reject the idea of punishment
in general, _i.e._ in the sense of real opposition to crime. According
to this modern doctrine, violence or compulsion towards any one is
never permissible, and therefore the criminal may only be dealt with
by rational persuasion. The merit of this doctrine is the moral purity
of its purpose; its defect is that the purpose cannot be realised
in the way advocated. The principle of taking up a passive attitude
towards criminals not only rejects retribution and intimidation (which
is the right thing to do), but also excludes measures intended to
_prevent_ crimes and to improve criminals. From this point of view the
state has not the right to lock up, even only for a time, a vicious
murderer, though the circumstances of the case make it clear that he
will continue his crimes; nor has it a right to place the criminal in a
more normal environment, even if it were exclusively for his own good.
Similarly, it is contended that a private person has no right forcibly
to detain a would-be murderer from rushing at his victim, but may only
address him with words of exhortation. In criticising the theory I will
consider this instance of individual opposition to crime, as it is more
simple and fundamental.
It is only in extremely rare, exceptional cases that men who are
depraved and capable of deliberate crime are affected by words of
rational persuasion. To ascribe beforehand such _exceptional_ power
to one’s own words would be morbid self-conceit; to be content with
words without being certain of their success when a man’s life is at
stake would be inhuman. The victim has a right to all the help we can
render him, and not to verbal intercession only, which, in the vast
majority of cases, can be nothing but comical. In the same way, the
aggressor has a right to all the help we can give to restrain him from
a deed which is for him even a greater disaster than for his victim.
Only after having _stopped his action_ can we with calm conscience
address _words of exhortation_ to him. If I see the criminal’s arm
raised to murder his victim and I seize hold of it, will this be a
case of immoral violence? It will no doubt be violence, but so far
from being immoral, it will be _conscientiously binding_, and will
directly follow from the demands of the moral principle. In restraining
a man from murder I _actively_ respect and support his human dignity,
which is seriously menaced by his carrying out his intention. It would
be strange to believe that the very fact of such violence--_i.e._
a certain contact of the muscles of my arm with the muscles of the
murderer’s arm, and the necessary consequences of the contact--contains
an element of immorality. Why, in that case it would be immoral to pull
a drowning man out of water, for it too cannot be done without much
physical exertion and some physical pain to the person who is being
saved. If it is permissible and a moral duty to pull a drowning man
out of the water, even if he resists, it is all the more permissible
to pull a criminal away from his victim, even if it means bruises,
scratches, and dislocations.[148]
It must be one or the other. Either the criminal whom we restrain
has not yet lost all human feeling, and then he will, of course, be
grateful for having been saved in time from sin--no less than the
drowning man is grateful for having been taken out of the water;
in that case, the violence which he suffered was done with his own
tacit consent, and his right has not been violated, so that, strictly
speaking, there has been no violence at all, since _volenti non fit
injuria_.[149] Or the criminal has lost human feeling to such an extent
that he is annoyed at having been prevented from cutting his victim’s
throat. But to address a man in such a condition with words of rational
persuasion would be the height of absurdity; it would be the same
as preaching to one who is dead-drunk the advantages of abstinence,
instead of pouring cold water over him.
Were the fact of physical violence, _i.e._ of the application of
muscular force, in itself bad or immoral, it would, of course, be wrong
to use this bad means even with the best of intentions--it would be
admitting the immoral rule that the purpose justifies the means. To
resist evil by evil is wrong and useless; to hate the evil-doer for
his crime and therefore to _revenge_ oneself on him is childish. But
there is no evil in restraining the evil-doer from crime for the sake
of his own good and _without any hatred_ of him. Since there is nothing
bad in muscular force as such, the moral or the immoral character of
its application depends in each case upon the intention of the person
and the circumstances of the case. Physical force rationally used for
the real good of others, both moral and material, is a _good_ and not
a bad means, and such application of it, so far from being forbidden,
is directly prescribed by the moral principle. The dividing line
between the moral and immoral use of physical compulsion may be a fine
one, but it is perfectly clear and definite. The whole point is the
attitude we take towards the evil-doer in resisting evil. If we retain
a human, moral relation to him and are thinking of his own good, there
will obviously be nothing immoral in our enforced violence--no trace
of cruelty or revenge. The violence will, in that case, be simply an
inevitable condition of our helping the man, just like a surgical
operation or the locking up of a dangerous lunatic.
The moral principle forbids to make a human being merely a means to
extraneous purposes, _i.e._ to ends which do not include his own good.
If, therefore, in resisting crime we regard the criminal simply as
a means for the defence or the satisfaction of the injured person
or society, our action is immoral, even though its motive might be
unselfish pity for the victim and genuine anxiety for public safety.
From the moral point of view this is not sufficient. We ought _to pity
both_ the victim and the criminal; and if we do so, if we really have
the good of them both in view, reason and conscience will tell us what
measure and what form of physical compulsion is necessary.
Moral questions are finally decided by conscience, and I confidently
ask every one to turn to his own inner experience (imaginary, if
there has not been any other) and say in which of the two cases does
conscience reproach us more: in the case when, being able to prevent
a crime we had callously passed by, saying a few useless words, or
when we had actually prevented it even at the expense of inflicting
_certain_ physical injuries. Every one understands that in a _perfect
society_ there must be no compulsion at all. But the perfection has
yet to be _attained_; and it is quite obvious that to let evil and
irrational men exterminate, unhindered, the normal people is not the
right method of creating the perfect society. What is desirable is
the organisation of the good, and not the freedom of evil. “But,” the
modern sophists will urge, “society has often taken for evil what
afterwards proved to be a good, and has persecuted innocent men as
criminals; therefore legal justice is worth nothing, and all compulsion
must be given up.” This argument is not my invention--I have read and
heard it many times. Reasoning in this way we should have to say that
the mistakes in the astronomical theories of Ptolemy are a sufficient
ground for giving up astronomy, and that the errors of the alchemists
prove chemistry to be worthless.
It is difficult to understand how men of a different stamp from
obvious sophists can defend so poor a doctrine. The truth is, I
think, that its real foundation is mystical and not ethical. The
idea underlying the doctrine seems to be this: “That which seems to
us to be evil, may not be evil at all; the Deity or Providence knows
better than we do the true connection of things and the way to produce
real good out of apparent evil. We can only know and judge our own
inner states and not the objective significance and consequences of
our own and other people’s actions.” It must be confessed that to a
religious mind this view is extremely attractive; nevertheless, it is a
mistaken view. The truth of a theory is tested by the fact whether it
can be consistently carried out without landing us in contradictions
and absurdities. The view in question cannot bear this test. If our
ignorance of all the objective consequences of our own and other
people’s actions were a sufficient ground for remaining inactive, we
ought not to resist our own passions and evil impulses. For aught we
know, the all-merciful Providence might derive wonderful results from a
person’s profligacy, drunkenness, ill-feeling to his neighbours, etc.
Suppose, for instance, that for motives of abstinence a man stayed
away from a public-house. But had he not resisted his inclination and
gone, he would on his way back have found a half-frozen puppy. Being
in a condition when one is inclined to be sentimental, he would have
picked up the puppy and warmed it back to life. The puppy, upon growing
up into a big dog, would have saved a little girl from drowning in
the pond; and the little girl would eventually become the mother of
a great man. Now, however, the misplaced abstinence has interfered
with the plans of Providence. The puppy was frozen, the little girl
drowned, and the great man is doomed to remain for ever unborn. Another
person, given to anger, felt inclined to slap in the face the man he
was arguing with, but thought that this would be wrong, and restrained
himself. And yet, had he not controlled his anger, the injured person
would have taken the opportunity to turn him the other cheek, and would
have thus softened the heart of the aggressor. Virtue would have doubly
triumphed, while, as it was, their meeting ended in nothing.
The doctrine which absolutely rejects all forcible resistance to evil,
or all defence of one’s neighbours by means of physical force, is
really based upon an argument of this nature. A man has saved another’s
life by using force and disarming the brigand who attacked him. But,
later on, the person saved became a terrible malefactor, far worse than
the brigand; therefore it would have been better not to have saved him.
Exactly the same disappointment, however, might ensue if the man were
threatened by a rabid wolf instead of by a brigand. Does it follow,
then, that we are not to defend any one even from wild beasts? Besides,
when I save people in a fire or in an inundation, it may very well
happen that the saved may subsequently be extremely unhappy or prove to
be terrible scoundrels, so that it would have been better for them to
have been burnt or drowned. Does it follow that one ought not to help
any one in any calamity whatsoever? Actively helping one’s neighbours
is a direct and positive demand of morality. If we renounce the duty
of kindness on the ground that actions inspired by that feeling _may_
have bad consequences _unknown_ to us, we can just as well for the same
reason renounce the duty of abstinence and all others, because these,
too, may prompt us to actions which may lead to evil consequences, as
in the examples cited above. If, however, that which appears to us to
be good leads to evil, then, _vice versa_, that which appears to us to
be evil may lead to good. Perhaps, then, the best plan would be to do
evil straight away in order that good might ensue. Fortunately, this
whole line of thought is self-destructive, for the series of unknown
events may go further than we think. Take the first instance, in which
Mr. X., by resisting his inclination for strong drink, indirectly
prevented the birth of a great man. We cannot tell whether this great
man would not have caused great disasters to humanity; and if he would,
it is just as well that he has not been born; therefore Mr. X. did
very well in making himself stay at home. In the same way, we do not
know what further consequences might ensue from the triumph of virtue
due to a slap in the face magnanimously endured. It is highly probable
that this extreme magnanimity would eventually lead to spiritual pride,
which is the worst of all sins, and thus ruin the man’s soul. Therefore
Mr. Y. did well in controlling his anger and preventing the magnanimity
of his opponent from showing itself. Altogether, since we know nothing
for certain, we have equal right to make all sorts of suppositions
with regard to possibilities. But it by no means follows that because
we do not know what consequences our actions may lead to, we ought to
refrain from all action. This conclusion would only be correct if we
knew for certain that the consequences would be bad. Since, however,
they may equally be good or bad, we have equal ground (or, rather,
equal absence of ground) for action or inaction. All these reflections
on the indirect results of our actions can then have no practical
significance. They could be a real determining force in our life
only if we could know more than the immediate links in the series of
consequences. The immediate links may be always supposed to be followed
by further links of an opposite character and destructive of our
conclusion. It would therefore be necessary to know the _whole series
of consequences_ down to the end of the world, which is impossible for
us.
Our actions or refusal to act must then be determined, not by the
consideration of their possible indirect consequences unknown to
us, but by impulses _directly_ following from the positive demands
of the moral principle. This is true not only from the ethical but
also from the mystical point of view. If everything be referred back
to Providence, it is certainly not without Its knowledge that man
possesses reason and conscience, which tell him in each concrete case
what direct good he can do, independently of all indirect consequences.
And if we believe in Providence, we certainly believe also that It
cannot allow that actions conformable to reason and conscience should
ultimately lead to evil. If we know that it is immoral or opposed to
human dignity to stupefy oneself with strong drink, our conscience
will not permit us to consider whether in the state of intoxication we
might not do something which would subsequently lead to good results.
Similarly, if from a purely moral motive, apart from any malice or
revenge, we prevented a brigand from killing a man, it will never occur
to us to argue that this may perhaps lead to some evil, and that it
might have been better to let the murder take place.
Through our reason and conscience we know for certain that carnal
passions--drunkenness or profligacy--are bad in themselves and ought
to be restrained. The same reason and conscience tell us with equal
certainty that active love is good in itself and that one must act in
the spirit of it--to help our neighbours, to defend them from the
elements, from wild beasts, and also from men who are evil or insane.
Therefore the man who from a pure impulse of pity snatches away the
knife from a would-be murderer’s hand and thus saves him from an
extra sin and his victim from a violent death, or the man who uses
physical violence to prevent a patient ill with delirium tremens from
freely running about the streets, will always be justified by his own
conscience and by the universal verdict of humanity as one who carried
out in practice the moral demand: Help all as much as in thee lies.
Providence certainly extracts good from our evil, but from our good it
derives a still greater good. And what is of especial importance is
that this second kind of good comes about with our direct and active
participation, while the first, that derived from our evil, does not
concern us nor belong to us. It is better to be a helper than a dead
instrument of the all-merciful Providence.
VI
Punishment as _intimidating revenge_ (the typical instance of which is
capital punishment) cannot from the moral point of view be justified,
for it denies the criminal his human character, deprives him of the
right of existence which belongs to every person, and makes him a
passive instrument of other people’s safety. No more, however, can we
justify from the moral point of view an indifferent attitude to crime,
the attitude of not resisting it. It does not take into account the
right of the injured party to be protected nor the right of the whole
society to a secure existence, and makes everything depend upon the
arbitrary will of the worst people. The moral principle demands real
resistance to crimes, and determines this resistance (or punishment in
the wide sense of the term, as distinct from the idea of retribution)
as _a rightful means of active pity, legally and forcibly limiting
the external expressions of evil will, not merely for the sake of the
safety of the peaceful members of society, but also in the interests
of the criminal himself_. Thus the true conception of punishment is
many-sided, but each aspect is equally conditioned by the universal
moral principle of pity, which includes both the injured and the
injurer. The victim of a crime _has a right_ to protection and, as
far as possible, to compensation; society _has a right_ to safety; the
criminal _has a right_ to correction and reformation. Resistance to
crimes that is to be consistent with the moral principle must realise
or, at any rate, aim at an equal realisation of those three rights.
Protection of individuals, public safety, and the subsequent good of
the criminal, demand in the first place that the person guilty of a
crime should be for a time deprived of liberty. In the interests of his
relatives and his own, a spendthrift is rightly deprived of freedom
in the administration of his property. It is all the more just and
necessary that a murderer or a seducer should be deprived of freedom in
his line of activity. For the criminal himself deprivation of freedom
is especially important as a _pause_ in the development of the evil
will, as an opportunity to bethink himself and repent.
At the present time, the criminal’s fate is finally decided by the
court, which both determines his guilt and decrees his punishment.
If, however, the motives of revenge and intimidation are consistently
banished from penal law, the conception of punishment as of a measure
_determined beforehand_ and, in truth, _arbitrarily_, must disappear
also. The consequences of the crime for the criminal must stand in a
natural and inner relation with his real condition. The law court,
having established the fact of guilt, must then determine its nature,
the degree of the criminal’s responsibility and of his further danger
to society, that is, it must make a diagnosis and a prognosis of the
moral disease. But it is opposed to reason to prescribe unconditionally
the means and the length of the period of treatment. The course and
the methods of treatment must differ according to the changes in the
course of the illness, and the court must leave this to penitentiary
institutions, into the hands of which the criminal should pass. A
short time ago this idea would have been thought an unheard-of heresy,
but of late attempts have been made to realise it in a few countries
(_e.g._ in Belgium and Ireland), in which _conditional sentences_ may
be passed. In certain cases the criminal is sentenced to a definite
punishment, but undergoes it only if he repeats his crime. If he does
not, he remains free, and his first crime is regarded as accidental.
In other cases, the sentence is conditional with regard to the length
of imprisonment, which may be shortened according to the subsequent
behaviour of the criminal. From the point of view of principle these
conditional sentences are an advance of enormous importance.
VII
There had been a time when men suffering from mental disease were
treated like wild beasts, chained, beaten, etc. Less than a hundred
years ago it was considered to be the right thing; but now we remember
it with horror. Since the rate of progress is continually increasing,
I hope to live to a time when prisons and penal servitude of the
present day will be looked upon in the same way as we now look upon the
old-fashioned asylums with iron cages for the patients. Although the
penal system has undoubtedly progressed of late, it is still largely
determined by the old idea of punishment as _torment_ deliberately
inflicted on the criminal, in accordance with the principle, ‘The thief
deserves all he gets.’
In the true conception of punishment its positive end, so far as the
criminal is concerned, is not to cause him physical pain, but to heal
or reform him morally. This idea has been accepted long ago (chiefly
by theologians, partly by philosophers, and by a very few jurists),
but it calls forth strong opposition on the part of jurists and of a
certain school of anthropologists. From the legal side it is urged that
to correct the criminal means to intrude upon his inner life, which the
state and society have no right to do. There are two misconceptions
involved here. In the first place, the task of reforming criminals
is, in the respect we are here considering, merely an instance of the
positive influence which the society (or the state) ought to exert upon
such members of it as are in some respects deficient, and therefore not
fully possessed of rights. If such influence is rejected on principle
as intrusion into the individual’s inner life, it will be necessary
to reject also public education of children, treatment of lunatics in
public asylums, etc.
And in what sense can it be said to be an intrusion into the inner
world? In truth, by the fact of his crime the criminal has _bared_ or
_exposed_ his inner world, and is in need of influence in the opposite
direction which would enable him once more to withdraw into the normal
boundaries. It is particularly surprising that although the argument
recognises the right of society to put a man into _demoralising_
conditions (such as our present prisons and penal servitude, which the
jurists do not reject), it denies the right and the duty of society to
put him into conditions that might render him _moral_.
The second misunderstanding consists in imagining that reformation
of the criminal means forcing upon him ready-made principles of
morality. But why regard incompetence as a principle? When a criminal
is capable of reformation at all, it consists, of course, chiefly in
_self-reformation_. External influences must simply put the man into
conditions most favourable for it, help him and support him in this
inner work.
The anthropological argument is that criminal tendencies are innate and
therefore incorrigible. That there exist born criminals and hereditary
criminals, there is no doubt. That some of them are incorrigible it is
difficult to deny. But the statement that all criminals or even the
majority of them are incorrigible is absolutely arbitrary and does not
deserve to be dwelt upon. If, however, all we may admit is that some
criminals are incorrigible, no one can or has a right to be certain
beforehand that this particular criminal belongs to that group. _All_
therefore ought to be put into conditions most favourable for possible
reformation. The first and the most important condition is, of course,
that at the head of penal institutions should stand men capable of so
high and difficult a task--the best of jurists, alienists, and men with
a religious calling.
Public guardianship over the criminal, entrusted to competent persons
with a view to his possible reformation,--this is the only conception
of ‘punishment’ or positive resistance to crime compatible with the
moral principle. A penal system based upon it will be more just and
humane than the present one, and will, at the same time, be certainly
more efficient.
FOOTNOTES:
[141] The question of _war_ is historically connected with the fact
of international hostility but is not exhausted thereby. Apart from
international wars there have been, and may be in the future, intestine
wars--social and religious. The problem of war must be considered
separately, and one of the subsequent chapters will be devoted to it.
[142] This is shown, among other things, by the fact that among the
people, at any rate among the Russian people, criminals are called _the
unfortunate_.
[143] The denotation of this idea differed in accordance with
the historical circumstances. In the Middle Ages, when the
capital character of simple murder was not yet clear to the legal
consciousness, coining false money was punished by painful death, as a
crime detrimental to society as a whole, infringing upon the privileges
of the central authority and, in this sense, political.
[144] In this connection either term may be used indifferently.
[145] In the opinion of one of my critics, I am wrong in supposing
that a crime must necessarily be the violation of _somebody’s_ right.
Apart from any subject of rights--individual or collective, private
or public--and also apart from the moral norm or the absolute good,
there exists, it is urged, right as such,--an independent objective
essence, and the proper object of punishment is the satisfaction of
this self-existent right. The critic is mistaken in thinking that I am
ignorant of this metaphysical impersonation of the ancient Moloch. But
there is no need for me to go into it, since no serious criminologist
has for a long time past upheld it. It is obvious that ‘right’ is by
its very meaning a relation between subjects, conditioned by certain
moral and practical norms, and that therefore a subjectless and
unrelated right is an _Unding_--a thought that has no content.
[146] It is obvious that we cannot in this case go further than
_addition_ (of the material results). The corpse of the murdered victim
may be added to the corpse of the hanged murderer and then there will
be two corpses--_i.e._ two negative quantities.
[147] In the eighteenth century, when the movement against the cruelty
of penal laws was at its height, several writers sought to prove that
torturing prisoners is both inhuman and useless as a deterrent, for it
does not prevent any one from committing crimes. If this contention
could be substantiated it would deprive the theory of intimidation of
all meaning whatever. It is obvious that if even painful executions are
insufficient to intimidate criminals, punishments more mild are still
less likely to do so.
[148] What, however, if in restraining the murderer we may in the
struggle unintentionally cause him grave injuries and even death?
It will be a great misfortune for us, and we will grieve over it as
over an _involuntary_ sin; but, in any case, unintentionally to kill
a criminal is a lesser sin than deliberately to allow an intentional
murder of an innocent person.
[149] ‘There is no injury to the willing,’ _i.e._ an action which is
in accordance with the will of the person who suffers it cannot be a
violation of his right.
CHAPTER VII
THE ECONOMIC QUESTION FROM THE MORAL POINT OF VIEW
I
If individuals and nations learnt to value the national peculiarities
of foreign peoples as much as they value their own; if within each
nation individual criminals were, as far as possible, reformed by
re-education and rational guardianship, from which all vestige of
legal ferocity were eliminated,--this moral solution of the national
and the penal questions would still leave untouched an important cause
both of national hostility and of criminality, namely, the economic
cause. The chief reason why Americans hate the Chinese is certainly
not that the Chinese wear plaits and follow the moral teaching of
Confucius, but that they are dangerous rivals in the economic sphere.
Chinese labourers in California are persecuted for the same cause
for which Italians are ill-treated in southern France, Switzerland,
and Brazil. In exactly the same way the feeling against the Jews,
whatever the inmost causes of it may be, clearly rests upon and is
obviously due to economic considerations. Individual criminality is not
created by environment, but it is largely kept up and encouraged by
pauperism, excessive mechanical labour, and the inevitable coarsening
that follows therefrom. The influence of the most rational and humane
penal system upon individual criminals would have but little general
effect so long as these conditions prevailed. The bad effect of the
economic conditions of the present day upon the national and the
criminal questions is obviously due to the fact that these conditions
are in themselves morally wrong. Their abnormality is manifested in
the economic sphere itself, since the struggle between the different
classes of society for the possession of material goods is becoming
more and more acute, and in many countries of Western Europe and
America threatens to become a deadly strife.
For a man who takes the moral point of view it is as impossible to
take part in this socially-economic struggle as to participate in
the hostility between races and nations. But at the same time it is
impossible for him to remain indifferent to the material position of
his neighbours. If the elementary moral feeling of pity, which has
received its highest sanction in the Gospel, demands that we should
feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, and warm the cold, this
demand does not, of course, lose its force when the cold and hungry
number millions instead of dozens. And if _alone_ I cannot help these
millions, and am not therefore morally bound to do so, I can and must
help them _together with others_. My personal duty becomes a collective
one--it still remains my own, although it becomes wider in so far as
I participate in the collective whole and its universal task. The
very fact of economic distress proves that economic conditions are
not connected with the principle of the good as they should be, that
they are not morally organised. A whole pseudo-scientific school of
conservative anarchists in economics directly denied, and still denies,
though without the old self-confidence, all ethical principles and all
organisation in the sphere of economic relations. The prevalence of
this school had much to do with the birth of revolutionary anarchism.
On the other hand, the many varieties of socialism, both radical and
conservative, do more to detect the presence of the disease than to
offer a real cure for it.
The defect of the orthodox school of political economy--the liberal
or, more exactly, the anarchical school--is that it _separates_ on
principle the economic sphere from the moral. The defect of socialism
is that it more or less _confuses_ or wrongly identifies these two
distinct, though indivisible, spheres.
II
All practical affirmation of a thing apart from its due connection or
correlation with everything else is essentially immoral. To affirm a
particular, conditional, and relative activity as a thing by itself,
as absolutely independent and self-contained, is wrong in theory and
immoral in practice, and can lead to nothing but disaster and sin.
To regard man as merely an economic agent--a producer, owner, and
consumer of material goods--is a wrong and immoral point of view. These
functions have in themselves no significance for man, and do not in
any way express his essential nature and worth. Productive labour,
possession and enjoyment of its results, is one of the aspects of
human life or one of the spheres of human activity. The truly human
interest lies only in the fact as to _how_ and _with what object_ man
acts in this particular domain. Free play of chemical processes can
only take place in a corpse; in a living body these processes are
connected and determined by organic purposes. Similarly, free play of
economic factors and laws is only possible in a community that is dead
and is decomposing, while in a living community that has a future,
economic elements are correlated with and determined by moral ends. To
proclaim _laissez faire, laissez passer_ is to say to society ‘die and
decompose.’
No doubt economic relations as a whole are based upon a simple
and ultimate fact, which cannot as such be deduced from the moral
principle--the fact, namely, that work, labour, is necessary to the
maintenance of life. There has never been, however, a stage in the
life of humanity at which this material necessity was not complicated
by moral considerations--not even at the very lowest stage. Necessity
compels the half-brutal savage to procure means of livelihood; but in
doing so he may either think of himself alone or include in his need
the need of his mate and his young. If the hunt has been unsuccessful
he can either share his scarce booty with them, hardly satisfying his
own hunger, or can take everything for himself, leaving them to fare
as best they can; or, finally, he may kill them so as to satisfy his
hunger with their flesh. Whichever course he adopts, even the most
orthodox devotee of political economy would not be likely to ascribe
his action to the effect of inexorable economic ‘laws.’
The necessity to work in order to obtain the means of livelihood is
indeed a matter of fate and is independent of human will. But it is
merely an impetus which spurs man to activity, the further course of
that activity being determined by psychological and moral, and not by
economic, causes. When social structure becomes somewhat more complex,
not only the distribution of the products of labour and the manner of
enjoying them, or ‘consumption,’ but the labour itself is determined
by motives other than those of physical need--motives which have no
element of compulsion or natural necessity about them. It is sufficient
to name as an instance the most prevalent among them--the greed for
acquisition and the thirst for pleasure. There is no economic law
which determines the degree of cupidity or voluptuousness for all men,
and there is indeed no law that these passions should be necessarily
inherent in man at all, as inevitable motives of his actions. Therefore
in so far as economic activities and relations are determined by these
mental propensities they do _not_ belong to the domain of economics and
do _not_ obey any ‘economic laws’ with necessity.
Take the most elementary and the least disputable of these so-called
laws, namely, the law that the price of goods is determined by the
relation between supply and demand. This means that the more demand
there is for a particular article and the less there is of it, the more
it costs--and _vice versa_.
Suppose, however, that a rich but benevolent trader who has a constant
supply of some article of the first necessity decides, in spite of
the increased demand for that article, not to raise his prices or
even decides to lower them for the good of his needy neighbours. This
will be a violation of the supposed economic ‘law,’ and yet, however
unusual the case may be, certainly no one would think it impossible or
supernatural.
Let us grant that if everything depended upon the good will of private
individuals, we might, in the domain of economics, regard magnanimous
motives as a negligible quantity, and build everything upon the secure
foundation of self-interest. Every society, however, has a central
government, a necessary function of which is to limit private cupidity.
There are a good many historical instances in which the state made the
habitual and--from the point of view of self-interest--the natural
order of things unnatural and unusual, sometimes indeed rendering
it altogether impossible, and transforming the former exceptions
into a universal rule. Thus, for instance, in Russia for two and a
half centuries landowners who set all their serfs free and, in doing
so, gave them land were the most rare and extraordinary exception,
the usual order or ‘law’ of relations between the landed gentry and
the peasants being that the latter, together with the land on which
they lived, were the property of the former. But with remarkable
completeness and rapidity this universal law was, by the good will of
the government, made illegal and impossible in practice, while the
former rare exceptions were transformed into an absolutely binding
rule, admitting of no exception at all. Similarly, the exceptional case
of the tradesman who does not put up the price of the articles of first
necessity with the increase in demand, becomes a universal rule as soon
as the government deems it necessary to regulate the price of goods. In
that case this direct violation of the supposed ‘law’ actually becomes
law,--not a ‘natural’ one, but positive law or law of the state.
It should be noted that notwithstanding the difference between the two
conceptions of the law of nature and the man-made law of the state,
the latter resembles the former in that within the sphere of its
application it has a universal force and admits of _no_ unforeseen
exception.[150] But the alleged economic laws never have such a
significance and can at any moment be freely violated and annulled by
the moral will of man. _In virtue of_ the law of 1861 _not a single_
landowner in Russia may buy or sell peasants otherwise than in his
dreams. On the other hand, _in spite of_ the ‘law’ of supply and
demand, nothing prevents any virtuous Petersburg landlord, even when
fully awake, from lowering the rent of his flats out of philanthropic
motives. The fact that only a very few take the opportunity of doing
so, proves not the power of the economic factors, but the weakness of
individual virtue. For as soon as this lack of personal benevolence
is supplanted by the demand of the law of the state, rents will be
immediately lowered, and the ‘iron’ necessity of economic laws will at
once prove to be as fragile as glass. This self-evident truth is at
the present time admitted by writers altogether foreign to socialism,
such as Laveleye, for instance. In earlier days, J. S. Mill, anxious
to preserve to political economy the character of an exact science
and at the same time to avoid too obvious a contradiction with
reality, invented the following compromise. Admitting that the economic
_distribution_ of the products of labour depends upon the human will
and may be subordinated to moral purposes, he insisted that the
_production_ is entirely determined by economic laws which have in this
case the force of the laws of nature--as if production did not take
place in the same general conditions and depend upon the same human
powers and agents as distribution! This anti-scientific and scholastic
distinction met, indeed, with no success, and was equally rejected by
both opposed camps which Mill had sought to reconcile by means of it.
Freedom of the individual and society from the supposed natural laws
of the materially-economic order stands, of course, in no immediate
connection with the metaphysical question of free-will. When I say,
_e.g._, that Petersburg landlords are free from the supposed law
which determines the price by the relation of supply and demand, I am
far from maintaining that any one of these landlords _whatever his
character may be_ can at any given moment lower the rent of his flats
in spite of the increased demand for them. I only urge the obvious
truth that given a _sufficiently strong_ moral impulse, no alleged
economic necessity can prevent the individual, especially in his public
capacity, from subordinating material considerations to the moral
in this or in that instance. Hence it logically follows that in the
realm of economics there exist no natural laws acting independently of
the individual will of the given agents. I do not deny the presence
of law in human activity; I only argue against a special kind of
materially-economic necessity invented a hundred years ago, and taken
to be independent of the general conditions that determine volition
through psychological and moral motives. The character of objects
and events which fall within the province of economics is on the one
hand due to physical nature, and is therefore subject to material
necessity (to the mechanical, chemical, and biological laws), and on
the other hand is determined by human activity, which is subject to the
moral and psychological necessity. And since no further causality, in
addition to the natural and the human, can be found in the phenomena
of the economic order, it follows that there can be in that domain no
independent necessity and uniformity of its own.
It has been pointed out that the lack of moral initiative in private
individuals is successfully supplemented by state legislation, which
regulates economic relations in the moral sense with a view to the
common good. Reference to this fact does not prejudge the question as
to the extent to which such regulation may be desirable in the future
and as to the form it should take. Of one thing only there can be no
doubt: the very fact of state interference in the domain of economics
(_e.g._ the legislative regulation of prices) unmistakably proves that
the given economic relations do not express any natural necessity. For
it is clear that laws of nature could not be cancelled by laws of the
state.
III
Subordination of material interests and relations in human society
to some special economic laws _acting on their own account_ is
the fiction of a bad metaphysic, and has not the least foundation
in reality. Therefore the general demand of reason and conscience
remains in force--the demand, namely, that this province too should
be subordinated to the supreme principle of morality, and that in its
economic life society should be the organised realisation of the good.
There are not and there cannot be any independent economic laws, any
economic necessity, for economic phenomena can only be thought of as
activities of man who is a moral being, and is capable of subordinating
all his actions to the pure idea of the good. There is only one
absolute and independent law for man as such--the moral law, and only
one necessity, namely, the moral. The peculiarity and independence of
the economic sphere of relations lies, not in the fact that it has
ultimate laws of its own, but in the fact that from its very nature
it presents a special and peculiar _field for the application_ of the
one moral law. Thus earth differs from other planets, not by having
an independent source of light all to itself, but by receiving and
reflecting the one universal light of the sun in a special and definite
way, dependent upon its place in the solar system.
This truth is fatal both to the theories of the orthodox economists and
to the socialist doctrine which seems at first sight to be opposed to
them. When the socialists denounce the existing economic system and
declaim against the unequal distribution of property, the cupidity and
callousness of the rich, they appear to adopt the moral point of view,
and to be inspired by the good feeling of pity towards those who labour
and are heavy laden. The positive side of their doctrine, however,
clearly shows that they take up, to begin with, an ambiguous and,
subsequently, a directly hostile attitude to the moral principle.
The inmost essence of socialism has for the first time found expression
in the remarkable doctrine of the followers of St. Simon, who
proclaimed as their motto the rehabilitation of matter in the life of
humanity. There is no doubt that matter has its rights, and the less
they are respected in principle the more they assert themselves in
practice. The nature of these rights, however, may be interpreted in
two different and, indeed, directly contradictory ways. According to
the first meaning--a perfectly true and an extremely important one--the
sphere of material relations (more immediately of the economic ones)
has a right to become the object of man’s moral activity. It has a
right to have the supreme spiritual principle realised or incarnate
in it--_matter has a right to be spiritualised_. It would be unjust
to maintain that this meaning was entirely foreign to the early
socialistic systems. But they did not dwell upon it or develop it, and
very soon this glimmer of a higher consciousness proved to be merely a
deceptive light over the quagmire of carnal passions which gradually
sucked in so many noble and inspired minds.
The other and more prevalent meaning given to the principle of
the rehabilitation of matter justifies the degradation of the St.
Simonists, and indeed makes it into a principle. The material life
of humanity is not regarded as merely a special province of human
activity or of the application of the moral principles. It is said to
have an entirely independent material principle of its own, existing
in its own right both in and for man, namely, the principle of
instinct or passion. This element must be given full scope so that the
normal social order should naturally follow from personal passions
and interests supplementing and replacing one another (Fourier’s
fundamental conception). This ‘normal’ order neither need nor can
be moral. Alienation from the higher spiritual interests becomes
inevitable as soon as the material side of human life is recognised
to have an independent and unconditional value. One cannot serve two
masters; and socialism naturally gives predominance to the principle
under the banner of which the whole movement had first originated,
_i.e._ to the material principle. The domain of economic relations
is entirely subordinated to it, and is recognised as the chief, the
fundamental, the only real and decisive factor in the life of humanity.
At this point the _inner_ opposition between socialism and the
bourgeois political economy disappears.
In truth, the morally abnormal condition of the civilised world at
the present day is due, not to this or that particular institution,
but to the general conception and trend of life in modern society.
Material wealth is becoming all-important, and social structure itself
is distinctly degenerating into a _plutocracy_. It is not personal and
hereditary property, division of labour and capital, or inequality of
material possessions that is immoral. What is immoral is plutocracy,
which distorts the true social order, raising the lower and the
essentially subservient factor--the economic one--to the supreme and
dominant position, and relegating all other things to be the means and
instruments of material gain. Socialism leads to a similar distortion,
though in a different way. From the plutocratic point of view the
normal man is in the first place a capitalist and then, _per accidens_,
a citizen, head of a family, an educated man, member of some religious
union, etc. Similarly from the socialist point of view all other
interests become insignificant and retreat into the background--if they
don’t disappear altogether--before the economic interest. In socialism,
too, the essentially lower, material sphere of life--the industrial
activity--becomes decidedly predominant and overshadows all else. Even
in its most idealistic forms socialism has from the first insisted
that the moral perfection of society wholly and directly depends upon
its economic structure, and sought to attain moral reformation or
regeneration exclusively by means of an economic revolution. This fact
clearly shows that socialism really stands on the same ground as the
bourgeois régime hostile to it, namely, the supremacy of the material
interest. Both have the same motto: ‘man liveth by bread alone.’ For a
plutocrat the worth of man depends upon his possessing or being capable
of acquiring material wealth. For a consistent socialist the worth of
man depends upon his producing material wealth. In both cases man is
taken as an economic agent, apart from other aspects of his being.
In both cases economic welfare is taken to be the final end and the
highest good. The struggle between the two hostile camps is not one of
principle; or, rather, the struggle is waged, not about the content of
a principle, but only about the extent of its realisation. One party
is concerned with the material welfare of the capitalist minority, and
the other with the also material welfare of the labour majority. And
in so far as that majority, the working classes themselves, begin to
care exclusively about their material welfare they obviously prove to
be as selfish as their adversaries, and lose all moral advantage over
the latter. In certain respects indeed socialism applies the principle
of material interest more fully and consistently than its opponents.
Although plutocracy really cares for the economic interest alone, it
admits the existence, though in a subordinate sense only, of other
spheres of life, with independent institutions--such as the state and
the Church--corresponding to them. Socialism in its pure form, however,
rejects all this. For it man is exclusively a producer and consumer,
and human society is merely an economic union--a union of workmen
proprietors involving no substantial distinctions. And since the
_predominance_ of the material interests--of the economic, industrial
and financial elements--constitutes the characteristic feature of the
bourgeois régime, consistent socialism which intends finally to limit
the life of humanity to these lower interests alone is certainly not an
antithesis to, but the extreme expression, the crowning stage of the
one-sided bourgeois civilisation.
Socialists and their apparent opponents--the plutocrats--unconsciously
join hands on the most essential point. Plutocracy subjugates the
masses of the people to its own selfish interests, disposes of them to
its own advantage, for it regards them merely as labour, as producers
of material wealth. Socialism protests against such ‘exploiting,’ but
its protest is superficial and is not based upon principles, since
socialism itself in the long-run regards man as _merely_ (or in any
case as mainly and primarily) an economic agent--and if he is only
that, there is no _inherent_ reason why he should not be exploited. On
the other hand, the exclusive importance which attaches to material
wealth, in the commercial state of the present day, naturally leads
those who directly produce this wealth, the working classes, to demand
an equal share in the enjoyment of the goods which, but for them,
could not exist and which they are brought up to regard as the chief
thing in life. Thus the practical materialism of the ruling classes
themselves calls forth and justifies socialistic tendencies in the
subjugated working classes. And when fear of social revolution brings
about an insincere conversion of the plutocrats to the idealistic
principles, it proves to be a useless game. The masks of morality and
religion hastily put on do not deceive the masses, who know perfectly
well what the true worship of their masters is.[151] And having learnt
this cult from their superiors, working people naturally want to be the
priests and not the victims.
The two hostile parties mutually presuppose one another and cannot
escape from the vicious circle until they acknowledge and adopt
in practice the unquestionable truth, forgotten by them, that the
significance of man, and therefore of human society, is not essentially
determined by economic relations, that man is not primarily the
producer of material goods or market values, but is something
infinitely more important, and that consequently society, too, is more
than an economic union.[152]
IV
For the true solution of the so-called ‘social question’ it must in
the first place be recognised that the economic relations contain no
special norm of their own, but are subject to the universal moral norm
as a special realm in which it finds its application. The triple moral
principle which determines our due relation towards God, men, and the
material nature is wholly and entirely applicable in the domain of
economics. The peculiar character of the economic relations gives a
special importance to the last member of the moral trinity, namely, the
relation to the material nature or _earth_ (in the wide sense of the
term). This third relation can only have a moral character if it is not
isolated from the first two but is conditioned by them in their normal
position.
The realm of economic relations is exhaustively described by the
general ideas of _production_ (labour and capital), _distribution_ of
property, and _exchange_ of values. Let us consider these fundamental
ideas from the moral point of view, beginning with the most fundamental
of them--the idea of _labour_. We know that the first impulse to labour
is given by the material necessity. But for a man who recognises above
himself the absolutely perfect principle of reality, or the will of
God, all necessity is an expression of that will. From this point of
view labour is a _commandment_ of God. This commandment requires us
to work hard (‘in the sweat of thy face’) to cultivate the ground,
_i.e._ to perfect material nature. For whose sake? In the first place
for our own and that of our neighbours. This answer, clear at the most
elementary stages of moral development, no doubt remains in force as
humanity progresses, the only change being that the denotation of the
term ‘neighbour’ becomes more and more wide. Originally my neighbours
were only those to whom I was related by the blood tie or by personal
feeling; finally it is all mankind. When Bastiat, the most gifted
representative of economic individualism, advocated the principle ‘each
for himself’ he defended himself against the charge of selfishness
by pointing to the economic harmony in virtue of which each man in
working solely for himself (and his family), unconsciously, from the
very nature of social relations, works also for the benefit of all, so
that the interest of each harmonises in truth with the interest of all.
In any case, however, this would be merely a natural harmony, similar
to that which obtains in the non-human world where certain insects,
seeking nothing but sweet food for themselves, unconsciously bring
about the fertilisation of plants by transferring the pollen from one
flower to another. Such harmony testifies, of course, to the wisdom of
the Creator, but does not make insects into moral beings. Man, however,
_is_ a moral being and natural solidarity is not sufficient for him;
he ought not merely to labour for all and participate in the common
work, but _to know_ that he does so and _to wish_ to do it. Those who
refuse to recognise this truth as a matter of principle will feel its
force as a fact in financial smashes and economic crises. Men who are
the cause of such anomalies and men who are the victims of them, both
belong to the class of people who work for themselves, and yet the
natural harmony neither reconciles their interests nor secures their
prosperity. The merely natural unity of economic interests is not
sufficient to secure the result that each, in working for himself,
should also work for all. To bring this about economic relations must
be _consciously directed towards the common good_.
To take selfishness or self-interest as the fundamental motive of
labour means to deprive labour of the significance of a universal
commandment, to make it into something accidental. If I work solely for
the sake of my own and my family’s welfare, then as soon as I am able
to attain that welfare by other means I must lose my only motive for
work. And if it were proved that a whole class or group of persons can
prosper by means of robbery, fraud, and exploitation of other people’s
labour, no theoretically valid objection could be urged against this
from the point of view of unrestrained self-interest. Is it for the
natural harmony of interests to abolish such abuses? But where was the
natural harmony in the long ages of slavery, feudalism, serfdom? Or
perhaps the fierce intestine wars which abolished feudalism in Europe
and slavery in America were the expression--though somewhat a belated
one--of natural harmony? In that case it is difficult to see in what
way such harmony differs from disharmony, and in what way the freedom
of the guillotine is better than the restrictions of state socialism.
If, however, natural harmony of interests, seriously understood,
proves to be powerless against economic abuses due to the unrestrained
selfishness of individuals and classes whose freedom in this respect
has to be restricted in the name of higher justice, it is unfair and
unpermissible to appeal to justice in the last resort only, and to put
it at the end and not at the beginning of social structure. In addition
to being unfair and unpermissible it is also quite useless. For such
morality _ex machina_ has no power to attract or to inspire. No one
will believe in it or be restrained by it from anything, and the only
thing left will be bare compulsion--one day in one direction, and the
next in another.
When the principle of the individualistic freedom of interests is
adopted by the strong, it does not make them work more but gives rise
to the slavery of ancient times, to the seigniorial right of the Middle
Ages, and to modern economic slavery or plutocracy. When adopted by the
weak, who, however, are strong as the majority, as the masses, this
principle of unrestrained selfishness does not make them more _united_
in their work, but merely creates an atmosphere of envious discontent,
which produces in the end the bombs of the anarchists. Had Bastiat,
who was fond of expressing his ideas in the form of popular dialogues,
lived to our day, he might have played the chief part in the following
conversation:
_Anarchist._ Out of especial friendliness for you, Mr. Bastiat, I warn
you take yourself away from here, as far as ever you can--I am just
going to blow up all this neighbourhood, for there are lots of tyrants
and exploiters about.
_Bastiat._ What a terrible position! But consider: you are doing
irreparable damage to the principle of human liberty!
_Anarchist._ On the contrary--we are putting it into practice.
_Bastiat._ Who has put these devilish ideas into your mind?
_Anarchist._ You yourself.
_Bastiat._ What an absurd slander!
_Anarchist._ It is perfectly true. We are your pupils. Have you
not proved that the root of all evil is the interference of public
authority with the free play of individual interests? Have you not
ruthlessly condemned all intentional organisation of labour, all
compulsory social order? And that which is condemned as evil must be
destroyed. We translate your words into practice and are saving you
from dirty work.
_Bastiat._ I struggled only against the interference of the state in
the economic life, and against the artificial organisation of labour
advocated by socialists.
_Anarchist._ Socialists are no concern of ours; if they are deluded by
fancies, so much the worse for them. _We_ are not deluded. We fight
against one organisation only--one which really exists and is called
social order. Towns and factories, stock exchanges and academies,
administration, police, army, Church--all these did not spring from the
ground of themselves; they are the product of artificial organisation.
Therefore on your own premisses they are an evil and ought to be
destroyed.
_Bastiat._ Even if this were true, things ought not to be destroyed by
violent and disastrous means.
_Anarchist._ What is disaster? You have yourself beautifully explained
that apparent calamities lead to the real good of all, and you have
always very subtly distinguished between the unimportant things
that are _evident_ and the important that _cannot be seen_. In the
present case what is evident are the flying sardine boxes, demolished
buildings, disfigured corpses--this is evident but unimportant.
And that which is not seen and which alone is important is the
future humanity which will be free from all ‘interference’ and all
‘organisation’--since the persons, classes, and institutions which
might interfere and organise will be exterminated. You preached the
principle of anarchy, we carry out anarchy in practice.
_Bastiat._ Policeman! policeman! seize him quick before he blows us up.
What are you thinking about?
_Policeman._ Well, I was wondering whether, from the point of view of
self-interest, which I too have adopted after reading your eloquent
arguments, it is of more advantage to me to seize this fellow by the
scruff of the neck or to make haste and establish a natural harmony of
interests between us.
V
In opposition to the alleged economic harmony, facts compel us to admit
that starting with private material interest as the purpose of labour
we arrive at universal discord and destruction instead of universal
happiness. If, however, the principle and the purpose of labour is
found in the idea of the common good, understood in the true moral
sense--_i.e._ as the good of all and each and not of the majority
only--that idea will also contain the satisfaction of every private
interest within proper limits.
From the moral point of view every man, whether he be an agricultural
labourer, a writer, or a banker, ought to work with a feeling that his
work is useful to all, and with a desire for it to be so; he ought to
regard it as a duty, as a fulfilment of the law of God and a service to
the universal welfare of his fellow-men. But just because this duty is
universal, it presupposes that every one else must regard the person
in question in the same way, _i.e._ to treat him not as a means only
but as an end or purpose of the activity of all. The duty of society is
to recognise and to secure to each of its members the _right_ to enjoy
unmolested _worthy_ human existence both for himself and his family.
Worthy existence is compatible with voluntary poverty, such as St.
Francis preached and as is practised by our wandering pilgrims; but it
is incompatible with work which reduces all the significance of man to
being simply a means for producing or transferring material wealth.
Here are some instances.
“We watch the _kriuchniks_ at work: the poor half-naked Tatars strain
every nerve. It is painful to see the bent back flatten out all of a
sudden under a weight of eight to eighteen puds[153] (the last figure
is not exaggerated). This terrible work is paid at the rate of five
roubles per thousand puds.[154] The most a _kriuchnik_ can earn in
the twenty-four hours is one rouble, and that if he works like an
ox and overstrains himself. Few can endure more than ten years of
such labour, and the two-legged beasts of burden become deformed or
paralytic” (_Novoe Vremya_, N. 7356). Those who have not seen the
Volga _kriuchniks_ are sure to have seen the porters in big hotels
who, breathless and exhausted, drag to the fourth or fifth floor boxes
weighing several hundredweight. And this in our age of machines and
all sorts of contrivances! No one seems to be struck by the obvious
absurdity. A visitor arrives at an hotel with luggage. To walk up the
stairs would be a useful exercise for him, but instead he gets into a
lift, while his things, for which, one would have thought, the lift was
expressly meant, are loaded on the back of the porter, who thus proves
to be not even an instrument of another man but an instrument of his
things--the means of a means!
Labour which is exclusively and crudely mechanical and involves too
great a strain of the muscular force is incompatible with human
dignity. But equally incompatible with it and equally immoral is work
which, though in itself not heavy or degrading, lasts all day long and
takes up _all_ the time and _all_ the forces of the person, so that
the few hours of leisure are necessarily devoted to physical rest, and
neither time nor energy is left for thoughts and interests of the ideal
or spiritual order.[155] In addition to hours of leisure, there are,
of course, entire days of rest--Sundays and other holidays. But the
exhausting and stupefying physical work of the week produces in holiday
time a natural reaction--a craving to plunge into dissipation and to
forget oneself, and the days of rest are devoted to the satisfaction of
that craving.
“Let us not, however, dwell on the impression which individual facts
susceptible of observation produce upon us, even though such facts be
numerous. Let us turn to statistics and inquire as to how far wages
satisfy the necessary wants of the workers. Leaving aside the rate of
wages in the different industries, the quality of food, the size of the
dwelling, etc., we will only ask of statistics the question as to the
relation between the length of human life and the occupation pursued.
The answer is as follows: Shoemakers live on the average to the age
of 49; printers, 48.3; tailors, 46.6; joiners, 44.7; blacksmiths,
41.8; turners, 41.6; masons, 33. And the average length of life of
civil servants, capitalists, clergymen, wholesale merchants, is 60-69
years.[156] Now take the figures referring to the death-rate in
relation to the size of the dwellings and the amount of rent in the
different parts of town. It will be seen that in parts of the town
with a poor population, belonging chiefly to the working class and
paying low rents, mortality is far higher than in the neighbourhood
with a relatively larger number of rich people. For Paris this relation
was established by Villarmé as early as the twenties of the present
century. He calculated that during the five years from 1822 to 1826,
in the II. arrondissement of Paris, where the average rent per flat
was 605 francs, there was one death per 71 inhabitants, while in the
arrondissement XII., where the average rent was 148 francs, there was
one death per 44 inhabitants. Similar data are to hand for many other
towns, Petersburg among them.[157] Hence the following true conclusion
is deduced: ‘If a workman is not regarded as a means of production,
but is recognised, like every other human being, to be a free agent and
an end in himself, the average forty years of life cannot be regarded
as normal, while men belonging to richer classes live on the average
till sixty or seventy years. This life, the longest possible under
the social conditions of the present day, must be regarded as normal.
All deviation below this average, unless it can be ascribed to the
peculiarities of the particular work in question, must be entirely put
down to excessive labour and insufficient income which does not allow
to satisfy the most essential needs and the minimum demands of hygiene
with regard to food, clothing, and housing.[158]
The absolute value of man is based, as we know, upon the _possibility_
inherent in his reason and his will of infinitely approaching
perfection or, according to the patristic expression, the possibility
of becoming divine (θέωσις). This possibility does not pass into
actuality completely and immediately, for if it did man would be
already equal to God--which is not the case. The inner potentiality
_becomes_ more and more actual, and can only do so under definite real
conditions. If an ordinary man is left for many years on an uninhabited
island or in strict solitary confinement he cannot improve morally
or intellectually, and indeed, exhibits rapid and obvious regress
towards the brutal stage. Strictly speaking, the same is true of a man
wholly absorbed in physical labour. Even if he does not deteriorate
he is certainly unable to think of actively realising his highest
significance as man. The moral point of view demands, then, that every
one should have the means of existence (_e.g._ clothes and a warm and
airy dwelling) and sufficient physical _rest_ secured to him, and that
he should also be able to enjoy _leisure_ for the sake of his spiritual
development. This and _this alone_ is _absolutely_ essential for every
peasant and workman; _anything above this is from the evil one_.
Those who are opposed to improving the social and economic relations
in accordance with the demands of morality urge the following
consideration. They maintain that the only way in which the working
people can, in addition to a secured material existence, have leisure
to pursue their moral and intellectual development, is by reducing the
number of hours of work, without reducing the wages. And this, they
argue, will lead to a decrease of output, _i.e._ to economic loss or
regress. Let it be _provisionally_ granted that shorter hours of work
with no reduction in wages will indeed inevitably lead to a diminution
in productiveness. But a _temporary_ diminution of output does not
necessarily mean regress or loss. When the hours of work have been
reduced to a certain norm, positive reasons conditioning the increase
of productiveness will continue to operate. Such causes are to be
found in technical improvements, greater proximity between different
districts and countries owing to new means of communication, a closer
intercourse between the different classes--causes all of which are
wholly or partly independent of wages and hours of work. Thus the
general quantity of output will again begin to increase; and even
at the time when the increase will not yet have attained the former
level, production of the objects of first necessity for individuals
and the state will obviously not be decreased at all, and the decrease
will entirely affect objects of luxury. It will be no great hardship
to society if gold watches, satin skirts, and velvet chairs become
twice or even three times as dear as they are now. It may be said
that shorter hours of work with the same pay means a direct loss to
the factory owners. It is impossible, however, to do anything without
loss to some one or other; and it could hardly be called a calamity
or an injustice if certain manufacturers were to get half a million
instead of a million, or fifty instead of a hundred thousand dividend.
This social class, no doubt an important and necessary one, does not
inevitably consist of avaricious, greedy, and selfish men. I know
several capitalists entirely free from these vices; and those of them
who are not have a right to demand that society should pity them and
not condone their abnormal and dangerous state of mind.
The hackneyed philippics, prompted by low envy, that socialists indulge
in against the rich are perfectly sickening; demands for equalisation
of property are unreasonable to the point of absurdity.[159] But it
is one thing to attack private wealth as though that in itself were
an evil, and another--to demand that wealth, as a relative good,
should harmonise with the common good understood in the light of
the unconditional moral principle. It is one thing to strive for an
impossible and unnecessary equalisation of property, and another, while
preserving the advantages of larger property to those who have it, to
recognise the right of every one to the necessary means of worthy human
existence.
Apart from the false conclusions which the opponents of the moral
regulation of economic relations deduce from their fundamental
assertion, they are wrong in that assertion itself. Regulation of the
hours of work and of the amount of wages need not necessarily curtail
the production at all (not even of the articles of luxury) or cause
corresponding losses to the factory owners. This would be the case
if the quantity--not to speak of quality--of the production entirely
depended upon the number of hours expended upon it. No thoughtful and
conscientious economist would, however, venture to maintain such a
crying absurdity. It is easy to see that a worker exhausted, dulled,
and embittered by excessive labour can produce in sixteen hours
less than he can produce in eight hours if he works zealously and
cheerfully, with a consciousness of his human dignity and a faith in
his moral connection with the society or the state which looks after
his interests instead of exploiting him. Thus a moral adjustment of
economic relations would at the same time make for economic progress.
VI
In considering the organisation of human relations--in this case, of
the economic ones--moral philosophy is not concerned with the concrete
particular forms and determinations. These are dictated by life itself,
and find realisation through the work of specialists and of men endowed
with authority--men of theory and men of practice. Moral philosophy is
only concerned with the immutable _conditions_ which follow from the
very nature of the good, and apart from which no concrete organisation
could be moral. From the ethical point of view every social
organisation is valuable and desirable only in so far as it embodies
the moral principle, only in so far as it _justifies the good_. To
make projects or prophecies is not the business of philosophy. It can
neither offer definite plans of social organisation, nor even know
whether individuals and nations will seek to adjust their relations
according to the demands of the absolute moral principle at all. Its
problem is as clear and as independent of any external circumstances as
the problems of pure mathematics. Under what conditions is a fragment
of a three-sided prism equal to three pyramids? Under what conditions
do social relations in a given sphere correspond to the demands of
the moral principle and ensure the stability and the constant moral
progress of a given community?
We already know under what conditions social relations in the domain
of material labour become moral. The first general condition is, that
the sphere of economic activity should not be isolated or affirmed as
independent and self-contained. The second, more special condition is
that production should not be at the expense of the human dignity of
the producers; that not one of them should become merely a means of
production, and that each should have secured to him material means
necessary for worthy existence and development. The first demand has
a religious character: not to put Mammon in the place of God, not to
regard material wealth as an independent good, and the final purpose of
human activity,[160] not even in the economic sphere. The second is a
demand of humane feeling: to pity those who labour and are heavy laden,
and not to set a lower value upon them than upon soulless things. To
these two a third condition is necessarily added, which, so far as I
am aware, has never yet been insisted upon in this connection. I am
referring to the duties of man as an economic agent towards material
nature itself, which he is called upon to cultivate. This duty is
directly indicated in the commandment of labour: Till the ground.[161]
To cultivate the ground means not to misuse, exhaust, or devastate it,
but to improve it, to bring it to greater power and fulness of being.
Neither our fellow-men nor material nature must be a mere passive or
impersonal instrument of economic production or exploitation. Taken in
itself or in isolation it is not the end of our activity, but it is a
distinct and independent part of that end. Its subordinate position in
relation to the Deity and humanity does not render it rightless: it
has a right to our help in transforming and uplifting it. Things are
rightless, but nature or earth is not merely a thing but an objectified
essence, which we can and therefore must help to become spiritualised.
The end of labour, so far as material nature is concerned, is not to
make it an instrument for obtaining things and money, but to perfect
it--to revive the lifeless, to spiritualise the material in it. The
_methods_ whereby this can be achieved cannot be indicated here; they
fall within the province of _art_ (in the broad sense of the Greek
τέχνη). But what is essential is the point of view, the inner attitude
and the direction of activity that results from it. _Without loving
nature for its own sake it is impossible to organise material life in a
moral way._
Man’s relation to material nature may be of three kinds: passive
submission to it as it now exists; active struggle with it, its
subjugation and the using of it as an indifferent instrument; and
finally, the affirmation of it in its ideal state--of that _which it
ought to become through man_. The first relation is wholly unjust both
to man and to nature--to man, because it deprives him of his spiritual
dignity by making him the slave of matter; to nature, because, in
worshipping it in its present imperfect and perverted condition,
man deprives it of the hope of perfection. The second, the negative
relation to nature is relatively normal, as a transitory and temporary
stage; for it is clear that in order to make nature what it ought to
be, we must first condemn it as it is, as it ought _not_ to be. But
absolutely normal and final is of course only the third, the positive
relation, in which man uses his superiority over nature for the sake
of uplifting it as well as of raising himself. It will be easily noted
that man’s threefold relation to earthly nature is a repetition, though
on a wider scale, of his relation to his own material nature. Here,
too, we necessarily distinguish the abnormal (passive) and the normal
(positively active) relation and the transition from the first to
the second (negatively active). The carnal man submits and surrenders
himself to the material life in its undue, perverted state. The ascetic
struggles with the flesh in order to conquer it. The perfect man,
having passed through such a struggle, does not destroy his bodily
life but attains to its transfiguration, resurrection, and ascension.
Asceticism or the subjugation of the flesh in individual life, struggle
with external earthly nature and the subjugation of it in the common
life of humanity, is merely a necessary transition and not the ideal
form of activity. The ideal is to cultivate the earth, _to minister to
it_, so that it might be renewed and regenerated.
VII
_The efficient or producing cause_ of labour is found in the _needs_
of man. This cause holds good for all the factors of production which
appear now as the subjects and now as the objects of needs. The worker,
as a living being, has need of the means of livelihood, and, as
labour, he is the object of need to the capitalist, who in his turn,
as employer, is an object of need to the worker, and in this sense
is the immediate efficient cause of his labour. The same persons, as
producers, stand in a similar relation to consumers, etc.
The _material_ (and instrumental) cause of labour and production is
found on the one hand in the forces of nature, and on the other in
the various faculties and forces of man. But these twofold (efficient
and material) economic causes, studied by political economy and
statistics from different points of view, are physically unlimited and
morally indefinite. The needs may increase in number and complexity
_ad infinitum_; both needs and faculties may be of different worth,
and, finally, the forces of nature may be used in the most various
directions. All this leads to practical questions to which political
economy, as a science limited to the material and existent aspect of
things, can give no answer. Many persons have a _need_ of pornography.
Should this need be satisfied by the production of indecent books,
pictures, immoral spectacles? Some demands, as well as some faculties,
are obviously perverted in character; thus in the case of many persons
certain positive qualities of intellect and will degenerate into a
peculiar capacity for clever swindling within the limits of legality.
Should we allow this capacity to develop freely and become a special
profession or branch of work? Political economy as such can obviously
answer nothing to questions such as these--they in no wise concern it.
They directly concern, however, the recognised interests of society
which cannot confine itself to matters of fact alone, but must submit
them to a higher causality, by drawing a distinction between the
normal and abnormal needs and faculties, the normal and abnormal use
of the forces of nature. Since the fact of the existence of needs on
the one hand and of forces and faculties on the other does not solve
the practical question as to the extent to which the first should be
satisfied and the manner in which the latter should be used, appeal has
to be made to the moral principle as determining that which _ought_
to be. It does not create the factors and elements of labour, but
indicates how those already in existence should be used. Hence follows
a new conception of labour, both more general and more definite than
that given by political economy as such. For political economy labour
is an activity of man ensuing from his needs, conditioned by his
faculties, applied to the forces of nature, and having for its purpose
the production of the greatest possible wealth. From the moral point
of view _labour is interaction between men in the material world; it
must, in accordance with the moral demands, secure to each and all
the necessary means of worthy existence, enabling man to bring to
perfection all his powers, and ts finally destined to transfigure
and spiritualise material nature_. Such is the essence of labour
from the point of view of the higher causality--of the formal and
final cause--apart from which the two lower causes remain practically
indefinite.
Further conditions of the normal economic life become clear in
analysing the conceptions of _property_ and _exchange_.
VIII
All the acute questions of the economic life are closely connected with
the idea of property, which in itself, however, belongs to the sphere
of jurisprudence, morality, and psychology rather than to that of
economic relations. This fact alone clearly shows how mistaken is the
attempt to conceive of the economic phenomena as entirely independent
and self-contained.
The ultimate basis of property, as all serious philosophers of modern
times rightly recognise, is to be found in the very nature of man.
Even in the contents of inner psychical experience we necessarily
distinguish _ourselves_ from what is _ours_: all our thoughts,
feelings, desires, we regard as belonging to us, in contradistinction
to ourselves as thinking, feeling, desiring. The relation is twofold.
On the one hand, we necessarily put ourselves above what is ours, for
we recognise that our existence is not by any means exhausted by or
limited to any particular mental states--that _this_ thought, _this_
desire may disappear while we ourselves remain. This is the fundamental
expression of human personality as formally unconditional, quite apart
from the metaphysical question of the soul as substance. On the other
hand, however, we are aware that if we are deprived of all mental
states altogether we shall become a blank; so that for the reality
and fulness of being it is insufficient to be ‘oneself,’ but it is
necessary to have ‘one’s own.’ Even in the inner psychical sphere that
which belongs to the self is not always the absolute property of the
person and is not always connected with him to the same extent.
Some mental states express by their content in the most intimate,
direct, and immediate way that which is essential and fundamental
to the given individual, and are in a sense inseparable from him.
Thus, for instance, when a person has an implicit steadfast faith in
God, such faith is his unalienable property--not in the sense that
he must always actually have in mind a positive thought of God with
corresponding thoughts and impulses, but only in the sense that every
time the idea of God actually arises in his mind, or that he is faced
with a question concerning God, a definite positive answer accompanied
by corresponding states of feeling and will is bound to follow. Other
mental states are, on the contrary, merely superficial and transitory
reactions of the person to external influences--accidental both in
content and in origin, though conditioned by a more or less complex
association of ideas and other mental and bodily processes. Thus when a
person happens to think of the advantages or disadvantages of cycling,
or to wish for a drink of beer, or to feel indignation at some lie in
the newspapers, etc., it is obvious that such accidental states are
but feebly connected with the person to whom they belong, that he
loses nothing and experiences no essential change when they disappear.
Finally, some mental states cannot, apart from their content and manner
of origin, be regarded as reactions on the part of the individual
who experiences them at all, so that their belonging to him must be
recognised as fictitious. To this category belong the _suggested_
(_hypnotically_ or otherwise) ideas, desires and feelings, and actions
ensuing therefrom. It is very difficult to offer a theoretical account
of them, but they unquestionably exist. Without going into these
exceptional phenomena, however, it is sufficient to indicate the fact
that both in theory and in practice certain actions are not laid to
the responsibility of the persons who commit them. In view of the
circumstance that, for the most part, these actions are conditioned
by corresponding ideas, feelings, and impulses on the part of the
agent, the recognition that he is not responsible for them implies that
certain mental states do not belong to or form the property of the
person who experiences them.
Thus even in the sphere of the inner psychical life we find that
property is but relative and different in degree, beginning with the
‘treasure’ in which man ‘puts his very soul’ and which may nevertheless
be taken from him, and ending with states which prove to belong to him
in an utterly fictitious sense. Similar relativity obtains with regard
to external property. The immediate object of it is man’s own body,
which, however, belongs to man only more or less. This is true, first,
in the natural sense that the individual himself cannot regard as
equally his own those organs or parts of the body without which earthly
life is altogether impossible (_e.g._ the head or the heart), those
without which it is possible but not enjoyable (_e.g._ ‘the apple of
the eye’), and those the loss of which is no misfortune at all (_e.g._
an amputated finger or an extracted tooth, not to speak of nails, hair,
etc.). If, however, the real connection of the person with his body is
thus relative and unequal, there is no natural ground for regarding
the body as his absolute property or as absolutely inviolable. And
from the point of view of the unconditional moral principle the bodily
inviolability of a person is not anything distinct and on its own
account, but is connected with universal and generally binding norms,
and is therefore incompatible with the violation of these norms. If it
is both my right and my duty forcibly to prevent a man from injuring a
defenceless being, it must be the right and the duty of other persons
to exercise such bodily compulsion over myself too in a similar case.
If, on the other hand, property is understood in the strict sense as
the ‘jus utendi and _abutendi_ re sua’ (the right to use and to _abuse_
of one’s own thing), such a right is not absolute so far as one’s body
is concerned. On this side too it is limited by just considerations
of the common good which have found expression in legal codes of all
epochs and nations. If the whole of man’s physical powers are needed,
for instance, for the defence of his country, even so slight an ‘abuse’
of one’s body as cutting off a finger is recognised as criminal. And
even apart from such special conditions, not by any means every use
that man may make of his body is regarded as permissible.
But whatever the moral and social limitations of man’s rights over his
own body may be, in any case it unquestionably belongs to him, just as
his mental states do, in virtue of a direct and natural connection,
independent of his will, between _himself_ and _what is his_. As to
external things, the ground upon which they belong to this or that
person, or are appropriated by him, is not immediately given and calls
for explanation. Even when there appears to be the closest connection
between a person and a thing, as for instance between necessary
clothing and the person who is wearing it, the question as to property
still remains open, for the clothes may not be his own but may have
been stolen from somebody else. On the other hand, a person living in
Petersburg or London may have immovable property in East Siberia which
he has never seen nor ever will see. If, then, the presence of the
closest real connection between a person and a thing (as in the first
case) is in no sense a guarantee of property, while the absence of any
real connection (as in the second instance) is no obstacle to property,
it follows that the real connection is altogether irrelevant and that
the right of property must have an ideal basis. According to a current
philosophical definition, property is the ideal continuation of the
person in things or the extension of the person to things. In what
way, however, and upon what ground is the self thus extended to what
is other than it and appropriates that other? Such extension cannot be
due to the act of personal will alone; an act of will can transfer the
already existing right of property (through gift or legacy, etc.), but
it cannot create the right itself. The right of property is usually
held to arise in two ways only, through possession and work. Possession
in the strict sense, _i.e._ apart from any special work (such as the
military), through simple seizure resulting from a direct act of will
gives rise to a special right of property, ‘the right of the first
occupier’ (‘_jus primi occupantis_’), but does so only in exceptional
cases, more and more rarely met with, when that which is seized belongs
to no one (‘_res nullius_’).
Work thus remains, in the general opinion, the essential basis of
property. The product of one’s work and effort naturally becomes one’s
own, one’s property. This ground, however, also proves to be insecure.
If it were sufficient, children would have to be recognised as the
property of the mother who brought them into the world with no little
labour and effort. Reservations have to be made and human beings
must be _a priori_ excluded from the class of objects of property;
and this can only be done in virtue of principles utterly foreign to
the economic sphere as such. At this point, however, a new and more
important difficulty arises. It has been granted that things alone
can be objects of property, and that the ground of property is labour
which produces them. This would be all very well if labour could
produce things; but in truth labour produces not things but _utility_
in things. Utility, however, is a relation and not a thing and cannot
therefore be the object of property. In common parlance, dating from
primitive times, it is usual to speak of workmen making things; but
even persons ignorant of political economy understand that workmen
merely produce in the given material changes which communicate to it
some relatively new qualities corresponding to certain human needs.
There is no doubt that they work for their own sake as well as for
other people’s, and that their work must give satisfaction to their own
needs. “The workman is worthy of his meat,”[162]--this is a moral axiom
which no one would honestly challenge. The question, however, is what
can be the ground of the workman’s ownership of the so-called products
of labour. Labour which does not produce a thing, but only a certain
particular quality in it, inseparable from the thing itself, cannot
justify the ownership of that which it did not produce, and which does
not depend upon it. The employer is responsible for the workman’s
labour but not for the reality of its products, and is therefore in the
same position as the workman with regard to the latter.
Thus there exists no real ground why the product of labour should
be the property of any one, and we must therefore turn to the ideal
grounds.
IX
In virtue of the absolute significance of personality every man has
a right to the means of a worthy existence. Since, however, the
individual as such has this right potentially only, and it depends
upon society actually to realise or to secure it, it follows that the
individual has a corresponding duty towards society--the duty to be
useful to it or to work for the common good. In this sense work is the
source of property: the worker has an unquestionable right of property
over what he has _earned_. Within certain limits demanded by the moral
principle, wages may be regulated by society--_i.e._ by the central
authority or the Government--and not be allowed to fall below a certain
minimum, but they cannot be prescribed with absolute exactness. On the
other hand, the needs and the conditions of a worthy existence are
even in a normal society only an _approximately_ constant and definite
quantity. Hence it becomes possible for individual persons to save or
to accumulate material means, _i.e._ to form _capital_. There is, of
course, still less visible and real connection between capital and the
person who has saved it than there is between the workman and the thing
he has made, but the close and complete ideal connection is obvious.
Capital as such, in its general nature--apart from the circumstances
owing to which it may in individual cases have been built up--is a
pure product of human will, for originally it depended upon that will
to save a part of the earnings or to use it too for current needs.
Capital, therefore, ought in justice to be recognised as property _par
excellence_.[163]
The conception of property involves the conception of freely disposing
of the object of property. Ought this freedom to be absolute and
include both the use and the abuse of property? Since the realisation
of any right at all is only possible if society guarantees it, there is
no reason why society should guarantee personal misuse of a right that
conflicts with the common good. From the fact that, according to the
moral principle, the individual has absolute and inalienable rights,
it by no means follows that every act of his will is the expression
of such an inalienable right. Apart from being irrational such a
supposition would be practically self-destructive, since a will which
trespasses upon all rights would also in that case be inviolable, and
therefore there would be no inalienable right left. And if it is both
permissible and obligatory to prevent a person from misusing his hands
(for instance, from committing a murder), it is also permissible and
obligatory to prevent him from misusing his property to the detriment
of the common good or social justice.[164]
The only question is as to what we are to understand by misuse that
calls for the intervention of the state. Socialism recognises as
misuse all transfer of earned property to another person by legacy or
testament. This transference of economic advantages to persons who have
not personally deserved them is alleged to be the main wrong and the
source of all social evils. But although inheritance of property has
some real drawbacks, they disappear in the face of the positive side
of this institution, which necessarily follows from the very nature
of man. The continuous chain of progress in humanity is kept together
by the conscious successiveness of its links. While the all-embracing
unity of the future is still in the making, the very process whereby
it comes about demands mutual moral dependence between generations,
in virtue of which one does not merely follow the other but also
_inherits_ from it. If it were not for the intentional and voluntary
handing down of what has been acquired, we should have only a physical
succession of generations, the later repeating the life of the former,
as is the case with animals. The most important thing, of course, is
the continuous accumulation of spiritual inheritance; but since it
is only given to a few to hand down to universal posterity permanent
spiritual acquisitions, and since moral demands are the same for all,
it is the right and the duty of the majority of men to try and improve
the material conditions of life for their immediate successors. Those
who wholly devote themselves to the service of the universal future
and already anticipate it as an ideal have a right to refer to the
precept of taking no thought for the morrow advocated in the Gospels.
To imitate the lilies of the field one must be as pure as they are, and
to be like the fowls of the air one must be able to fly as high. But if
either purity or loftiness be lacking, practical carelessness likens
us not to the lilies or the birds of the air, but to the animal which,
careless of the future, grubs up the roots of the kindly oak tree, and
even, on occasion, devours its own offspring instead of acorns.
When dealing with an institution which is not immoral and is based upon
ideal foundations though it corresponds only to the medium level of
morality, no serious moralist ought to forget the unquestionable truth
that it is far more difficult for society to rise above this level
than to sink below it. Even if socialism and theories akin to it did
intend to turn every human being into an angel, they would certainly
fail to do so; but to bring the human mass down to the brutal stage
is not at all difficult. To reject in the name of the absolute moral
ideal the necessary social conditions of moral progress means, in the
first place, in defiance of logic, to confuse the absolute and eternal
value of that _which is being realised_ with the relative value of
the degree of realisation as a process in time. Secondly, it means
a thoughtless attitude towards the absolute ideal which, apart from
the concrete conditions of its realisation, becomes for man an empty
phrase. Thirdly, this pseudo-moral uncompromising straightforwardness
means the absence of the most fundamental and elementary moral
impulse--_pity_, and pity precisely to those who are most in need of
it--to the ‘least of these.’ To preach absolute morality and reject
all moralising institutions, to lay burdens too heavy to be borne upon
the weak and helpless shoulders of average humanity, _is illogical,
thoughtless, and immoral_.
Inherited property is the abiding realisation of moral interaction in
the most intimate and the most fundamental social group--namely, in the
family. Inherited wealth is, on the one hand, the embodiment of pity,
reaching beyond the grave, of the parents for their children, and, on
the other, a concrete point of departure for a pious memory of the
departed parents. With these two is connected, at any rate with regard
to the most important kind of property--the property in land, a third
moral factor, viz. man’s relation to the external nature, _i.e._ to
the earth. For the majority of men this relation can become moral only
on condition of their having inherited landed property. To understand
earthly nature and to love it for its own sake is given to a few only;
but every one becomes naturally attached to his own native spot, to the
graves of his fathers and the haunts of his childhood. It is a moral
bond, and one which extends human solidarity to material nature, thus
making a beginning of its spiritualisation. This fact both justifies
the institution of inherited property in land and serves as a basis
for making it more conformable to the demands of morality. It is not
sufficient to recognise the ideal character which obviously attaches
to such property: it is necessary to strengthen and develop this
character, protecting it from the low and selfish motives which are
natural enough at the present stage of human progress and may easily
gain the upper hand. Decisive check must be put upon the treatment of
the earth as a lifeless instrument of rapacious exploitation; the plots
of land handed down from one generation to another must, in principle,
be made inalienable and sufficient to maintain in each person a moral
attitude towards the earth. It will be said that, with the population
constantly increasing, enough land cannot be found both to preserve to
each what he has got, or even a part of it, and to give some to those
who have not got any. This objection appears to be a serious one, but
is in truth either thoughtless or unfair. It would certainly be very
absurd to suggest as an absolute, separate, and independent measure
that an inalienable plot of land should be secured to each and all.
This measure may and ought to be taken only in connection with another
reform--the cessation, namely, of that rapacious method of cultivation
which will end in there not being enough land for any one, let alone
for all. And if land is treated in the moral way and _looked after_
like a being whom one loves, the minimum amount of land sufficient for
each person may become so small that there will be enough for those who
have not got any, without doing injustice to those who have.
As to the unlimited increase of population, it is not ordained by any
physical, and, still less, by any moral law. It is understood, of
course, that normal economics are only possible in connection with
the normal family, which is based upon rational asceticism and not
upon unchecked carnal instincts. The immoral exploitation of land
cannot stop so long as there is immoral exploitation of woman. If
man’s relation to his inner _house_ (this is the name applied by the
Scriptures to the wife) is wrong, his relation to his external house
cannot be right either. A man who beats his wife cannot care for the
earth as he should. Speaking generally, the moral solution of the
economic question is intimately connected with the whole problem of
life in the individual and the race.
X
Just as there can be no physiological life without the interchange of
substances, so there can be no social life without the interchange of
things (and of signs representing them). This important section of
human material relations is studied on its technical side by political
economy, financial and commercial law, and falls within the scope of
moral philosophy only in so far as _exchange_ becomes _fraud_. To judge
economic phenomena and relations as such--to affirm, _e.g._, as some
moralists do, that money is an evil, that there must be no commerce,
that banks ought to be abolished, etc.--is unpardonable childishness.
It is obvious that objects which are thus condemned are morally
indifferent or neutral, and become good or evil only according to the
quality and direction of the will that uses them. If we are to give up
money as an evil because many people use money for evil purposes, we
ought also to give up the power of articulate speech, since many use it
for swearing, idle talk, and slander; we should also have to give up
using fire for fear of conflagrations, and water for fear of persons
committing suicide by drowning. In truth, however, money, commerce,
and banks are not in themselves an evil but become an evil, or, more
exactly, become the consequence of an already existing evil and the
cause of a new one, when, instead of necessary interchange, they serve
the purposes of selfish fraud.
The root of evil in this case, as in the whole of the economic sphere,
is one and the same, namely, that the material interest is made
dominant instead of subservient, independent instead of dependent, an
end instead of a means. From this poisonous root three noxious stems
spring in the domain of exchange--falsification, speculation, and usury.
A modern text-book of political economy gives as a current definition
of commerce that it is a trade “consisting in the buying and selling
of goods with the object of gain.” The description of commerce as the
buying and selling of goods is purely verbal; the important thing is
the purpose which is here said to consist entirely in the gain of the
trader.[165] If, however, the one object of commerce is gain, all
profitable falsification of goods and all successful speculation is
justified. And if gain is the purpose of commerce, it is certainly also
the purpose of money-lending; and since the latter is more profitable
the higher the rate of interest, unlimited usury is also justified. If,
on the other hand, such facts are recognised as inconsistent with the
moral norm, it must also be recognised that commerce and exchange in
general may only be a means of private gain _on condition_ that they
should in the first place serve the community as a whole and fulfil a
social function for the good of all.
From this point of view the economic anomalies indicated can only be
abolished if their immoral root is destroyed. But every one understands
that the unchecked growth of a plant strengthens its roots and extends
them in breadth and in depth, and that if the roots are very deep, the
stem must be cut down first. To speak without metaphors: apart from
the inner, purely ideal and verbal struggle with the vice of cupidity,
normal society can and ought decisively to oppose by means of concrete
external measures such luxurious growths of unlimited cupidity as
commercial falsification, speculation, and usury.
Falsification of goods, especially of the objects of necessary
consumption, is a menace to public welfare and is not merely immoral
but positively criminal. In some cases it is regarded as such even at
the present day, but this view must be worked out more consistently.
When the whole legal procedure and system of penalties[166] is
reformed, increased persecution of these special offences will not be
an act of cruelty but of justice. Two things ought to be remembered in
this connection: in the first place, that people who suffer most from
this evil are the poor and ignorant, who are unfortunate enough as it
is; and secondly, that the unchecked performance of these crimes, as of
all others, is injurious not only to the victims but to the criminals
themselves, who may feel that their immorality is justified and
encouraged by the condonation of society.
Financial operations with fictitious values (the so-called
‘speculations’) are certainly a social disease rather than a personal
crime, and the first remedy is absolute prohibition of institutions
whereby this disease is nurtured. As to usury, the only sure method of
abolishing it is, obviously, universal development of normal credit,
not with the object of gain but as a charitable institution.
In discussing economic relations which ought to hold in the domain of
labour, property, and exchange, I have spoken throughout of justice and
right, conceptions which have also been presupposed in the treatment
of the penal question. For the most part the terms ‘justice’ and
‘right’ carry the same meaning. The idea of justice, however, expresses
a purely moral demand, and therefore belongs to the ethical sphere,
while right determines a special sphere of relations--namely, the legal
one. Is this distinction merely a misunderstanding or, if it is well
grounded, what is the meaning and the degree of it? Turning now to the
question as to the relation of morality and legal justice or right,
we may note, without prejudging the content of our inquiry, that the
question is an extremely wide one, for the idea of right inevitably
involves a series of other ideas--law, authority, legal compulsion,
state. In discussing the _organisation_ of just social relations I took
these ideas for granted, since such an organisation can obviously not
be realised through moral preaching alone.
FOOTNOTES:
[150] Direct violation of the law by the evil will is foreseen by the
law itself and is treated as a crime which calls forth a corresponding
punishment.
[151] A remarkably characteristic specimen of plutocratic hypocrisy
is an article by the well-known Jules Simon (now deceased) which
appeared some years ago without attracting notice. The article deals
with the three chief evils of modern society: the decline of religion,
of family, and of ... _rentes_! The treatment of religion and family
is dull and vague, but the lines dealing with the fall of interest on
capital (from 4 per cent to 2½ per cent, if I remember rightly) are
written with the blood of the heart.
[152] The contention that socialism and plutocracy are based upon one
and the same materialistic principle was put forward by me eighteen
years ago (in chapter xiv. of the _Kritika otvletchonnih natchal_
(_Critique of Abstract Principles_), first published in the _Russky
Viestnik_ in 1878) and led my critics to accuse me of having a wrong
conception of socialism and of misjudging its value. I need no longer
answer these criticisms, for they have been brilliantly disproved by
the history of the socialistic movement itself, the main current of
which has decidedly evinced itself as _economic materialism_.
[153] 2½ cwt. and 5¾ cwt.
[154] 16⅒ tons.
[155] Tram conductors in Petersburg work more than eighteen hours a day
for twenty-five or thirty roubles a month (see _Novoe Vremya_, N. 7357).
[156] The author quoted refers here to Hanshofer’s book, _Lehrbuch der
Statistik_. All the figures quoted are apparently for the countries of
Western Europe.
[157] A. A. Isaev, _Natchala polititcheskoi economii_ (_Principles of
Political Economy_), 2nd ed. pp. 254-255.
[158] A. A. Isaev, _Natchala polititcheskoi economii_ (_Principles of
Political Economy_), 2nd ed. p. 226.
[159] The diametrical opposition between socialism and Christianity
has often been noted, but the essence of it is generally wrongly
understood. The popular saying that socialism demands that the poor
should take from the rich, while Christianity wants the rich to give
to the poor, is more witty than profound. The opposition is far deeper
than this, and lies in the moral attitude towards the rich. Socialism
_envies_ them and Christianity _pities_ them--pities them because of
the obstacles which connection with Mammon puts in the way of moral
perfection: it is hard for the rich to enter the kingdom of heaven.
But socialism takes that kingdom itself--_i.e._ the highest good and
blessedness--to consist in nothing other than wealth, provided it is
differently distributed. That which for Christianity is an obstacle,
for socialism is an end; if this is not an antithesis I do not know
what else to call by that name.
[160] The recognition of material wealth as the _end_ of economic
activity may be called the original sin of political economy, since it
dates back to Adam Smith.
[161] The Hebrew words _laobod ef gaadàma_ (Gen. iii. 23) literally
mean ‘to serve the earth’--not, of course, to serve in the sense of a
religious cult (although the word _obod_ is used in this sense also)
but in the sense in which angels serve humanity or a teacher serves the
children, etc.
[162] ‘Meat’ should, of course, be understood in the wide sense
explained above.
[163] I have indicated the source of capital in the simplest normal
scheme. But whatever anomalies may accompany the formation and growth
of capital in actual life, the part played by the will or the strength
of spirit remains in any case essential. Since there is no doubt
that all wealth may be squandered, the mere fact of _saving_ it is
an obvious _merit of will_ on the part of the saver; it is null in
comparison with merits of a different and higher order, but in their
absence it undoubtedly has an importance of its own.
[164] Even Roman law, thoroughly individualistic as it was in this
respect, introduced an important reservation into the formula quoted
above: proprietas est jus utendi et abutendi re sua _quatenus juris
ratio patitur_--property is the right to use and to abuse of one’s
thing in so far as it is compatible with the meaning (or the rational
basis) of justice. But the meaning of justice demands precisely that
private caprice should be limited by the common good.
[165] I do not, of course, hold the author of the book responsible for
this definition, since he only gives expression to the popular idea.
[166] See above, Part III., Chap. VI.
CHAPTER VIII
MORALITY AND LEGAL JUSTICE
I
The _absolute_ moral principle, the _demand_, namely, or the
_commandment_ to be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect, or to
realise in ourselves the image and likeness of God, already contains in
its very nature the recognition of the _relative_ element in morality.
For it is clear that the demand for perfection can only be addressed
to a being who is imperfect; urging him to _become_ like the higher
being, the commandment presupposes the lower stages and the relative
degrees of advance. Thus, the absolute moral principle or the perfect
good is for us, to use Hegel’s language, a unity of itself and its
other, a synthesis of the absolute and the relative. The existence of
the relative or the imperfect, as distinct from the absolute good,
is a fact not to be got over, and to deny it, to _confuse_ the two
terms, or, with the help of dialectical tricks and on the strength of
mystical emotions, to affirm them as identical, would be false. Equally
false, however, is the opposite course--the _separation_, namely, of
the relative from the absolute, as of two wholly distinct spheres
which have nothing in common. From this dualistic point of view man
himself, whose striving towards the absolute is inseparably connected
with relative conditions, proves to be the incarnation of absurdity.
The only rational point of view, which both reason and conscience
compel us to adopt, consists in recognising that the actual duality
between the relative and the absolute resolves itself for us into a
free and complete unity (but not by any means into an empty identity
of indifference) through the real and moral process of approaching
perfection--a process ranging from the rigid stone to the glory and
freedom of the sons of God.
At each stage the relative is connected with the absolute as a means
for _concretely_ bringing about the perfection of all; and this
connection justifies the lesser good as a condition of the greater. At
the same time it justifies the absolute good itself, which would not
be absolute if it could not connect with itself or include in one way
or another all concrete relations. And indeed, nowhere in the world
accessible to us do we find the two terms in separation or in their
bare form. Everywhere the absolute principle is clothed with relative
forms, and the relative is inwardly connected with the absolute and
held together by it. The difference lies simply in the comparative
predominance of one or the other aspect.
When some two species of concrete relations or some two domains within
which they are exemplified are separated from and opposed to one
another, one being regarded as absolute and another as purely relative
in meaning, we may be certain that the opposition itself is purely
relative. Each of the two domains is simply a special instance of the
relation between the absolute and the relative,--relation different in
form and degree, but identical in nature and supreme purpose. And it is
in this relation of both to the absolute that the positive connection
or the unity of the two consists.
Within the limits of the active or practical life of humanity there
is apparent opposition between the moral sphere in the strict sense
and the sphere of legal justice. From ancient times, beginning with
the pagan Cynics and the Christian gnostics, and down to our own day,
this opposition has been taken to be unconditional. Morality alone has
been regarded as absolute, and legal justice, as a purely conventional
phenomenon, has been rejected in the name of the absolute demands. One
immediately feels that this view is false, but moral philosophy compels
us to disregard this feeling which may, after all, be deceptive, and to
consider the true relation between morality and legal justice from the
standpoint of the absolute good. Is this good justified by its relation
to justice? A person interested in etymology may note that the answer
is already contained in the terms of the question. This philological
circumstance will be discussed further on, but it must not as such
prejudge the philosophic problem.
II
In his lectures on Criminal Law Professor N. S. Tagantsev quotes, among
other things, the following Prussian enactment of the year 1739:
“If an advocate or a procurator or any similar person ventures to
present any petition to his Royal Majesty, either personally or through
somebody else, it is the pleasure of his Royal Majesty that the
aforesaid person should be hanged without mercy, and a dog be hanged by
the side of him.”
Of the legality or conformity to law of the enactment in question
there can be no doubt; and there can be equally no doubt of its being
opposed to the most elementary demands of justice. The opposition seems
to be intentionally emphasised by extending the punishment of the
advocate or procurator to the perfectly innocent dog. Similar, though
not such glaring cases of disagreement between morality and positive
right, between justice and law, are frequently met with in history.
The question must then be asked, how is this fact to be regarded, and
which of the two conflicting principles are we to adopt in practical
life? The answer appears to be clear. Moral demands have an inherent
character of being absolutely binding, which may be entirely absent
from the enactments of positive law. Hence the conclusion seems
legitimate that the question as to the relation between morality and
legal justice is settled by a simple rejection of the latter as a
binding principle of action. All human relations must accordingly be
reduced to purely moral interaction, and the sphere of the legal or
juridical determinations and relations must be entirely rejected.
This conclusion is very easily thought of, but is also extremely
thoughtless. This ‘antinomy,’ or the absolute opposition between
morality and law, has never subjected its fundamental assumption to any
consistent or far-reaching criticism.
That a formally legal enactment, such as the edict of the king of
Prussia, quoted above, is opposed to the demands of morality is only
too obvious. But it may well be that it is also opposed to the demands
of legal justice itself. The possibility of conflict between the
formal legality of certain actions and the essence of legal justice
will become clearer to the reader if I give a concrete instance of an
analogous conflict between the formally-moral character of an action
and the true nature of morality.
It was reported in the papers a little while ago that a woman suspected
of causing the illness of a boy by means of a bewitched apple was
terribly injured and almost killed by the crowd in the centre of
Moscow--near St. Panteleimon’s Chapel in Nikolsky Street. Now these
people acted independently of any interested motives or external
considerations; they had no personal enmity to the woman and no
personal interest in beating her; their sole motive was the feeling
that so outrageous a crime as the poisoning of an innocent babe by
means of sorcery ought to meet with just retribution. Thus it cannot
be denied that their behaviour had a formally-moral character, though
every one will agree that it certainly was essentially immoral. If,
however, the fact that revolting crimes may be committed from purely
moral motives does not lead us to reject morality as such, there is
no reason why such essentially unjust, though legal, enactments as
the Prussian law of 1739 should be regarded as sufficient ground for
rejecting legal justice. In the case of the crime in Nikolsky Street
it is not the moral principle that is at fault, but the insufficient
development of the moral consciousness in the half-savage crowd; in the
case of the absurd Prussian law it is not the idea of legal justice or
law that is at fault, but only the small degree to which the idea of
justice was developed in the consciousness of King Friedrich-Wilhelm.
It would not be worth while to discuss the subject were it not for
the bad habit, which has become established of late, especially with
reference to legal questions, to deduce, contrary to logic, general
conclusions from concrete particular instances.
III
It is not legal justice and morality that conflict and are incompatible
with one another, but the different states both of the legal and
the moral consciousness. Apart from these states and their concrete
expressions, there exist, however, in the domain of legal justice,
just as much as in the domain of morality, abiding and essential norms,
the presence of which is unconsciously admitted even by the spirit of
lying, in his sophistic attack on jurisprudence:
All rights and laws are still transmitted
Like an eternal sickness of the race,--
From generation unto generation fitted
And shifted round from place to place.
Reason becomes a sham, Beneficence a worry:
Thou art a grandchild, therefore woe to thee.
The right born with us, ours in verity
This to consider, there’s, alas! no hurry.
Even Mephistopheles recognises this _natural right_, and merely
complains that it is ignored.[167] In truth, however, it is referred
to whenever a question of right arises. No fact belonging to the legal
sphere, no expression of legal justice, can be judged of except by
reference to a general conception or norm of justice. Mephistopheles
himself applies this conception or norm when he says that certain
rights and laws, once rational and beneficial, have become senseless
and mischievous. He indicates here one aspect of the case only, namely,
the so-called _conservatism_ of legal justice. This fact, too, has its
rational foundation, and the disadvantages which it involves, and upon
which Mephistopheles exclusively dwells, are cancelled by another fact,
not mentioned by the spirit of lying for his own reasons--the fact,
namely, that legal consciousness gradually develops, and that legal
enactments are, as a fact, improved. This unquestionable _progress_
in the domain of legal justice can be shown even in the case of
the unjust law quoted above. I do not simply mean that enactments
like the Prussian edict of 1739 have become utterly impossible in
any European country, and that the penalty of death even for the
worst and unquestionable crimes has long been condemned by the best
representatives of the legal profession. I contend that this edict
itself meant unquestionable progress in comparison with the state of
things which had once prevailed in Brandenburg and Pomerania, as in the
rest of Europe, when every powerful baron could calmly put peaceful
people to death for motives of personal vengeance, or for the sake of
seizing their property. At the time of Frederick the Great’s father
it was the king alone who had the power to take a man’s life, and, in
doing so, he had no personal or selfish purpose in view. It is obvious,
indeed, that Friedrich Wilhelm’s object in composing his edict was
to put down denunciation and slander by the threat of the penalty of
death, and not actually to deprive of life advocates, procurators, and
dogs. The barons of the old times were unquestionably guilty of murder
and robbery, but the king, even when publishing the revolting edict,
was still acting as the guardian of justice, though at a very low level
of legal consciousness.
This difference of degree, this actual progress in legal justice, the
steady advance of the legal enactments towards legal norms, conformable
to, though not identical with, the moral demands, sufficiently proves
that the relation between the two principles is not merely negative.
It shows that it is unpermissible from the point of view of morality
itself to dismiss the whole range of legal facts and problems by a
simple and meaningless rejection of them.
IV
The relation between the moral and the legal sphere is one of the
fundamental questions of practical philosophy. It is really the
question as to the relation between the ideal moral consciousness
and the actual life. The vitality and the fruitfulness of the moral
consciousness depends upon this relation being understood in a positive
sense. Between the ideal good on the one hand and the evil reality
on the other lies the intermediate sphere of law and justice, whose
function is to give concrete embodiment to the good, to limit and to
correct the evil. Justice and its embodiment--the state--condition the
actual organisation of the moral life of humanity. Moral preaching
which takes up a negative attitude towards justice as such could have
no objective basis or means of expression in the real environment that
is foreign to it, and would remain at best an innocent pastime. If,
on the other hand, the formal conceptions and institutions of legal
justice were completely severed from the moral principles and purposes,
legality would lose its absolute basis and become purely arbitrary.
Indeed, in order consistently to carry out the separation between
legal right and morality it would be necessary to give up the ordinary
use of speech, which, in all languages, unmistakably testifies to
the fundamental inner relation between the two ideas. The conception
of right and the correlative conception of duty form so essential a
part of the system of moral ideas that they may serve as a direct
expression of them. Every one understands and no one would dispute such
moral affirmations as: I am conscious of the _duty_ to abstain from
everything shameful, or, what is the same thing, I recognise that human
dignity (in my own person) has a _right_ to my respect; it is my _duty_
to help my neighbours as much as in me lies and to serve the common
good, _i.e._ my neighbours and society as a whole have a _right_ to my
help and service; finally, it is my _duty_ to harmonise my will with
what I regard as the highest of all, or, in other words, the absolutely
highest has a _right_ to a religious attitude on my part (which is the
ultimate basis of all religious worship).
There is not a single moral relation which could not be correctly and
intelligibly expressed in terms of right. One would think that nothing
could be more remote from the juridical order of ideas than love for
one’s enemies. And yet if the supreme moral law proclaims it my _duty_
to love my enemies, it is clear that my enemies have a _right_ to my
love. If I deny love to them, I act unjustly, I sin against what is
_right_. Here we have a term which alone embodies the essential unity
of the juridical and the moral principles.[168] For rights are nothing
more than the expression of what is right, and, on the other hand, all
virtues[169] are reducible to the idea of right or justice, _i.e._
to what is right or due in the ethical sense. This is not a case of
accidental similarity of terms, but of essential homogeneity and inner
connection of the ideas themselves.
It does not, of course, follow that the sphere of legal justice and
morality coincide, or that the moral and the juridical conceptions
should be confused. One thing only is indisputable, namely, that
there is a positive and intimate relation between the two spheres,
which does not permit of one being rejected in the name of the other.
The question, then, is in what precisely does the connection and the
difference between them consist.
V
The fact that we speak of _moral right_ and moral duty, on the one hand
proves the absence of any fundamental opposition or incompatibility of
the moral and the juridical principles, and, on the other, indicates an
essential difference between them. In designating a given right (_e.g._
the right of my enemy to my love) as _moral_ only, we imply that in
addition to the moral there exist other rights, _i.e._ rights in a more
restricted sense, or that there exists _right as such_, which is not
directly and immediately characterised as moral. Take, on the one hand,
the duty of loving our enemies and their corresponding right to our
love, and on the other, take the duty to pay one’s debts, or the duty
not to rob and murder one’s neighbours and their corresponding right
not to be robbed, murdered, or deceived by us. It is obvious that there
is an essential difference between the two kinds of relation, and that
only the second of them falls within the scope of justice in the narrow
sense of the term.
The difference can be reduced to three main points:
(1) A purely moral demand, such, _e.g._, as the love for one’s
enemies, is unlimited or all-embracing in nature; it presupposes moral
perfection, or, at any rate, an unlimited striving towards perfection.
Every limitation admitted as a matter of _principle_ is opposed to
the nature of the moral commandment and undermines its dignity and
significance. If a person gives up the absolute moral ideal as a
principle, he gives up morality itself and leaves the moral ground.
Juridical law, on the contrary, is essentially limited, as is clearly
seen in all cases of its application. In the place of perfection it
demands the lowest, the minimum degree of morality, that is, simply,
actual restraint of certain manifestations of the immoral will. This
distinction, however, is not an opposition leading to real conflict.
From the moral point of view it cannot be denied that the demand
conscientiously to fulfil monetary obligations, to abstain from
murder, robbery, etc., is a demand for what is good--though extremely
elementary--and not for what is evil. It is clear that if we ought to
love our enemies, it goes without saying that we ought to respect the
life and property of all fellow-men. The higher commandments cannot be
fulfilled without observing the lower. As to the juridical side of the
matter, though the civil or the penal law does not demand the supreme
moral perfection, it is not opposed to it. Forbidding every one to
murder or be fraudulent, it cannot, and indeed has no need to, prevent
any one from loving his enemies. Thus with regard to this point (which
in certain moral theories is erroneously taken to be the only important
one), the relation between the two principles of the practical life may
be only expressed by saying that _legal justice is the lowest limit or
the minimum degree of morality_.
(2) The unlimited character of the purely moral demands leads to
another point of difference. The way in which such demands are to
be fulfilled is not definitely prescribed, nor is it limited to any
concrete external manifestations or material actions. The commandment
to love one’s enemies does not indicate, except as an example,
what precisely we ought to do in virtue of that love, _i.e._ which
particular actions we ought to perform and from which to abstain. At
the same time, if love is expressed by means of definite actions, the
moral commandment cannot be regarded as already fulfilled by these
actions and as demanding nothing further. The task of fulfilling
the commandment, which is an expression of the absolute perfection,
remains infinite. Juridical laws, on the contrary, prescribe or
prohibit perfectly definite external actions, with the performance
or non-performance of which the law is satisfied and demands nothing
further. If I produce in due time the money I am owing, and pass it
to my creditor, if I do not murder or rob any one, etc., the law is
satisfied and wants nothing more from me. This difference between the
moral and the juridical law once more involves no contradiction. The
demand for the moral inner disposition, so far from excluding external
actions, directly presupposes them as its own proof or justification.
No one would believe in the inward goodness of a man if it never
showed itself in any works of mercy. On the other hand, the request
to perform definite actions is in no way opposed to the inner states
corresponding to them, though it does not demand them. Both the moral
and the juridical laws are concerned with the inner being of man, with
his will; but while the first takes this will in its universality and
entirety, the second has only to do with particular expressions of it
in respect of certain external facts, which fall within the province
of justice in the narrow sense,--such as the inviolability of the
life and property of each person, etc. What is of importance from the
juridical point of view is precisely the objective expression of our
will in committing or in refraining from certain actions. This is
another essential characteristic of legal justice, and, in addition to
the original definition of it as a certain minimum of morality, we may
now say that legal justice is the demand for the _realisation_ of this
minimum, _i.e._ for _carrying out a certain minimum of the good_, or,
what is the same thing, for doing away with a certain amount of evil.
Morality in the strict sense is immediately concerned, not with the
external realisation of the good, but with its inner existence in the
heart of man.
(3) This second distinction involves a third one. The demand for moral
perfection as an inner state presupposes free or voluntary fulfilment.
Not only physical but even psychological compulsion is here, from
the nature of the case, both undesirable and impossible. External
realisation of a certain uniform order, on the contrary, admits of
direct or indirect _compulsion_. And in so far as the direct and
immediate purpose of legal justice is precisely the realisation or the
external embodiment of a certain good--_e.g._ of public safety--in so
far the compelling character of the law is a necessity; for no genuine
person could seriously maintain that by means of verbal persuasion
alone all murders, frauds, etc., could be immediately stopped.
VI
Combining the three characteristics indicated we obtain the following
definition of legal justice in its relation to morality: _legal justice
is a compulsory demand for the realisation of a definite minimum of the
good, or for a social order which excludes certain manifestations of
evil_.
The question has now to be asked, what is the ground for such a
demand, and in what way is this compulsory order compatible with the
purely moral order, which apparently by its very nature excludes all
compulsion. It may be urged that once the perfect good is established
in consciousness as an ideal, each ought to be allowed freely to
realise it as much as in him lies. Why, it will be said, make into a
law the compulsory minimum of morality, when we ought freely to fulfil
the maximum? Why declare under penalty, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ when we
ought mildly to exhort people not to be angry?
All this would be perfectly true were the moral problem a theoretical
one and were the perfect good compatible with selfish impassibility or
indifference to the sufferings of others. But since the true conception
of the good _necessarily_ includes the principle of altruism, which
demands corresponding behaviour on our part, _i.e._ demands that
compassion for the ills of others should prompt us actively to save
them from evil, moral duty certainly requires us to do more than simply
to profess the perfect ideal. In the natural course of things, which
ought not to be approved of or acquiesced in, but which it is childish
not to take into account, what would happen is this: whilst some would
be freely striving towards the supreme ideal and grow perfect in
impassibility, others would exercise themselves, unhindered, in every
conceivable crime and would certainly exterminate the first before they
could attain a high degree of moral perfection. But even supposing
that men of good will were by some miracle saved from extermination by
the bad ones, these good men themselves would obviously prove to be
_insufficiently_ good if they would be content with pious conversations
about the good, instead of actively helping their neighbours and
protecting them against the extreme and destructive forms of evil.
Moral interest demands personal freedom as a condition apart from
which human dignity and higher moral development is impossible. But
man cannot exist, and, consequently, cannot perfect his freedom and
his moral nature apart from society. Moral interest therefore demands
that personal freedom should not conflict with the conditions which
render the existence of society possible. This demand cannot be carried
into effect by means of the ideal of moral perfection, which the
individual is to attain by his own free efforts. For the essential
practical purpose before us this ideal gives both too much and too
little--its demands are too great and its concrete results too small.
Of the person who recognises it, the ideal demands that he should love
his enemies; but it cannot compel those _who do not recognise_ its
demands to abstain even from murder and robbery. The strict moralist
will perhaps say, ‘We don’t want people to abstain from crimes unless
they do so voluntarily’; but in saying this he would be guilty of
obvious injustice. He will have forgotten to ask the opinion of the
plundered people themselves and of the families whose members have been
murdered--as though the injury they had suffered is the ground for
regarding them as completely rightless.
The moral law has been given to man ‘that he might live thereby’;
and if human society did not exist, morality would remain merely an
abstract idea. The existence of society, however, depends not on the
perfection of some, but on the security of all. This security is not
guaranteed by the moral law, which is non-existent for persons in
whom anti-social instincts predominate, but it is safeguarded by the
compulsory law which has actual power over every one. To appeal to
the gracious power of Providence to restrain and exhort lunatics and
criminals is sheer blasphemy. It is impious to lay upon the Deity that
which can be successfully performed by a good legal system.
The moral principle demands, then, that men should freely seek
perfection. To this end the existence of society is necessary. Society
cannot exist if each person wishing to do so may, without let or
hindrance, rob and murder his neighbours. Hence the compulsory law,
which actually prevents these extreme expressions of the evil will, is
a _necessary condition of moral perfection_; as such it is demanded by
the moral principle itself, though it is not a direct expression of it.
Let it be granted that the highest morality, on its ascetic side,
demands that I should be indifferent to the prospect of being killed,
mutilated, or robbed. But the same supreme morality on its altruistic
side does not permit me to remain indifferent to the fact that my
neighbours may, without interference from any one, become murderers or
be murdered, robbers or the robbed, and that society, apart from which
the individual cannot live and develop, should run the risk of being
destroyed. Such indifference would be a clear sign of moral death.
The demand for personal liberty presupposes for its realisation the
restriction of that liberty to the extent in which, at the given state
of humanity, it is incompatible with the existence of society or with
the common good. From the point of view of abstract thought there
appears to be an opposition between these two interests, both of which
are equally binding morally. In reality, however, they coincide, and
legal justice is the offspring of their union.
VII
The principle of legal justice may be considered in the abstract,
and in that case it is simply a direct expression of moral justice.
I affirm my freedom as my right in so far as I recognise the freedom
of others as their right; but the conception of right necessarily
involves, as we have seen, an objective element, or a demand to be
realised. Right must be capable of realisation: that is, the freedom
of others, whether recognised by me or not, must, independently of my
personal feeling of justice, restrict my freedom within limits equally
binding upon every one. This demand for compulsory justice follows from
the idea of the common good or public interest, or, what is the same
thing, from the idea of the realisation of the good, which inevitably
requires that justice should be an actual fact and not an idea merely.
The degree and the means of the realisation depend, of course, upon the
state of the moral consciousness in the given society and upon other
historical conditions. The natural right thus becomes the positive
right, and can, from this point of view, be formulated as follows:
_legal justice is the historically changeable determination of the
necessary equilibrium, maintained by compulsion, between two moral
interests--that of personal freedom and of the common good_.
It would be a fatal confusion of ideas to believe that justice has for
its purpose material equalisation of private interests. Justice as
such has nothing to do with this. It is concerned only with the two
main factors of human life--the freedom of the individual and the good
of society. When legal justice limits itself to this and does not
introduce the element of compulsion into private relations, it does
the best service to morality. The individual must be moral by his free
choice, and for that he must have _a certain freedom to be immoral_.
Within certain limits justice secures this freedom to him, though it in
no way inclines him to take advantage of it. Had not the creditor the
right to compel his debtor to pay the money owing to him, he would not
be able by a free moral act to renounce his right and to forgive a poor
man his debt. On the other hand, the fact that the debtor is compelled
to abide by the obligation he has freely entered upon, preserves his
freedom and his full rights in relation to the creditor: he is not
dependent upon the creditor’s will but upon his own decision and the
law of the land. The interest of individual freedom coincides in this
case with the interest of the common good, since without the security
of free contracts there can be no normal social life.
The harmony of the two moral interests is still more obvious in the
case of the penal law. It is clear that the freedom of the individual,
or his natural right to live and to strive for perfection, would be an
empty sound if it depended upon the whim of every other individual who
might want to murder or to cripple his neighbour, or to deprive him of
the means of subsistence. It is our moral right to defend our freedom
and safety from the attacks made upon it by the evil will of others,
and it is our moral duty to help other people to do the same. This
common duty is discharged for the benefit of all by the penal law.
Legal compulsion in this sphere secures the freedom of peaceful
citizens, but it leaves sufficient room for the exercise of evil
propensities and compels no one to be virtuous. A malicious man may, if
he likes, give vent to his malice in evil-speaking, intrigues, slander,
quarrels, etc. It is only when the evil will attacks the objective
public rights of the individuals, and threatens the security of society
itself, that it becomes necessary for the sake of the common good,
which coincides with the freedom of peaceful citizens, to limit the
freedom of evil. In the interests of freedom, legal justice allows men
to be wicked, and does not interfere with their free choice between
good and evil. But in the interests of the common good it prevents the
evil man from becoming an _evil-doer_, dangerous to the very existence
of society. The purpose of legal justice is not to transform the world
which lies in evil into the kingdom of God, but only to prevent it from
changing _too soon_ into hell.
Such premature hell has threatened and, to a certain extent, still
threatens humanity _on two sides_. The normal society, that is, a
society that leads a secure and worthy existence and progresses towards
perfection, is conditioned by the proper balance being maintained
between the individual and the collective interest. Hence, anomalies
perilous to society may arise either from the excess of individual
power, breaking up the social solidarity, or, on the contrary, from the
excess of social control crushing the individual. The first anomaly
menaces humanity with the burning hell of anarchy; the second, with
the icy hell of despotism, _i.e._ of the same anarchy or arbitrariness
concentrated at one point and pressing upon society from without.
In actual history the balance between free individual powers and the
collective power of the social organisation is, of course, movable
and variable, made up of a number of particular deviations and
rectifications. But the very fact that we _note_ these variations is
sufficient to prove that above them lie the abiding norms of social
and individual relations--the eternal boundaries which spring from the
very nature of morality, and cannot, without fatal consequences, be
overstepped by society either in the one direction or in the other. The
most universal and in this sense the most important of these boundaries
is that which limits the _compelling_ power of social organisations
to the domain of the objective or practical good, leaving all the
rest, _i.e._ all the inner or spiritual world of man, to the entire
responsibility of individuals and of free associations. To defend the
life and property of every one against the attacks of external and
internal enemies, to secure to all the necessary education, food,
medical assistance, and all that is connected therewith (means of
communication, post, etc.),--this is the practical good which can and
ought to be realised by the organised power of the society. For this
end society must inevitably impose certain restrictions or liabilities.
The _compulsory_ character of these restrictions is _specific_ only,
for it is clear that a person who, for instance, voluntarily abstains
from crimes does not experience any personal inconvenience from the
legal and penal institutions. Speaking generally, all restrictions due
to the necessary organisation of social forces are as little opposed to
individual freedom as the fact that if I intend to buy a thing I must
pay for it, or that if I do not want to get wet in the rain I must take
an umbrella.
The _essential_ characteristic of the good which is conditioned by
the organisation of legal justice in society is not its compulsory
character--which is merely a possible consequence of it--but _the
direct objectivity of its aim_. What is above all things important is
that certain things should and certain things should not _exist as a
fact_. It is important that there should be protection against savage
peoples, so that they should not burn and destroy towns and villages;
it is important that evil men should not rob and murder the wayfarers;
it is important that the population should not be exterminated by
diseases; it is important that every one should have access to
intellectual education and enlightenment.
These necessary goods are external in character, and the way to obtain
them is also external, admitting of compulsion where it is inevitable.
To the immediate, essential work of the law courts, hospitals, schools,
it makes no difference whatever whether they are supported by voluntary
subscriptions or by compulsory taxation. The same thing, however,
cannot be said of spiritual goods, which from their very nature cannot
be compulsory. There are, in the last resort, two such goods for man:
virtue, _i.e._ _inner inclination of our will to the good as such_, and
truth or right belief, _i.e._ _inner agreement of our reason with truth
as such_. It is clear from these definitions alone that freedom or
spontaneousness forms an essential part of both the spiritual or inward
goods. Therefore all compulsory external action in this sphere is, in
the first place, _a fraud_. The purpose of _externally_ compelling
or forcing a man to have an inner, _i.e._ an _inwardly_ determined,
disposition for the good, or an inner receptivity for the true,
cannot possibly be achieved, and is indeed a logical contradiction or
absurdity; and to use compulsion to no purpose is obviously an evil.
Hence, all compulsory measures with regard to spiritual things in the
supposed interests of truth and virtue are nothing other than the use
of evil means for a false purpose--an abuse in the fullest sense.
There are three kinds of violence in our world: (1) _brutal_ violence,
such as is committed by murderers, highwaymen, corrupters of children;
(2) _human_ violence, necessarily permitted by the compulsory
organisation of society for safeguarding the external goods of life;
and (3) violent intrusion of the external social organisation into the
spiritual life of man, with the false purpose of safeguarding the inner
goods--a species of violence which is _wholly_ false and evil, and may
therefore justly be called _diabolical_.
VIII
From the nature of legal justice, which serves the external or the
objective good, it follows that truth and virtue must always remain a
private concern, and one which is perfectly free. In addition to the
principle of unlimited religious tolerance, certain other consequences
follow from this.
In the domain of the penal as well as of the civil law the freedom of
the individual is limited, not by the private or subjective interest of
other individuals _taken separately_, but by the good of all. Many vain
and self-conscious people would rather be plundered or even crippled
than suffer secret abuse, slander, and heartless condemnation. If,
therefore, legal justice aimed at the protection of private interest
as such, it would in cases of this kind have to limit the freedom of
slanderers and evil-speakers even more than the freedom of robbers and
men of violence. But it does not do so, for verbal insults are not so
detrimental to the safety of society, and do not indicate so menacing
a degree of evil will as the crimes against person and property. Even
if the law intended to cope with such actions, it would be impossible
for it to take into account all the forms and degrees of individual
sensibility to insults. And if it could do so, it would be unjust, for
it is impossible to prove that the guilty person intended to cause
the high degree of suffering which he did cause in reality. _Common_
law may only be guided by definite intentions and objective actions
which can be verified by every one. Besides, in the cases which do
not fall within the scope of penal law, the injured person may, if he
likes, avenge himself on the injurer by the same means. His freedom
in this respect is respected as much as that of his adversary. And if
he is morally superior to the latter, and thinks that he ought not to
avenge himself, he would not in any case have appealed to the law,
however sensible he may have been of the injury. If he abstains from
personal revenge, so much the better for him and for society, which
is at liberty freely to express its moral judgment. What matters from
the legal point of view is not the evil will _as such_, and not the
result of action, which may, _as such_, be accidental, but only the
connection of the intention with the result, or the extent to which the
evil will is realised in action. It matters to it because the degree
of realisation and the corresponding degree of danger to society may
be determined objectively and is an external evil, the protection from
which is an external good, admitting of legal compulsion.
IX
Since the essence of legal justice consists in maintaining the balance
between two moral interests--that of individual liberty and of the
common good, it is clear that though the latter interest may _limit_
the former it may not under any circumstances _abolish it_. For in that
case the balance would obviously be disturbed and disappear through the
destruction of one of the terms of the relation. Therefore measures
against the criminal should never go so far as to deprive him of
life or to take away his freedom for ever. Laws which permit capital
punishment, lifelong penal servitude, or lifelong solitary confinement
cannot be justified from the legal point of view--they contradict the
very nature of legal justice. Besides, the contention that in certain
cases the common good requires that a given person should be completely
done away with, involves a logical self-contradiction. Common good is
_common_ just because in a certain sense it contains the good of _all_
individual persons _without exception_; if it did not, it would be the
good of the majority. It does not follow that it therefore is a mere
sum of private interests, or that it allows of unlimited individual
freedom. This would be another contradiction, since the unlimited
freedom of one individual may, and actually does, conflict with the
liberty of others. But the conception of the _common good_ implies
with logical necessity that in _restricting_ particular interests and
activities within common bounds it cannot _do away with_ a single
bearer of such interests and activities by depriving him of life or
of all possibility of free action. The common good must, in one way
or another, be the good of _this individual also_. But if it deprives
him of existence and of the possibility of free action--that is, of
the possibility of any good at all--it ceases to be a good for him; it
itself then becomes merely a private interest, and therefore loses its
right to limit personal liberty.[170]
With reference to this point, too, we see that the demands of morality
entirely coincide with the essence of legal justice. Speaking
generally, although legal justice in exercising compulsion to secure
the minimum of good differs from morality in the strict sense, yet in
its exercise of compulsion it observes the demands of morality, and
must on no account conflict with it. If, therefore, some positive law
is opposed to the moral consciousness of the good, we may be _a priori_
certain that it does not satisfy the essential demands of justice
either. So far as such laws are concerned, it is not in the interests
of justice that they should be retained, but that they should be
_lawfully_ repealed.
X
External compulsion is one of the essential characteristics of the
norms of legal justice as distinct from moral norms in the strict
sense. Hence, justice from its very nature requires _guarantees_,
_i.e._ sufficient power to enforce the realisation of its norms.
Every person in virtue of his absolute moral worth has an inalienable
right to exist and to strive for perfection. This moral right would,
however, be an empty word were its actual realisation to depend
entirely upon external happenings and the arbitrary will of others. To
be real, a right must contain within itself the conditions of its own
realisation, _i.e._ it must be safeguarded from violation. The first
and essential condition of this is communal life, since a solitary man
is obviously powerless against the forces of nature, wild beasts, and
brutal men. But being the necessary _defence_ of individual liberty,
or of the natural rights of man, communal life involves at the same
time a _limitation_ of these rights--not an accidental or arbitrary
limitation, but one that follows from the nature of the case and is
inwardly binding. Making use of the social organisation to safeguard my
existence and free activity, I must recognise in my turn the right of
that organisation to exist and to exercise its authority over me--that
is, I must submit my activity to conditions that are necessary to
the existence and the development of society. In this case the two
interests coincide, for if I desire to realise my right, or to secure
for myself a sphere of free activity, I must determine the degree of
the realisation or the extent of the freedom in accordance with the
fundamental demands of the social good, apart from which there can be
no realisation of my rights at all nor _any_ safeguards of my freedom.
The individual’s subordination to society is in perfect agreement with
the absolute moral principle which does not sacrifice the particular
to the universal, but unites them by an inner bond of solidarity. In
surrendering to society his unlimited but insecure and unreal freedom,
the individual has his determined or rational freedom secured to
him--the sacrifice is as profitable as the exchange of a dead lion for
a living dog.
The definite limitation of personal freedom in given conditions of time
and place, in accordance with the demands of the common good, or, what
is the same thing, a certain balance or a constant harmony between
these two principles, is a positive right or _law_ in the strict sense.
Law, as such, is a universally recognised and impersonal--_i.e._
independent of personal opinions and desires--determination of right,
or an expression of a proper balance (under given conditions and in
certain respects), between individual liberty and the good of the
whole. It is a definition or a _general_ notion which finds concrete
realisation through particular judgments in the _individual_ cases or
instances.
Hence the three necessary characteristics of law are: (1) its
_publicity_; an enactment that is not made _generally_ known cannot
be universally binding, _i.e._ cannot be a positive law; (2) its
_concreteness_; it is the norm of some particular definite relations
in a given real environment and not the expression of any abstract
truth or ideal;[171] (3) its _real applicability_ in each _individual_
case; this is ensured by the law being always accompanied by a
‘sanction,’ _i.e._ by its holding out the threat of compulsory and
punitive measures if its demands are unfulfilled or its prohibitions
violated.[172]
In order that the sanction might not remain an empty threat the law
must be supported by some real power sufficient to carry its demands
into execution. In other words, justice must have its actual bearers or
representatives in society who would be sufficiently powerful to give a
binding force to the laws they publish and to the sentences they pass.
Such actual representatives of justice or agents of the law are called
_authorities_.
I am bound to demand that the social whole should safeguard my natural
rights in a way in which I myself am unable to safeguard them, and in
doing so I am bound in reason and conscience to recognise the positive
right of this social whole to use means and methods of action without
which it could not fulfil this necessary and desirable task. Namely,
I must leave to the social whole, (1) the power to issue generally
binding laws; (2) the power to judge, in accordance with these laws,
private affairs and actions; and (3) the power to compel each and all
to fulfil the legal verdicts and all other measures necessary for
general security and welfare.
It is clear that these three different powers--the legislative, the
judicial and the executive, though necessarily _distinct_, cannot be
_separate_, and ought on no account to conflict with one another:
they all have one and the same purpose--to serve the common good in
accordance with the law. Their unity finds its real expression in
their being equally subordinate to one supreme authority, invested
with all the positive rights of the social whole as such. This central
power finds immediate expression as legislative authority. Judicial
authority is conditioned by the first, since a court of justice is not
autonomous, but acts in accordance with a law that is binding upon it.
The first two authorities condition the third, which is concerned
with enforcing laws and verdicts. In virtue of this inner connection,
without the one supreme authority in one form or another there could
be neither universally binding laws, nor regular functioning of
justice, nor effective administration, and the purpose of social
organisation could not be attained. It is clear, of course, that the
due relationship between the three authorities is violated both by
separating and placing them in hostile opposition to one another, and
by confusing them and distorting their natural order. This happens, for
instance, when the second authority, the judicial one, is subordinate
not to the first but to the third, and is dependent not upon the law
but upon the different organs of the executive power.
The social body with a definite organisation, containing in itself the
fulness of positive rights or the one supreme authority, is called
_the state_. In every organism it is necessary to distinguish the
organising principle, the system of the organs or of the instruments
whereby the organisation is carried out and the totality of elements to
be organised. Corresponding to this, we distinguish in the collective
organism of the state, taken in the concrete, (1) the supreme
authority; (2) its different organs or subordinate authorities; (3)
the substratum of the state, _i.e._ the mass of the population of a
given territory, consisting of individuals, families and other more or
less broad private unions subordinate to the authority of the state.
In the state alone does justice find all the conditions necessary for
its concrete realisation, and from this point of view the state is the
_embodiment of justice_.
Without dwelling here upon the question as to the actual historical
origin and the supreme sanction of the state authority,[173] I have
simply indicated its _formal basis_ as the necessary condition of a
just organisation of society. In its simplest practical expression the
meaning of the state consists in subordinating, within its limits,
violence to justice, arbitrariness to legality, and replacing the
chaotic and destructive conflict of the particular elements of natural
humanity by a regular order of existence. Compulsion is exercised by
the state only in the last extremity, the extent of it is determined
beforehand in accordance with law, and it is justified by the fact that
it proceeds from a common and impartial authority. This authority,
however, extends only to the boundaries of the given state’s territory.
There is no supreme authority above individual states, and therefore
conflicts between them are in the last resort decided by means of
violence only--by _war_. That this fact contradicts the _absolute_
principle of morality, there can be no question. The _relative_
significance of war and the best means of abolishing it are the last
of the fundamental practical questions which the collective life of
historical humanity puts before the moral consciousness.
FOOTNOTES:
[167] Apart from the direct meaning of this remark, it may be regarded
as a kind of prophecy of the persecution which, a quarter of a century
after Goethe’s death, the idea of the natural right suffered in
jurisprudence. There are signs which show that this persecution is
coming to an end.
[168] In all languages, moral and juridical conceptions are expressed
either by the same terms or by terms derived from the same root. The
Russian _dolg_, like the Latin _debitum_ (hence the French _devoir_)
and the German _Schuld_ have both a moral and a juridical meaning; in
the case of δική and δικαιοσύνη, _jus_ and _justitia_, of the Russian
_pravo_ and _pravda_, the German _Recht_ and _Gerechtigkeit_, the
English _right_ and _righteousness_, the two meanings are distinguished
by the use of suffixes. Cp. also the Hebrew _tsedek_ and _tsedakàh_.
[169] See above, Part I., Chapter V.: “Virtues.”
[170] After what has been said in Chapter VI. on the penal question,
I need not explain that the moral principle not only permits but in
certain cases actually demands that the criminal should for a time be
deprived of liberty, both for his own good and for the sake of public
safety. But it is morally impossible to inflict the penalty of death,
or to pass a sentence depriving a man of liberty for the rest of his
life.
[171] Certain law-codes still preserve--on paper--enactments which
require that people should abstain from drunkenness, be pious, honour
their parents, etc. But such spurious laws are merely a vestige of the
primitive state in which the moral and the juridical conceptions were
confused or merged into one.
[172] The pious wishes of the lawgiver referred to in the last note are
not accompanied by any sanction, which fact sufficiently proves that
they are spurious laws.
[173] See above, Part III., Chapters I. and VI., and below, Chapters
IX. and X.
CHAPTER IX
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF WAR
I
No one, I fancy, doubts that, speaking generally, health is a good
thing and disease a bad one, that the first is normal and the second
anomalous. The only way to define health, indeed, is to call it the
normal state of the organism, and disease ‘the deviation of the
physiological life from its normal condition.’ This anomaly of the
physiological life, called disease, is not however a meaningless
accident or an arbitrary product of external evil forces. Not to speak
of the inevitable diseases of growth or development, the opinion of
all thoughtful medical men is that the true cause of all disease
lies in the inner deep-lying changes of the organism itself, and the
external immediate causes of illness (_e.g._ catching cold, exhaustion,
infection, etc.) are merely the _occasions_ for the inner cause to
manifest itself. Similarly, the abnormal phenomena which ignorant
people usually identify with the disease itself (_e.g._ fever and
shivering fits, cough, various pains, abnormal secretion) in truth
simply express the successful or the unsuccessful _struggle_ of the
organism against the destructive effect of the inner disturbances
in which the disease really consists; their ultimate nature for the
most part remains unknown, though they undoubtedly exist as a fact.
Hence follows the practical conclusion that medical art must have for
its main object not the external symptoms of a disease but its inner
causes. At any rate it must detect their presence and then assist the
healing work of the organism itself, by hastening and encouraging the
natural processes and not doing violence to them.
The position of the chronic disease of humanity--international
hostility, expressing itself in wars, is analogous. Its symptomatic
treatment, a treatment, that is, directed upon its external expressions
rather than its inner causes, would be at best a doubtful procedure;
a simple and absolute rejection of it would have no definite meaning
whatever. So long as there is moral disturbance within humanity,
external wars may be useful and necessary, just as in the case of
profound physical disturbance such abnormal phenomena as fever or
sickness may be useful and necessary.
In strictness, we ought to ask with regard to war three different
questions instead of one only. In addition to the moral value of war
in general, there is another question, namely, its significance in
the history of humanity--a history which is _not yet completed_, and
there is a third personal question as to how I (that is, how any human
being), recognising with reason and conscience the binding character
of moral demands, must regard _here_ and _now_ the fact of war and the
practical consequences that follow from it. The confusion or the wrong
division of these three questions--the generally moral or theoretical,
the historical, and, finally, the personally-moral or the practical--is
the chief cause of all misunderstandings and misconceptions with regard
to war which have of late become particularly prevalent.
Theoretical condemnation of war has long been a commonplace among
civilised people. Every one agrees that peace is a good and war an
evil. Our tongue automatically speaks of _the blessings of peace_
and _the horrors of war_, and no one would venture to say the
opposite--‘the blessings of war’ or ‘the horrors of peace.’ In all
churches prayers are offered for peaceful times and for deliverance
from the sword or wars, which are placed along with fire, famine,
pestilence, earthquake and flood. With the exception of savage paganism
all religions condemn war in principle. The Jewish prophets had
preached the coming of peace among men and peace in the whole realm
of nature. The Buddhist principle of compassion to all living beings
requires the same thing. The Christian commandment of loving one’s
enemies excludes war, since a _loved enemy_ ceases to be an enemy and
cannot be made war upon. Even the bellicose religion of Islam regards
war only as a temporary necessity and condemns it from the point of
view of the ideal. “Fight your enemies until Islam is established,”
and then “let all hostility cease” for “God abominates the aggressor”
(_Koran_, sura ii.).
II
Thus to the first question with regard to war there exists only one
indisputable answer: _war is an evil_. Evil may be either absolute
(such as deadly sin, eternal damnation) or relative, that is, it may be
less than some other evil, and, as compared with it, may be regarded as
a good (_e.g._ a surgical operation to save a patient’s life).
The significance of war is not exhausted by the negative definition
of it as an evil and a calamity. There is also a positive element in
it--not in the sense that it can itself be normal, but in the sense
that it may be actually necessary in the given conditions. _This_ way
of regarding abnormal phenomena in general is not to be avoided and
must be adopted in virtue of the direct demands of the moral ideal and
not in contradiction to it. Thus, for instance, every one will agree
that, speaking generally, it is godless, inhuman, and unnatural to
throw children out of the window on to the pavement. Yet in case of a
fire, if there were no other means of extricating the unfortunate babes
from the burning house, this terrible action would become permissible
and even obligatory. It is obvious that the rule to throw children in
extreme cases out of the window is not an independent principle on a
level with the moral principle of saving those in danger; this latter
moral demand still remains the _only_ motive of action. It is not a
case of deviation from the moral norm but of actual realisation of that
norm in a way which, though dangerous and irregular, proves from real
necessity to be the only possible one _under given conditions_.
It may be that war too depends upon a necessity which renders this
essentially abnormal course of action permissible and even obligatory
_under certain conditions_. This question can only be settled by an
appeal to history. Sometimes, however, it is mistakenly treated from
the wider naturally-scientific point of view, and the necessity of
war is connected with the alleged universal principle of struggle for
existence.
In truth, however, the struggle for existence neither in the human nor
in the animal kingdom has anything to do with war. When it is said
that a certain species was _victorious_ in the struggle for existence,
this does not at all mean that it had overcome any enemies in direct
encounters or real battles. It simply means that sufficient adaptation
to external environment enabled the species in question to survive
and to multiply--which all do not equally succeed in doing. In the
struggle for existence mammoths in Siberia disappeared and martens
were victorious. But this does not mean, of course, that martens were
braver than mammoths and exterminated the latter in open fight with
the help of their teeth and paws. In a similar way the Jewish nation,
which is comparatively small and was disarmed long ago, has proved to
be unconquerable in the struggle for existence, whilst many centuries
of military successes did not save from downfall the huge Roman Empire,
as well as other warlike states that had preceded it.
Just as the struggle for existence is independent of war and carried
on by methods which have nothing in common with fighting, so, on the
other hand, war has grounds of its own distinct from the struggle for
the means of livelihood. If the latter were the only ground of war, the
primitive epoch of history would have been the most peaceful of all.
For men were then few in number, their demands were of the simplest,
and each had ample room for satisfying them. Fighting and mutual
extermination would in that case involve great risks and bring no
advantages. In this respect the normal issue of all quarrels suggested
itself naturally. “And Abraham said unto Lot, Let there be no strife, I
pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdmen and thy herdmen;
for we be brethren (_ki anashim achim anachnu_). Is not the whole land
before thee? Separate thyself, I pray thee, from me: if thou wilt take
the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the
right hand, then I will go to the left. And Lot lifted up his eyes, and
beheld all the plain of Jordan, that it was well watered everywhere,
before the Lord destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, even as the garden of the
Lord, like the land of Egypt, as thou comest unto Zoar. Then Lot chose
him all the plain of Jordan; and Lot journeyed east: and they separated
themselves the one from the other” (Gen. xiii. 8-11).
If such friendly agreement was, however, but a rare occurrence in
those days, and, speaking generally, the mutual relations of primitive
humanity were more like ‘bellum omnium contra omnes,’ according to
the well-known theory of Hobbes, this was due, not to the inevitable
struggle for existence, but to the free play of evil passions. The
fratricide with which history begins was caused by _envy_ and not by
_hunger_. And the most ancient poetical work that has been handed
down--the savage song of Lamech, a grandson of Cain, recorded in
the Bible--bears witness not to material need but to savage malice,
vindictiveness and ferocious pride. “And Lamech said unto his wives,
Adah and Zillah, Hear my voice; ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my
speech: for I have slain a man to my wounding, and a young man to my
hurt. If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy and
sevenfold” (Gen. iv. 23, 24).
III
The predominance of such feelings at a time when the human race,
multiplying slowly as compared with the majority of other animals, was
small in number, would have menaced it with speedy extermination were
not the war of all against all counterbalanced from the first by the
tie of kinship. This tie has its root in the maternal instinct, is
developed by means of family feelings and relations, and receives its
final sanction in the religion of ancestor-worship. The kinship-group
organisation (in the wide sense[174]), which resulted from all these
circumstances, may be regarded as the primitive stage in the historical
development of humanity, which had never consisted of separate
isolated entities at war with one another. The tie of kinship had
existed from the first, and the ‘war of all against all’ expresses
the mutual relation not between separate individuals, but between
distinct groups, each of which was held together by kinship. This
does not mean, of course, that each clan was as a fact at continual
war with other clans, but only that no clan was secure against, or
protected from, the possibility of war with any other clan. This state
of things, however, could not be permanent. It was only in rare cases
that war between clans ended in the extermination of the weaker.
Given a certain equality of power, the issue of war was a treaty
or contract sanctioned by religion. On the other hand, the weaker
groups, to avoid extermination in an unequal struggle, either severally
joined a stronger clan and became subordinate to it, or many of them
together formed a federated union. Thus war itself gave rise to rights
and treaties as a security of peace. Such unions of tribes are the
beginning of the _state_.
At the period with which continuous historical records begin for us,
a considerable part of humanity was already organised into states.
There were two fundamental types of state: the Western or Hellenic
_republic_, _i.e._ a small city commune, and the Eastern _despotic
monarchy_, an extensive organisation embracing either one (as in Egypt)
or many nations (the so-called world empires).
Without the state there could be no progress in human culture, based
upon a complex co-operation of many forces. Such cooperation was
impossible to any large extent for disconnected tribes, at constant
blood-feud with one another. In the state we find human masses for the
first time in history acting in concord. War has already been banished
from within these masses and transferred to the wider circumference of
the state. In the primitive social group all grown-up men are always
under arms. In the state warriors either form a special caste or
profession, or, in the case of conscription, military service is merely
a temporary occupation of the citizens. _The organisation of war_ by
the state is the first great step towards the _establishment of peace_.
This is particularly clear in the history of large states built up by
conquest--the so-called world empires. Each conquest meant in this case
the spreading of peace, that is, a widening of the circle within which
war ceased to be a normal event and became a criminal feud--a rare and
reprehensible accident. ‘The world empires’ undoubtedly strove, though
only half consciously, to give peace to the world by subjugating all
nations to one common power. The greatest of the states founded upon
conquest, the Roman Empire, directly described itself as _peace_--‘_pax
Romana_.’
But the older monarchies also aimed at the same thing. Inscriptions of
the Assyrian and Persian kings, discovered in the nineteenth century,
leave no doubt that these conquerors considered it their true vocation
to subdue all nations for the sake of establishing peace on earth,
though their conception of the task and of the means of fulfilling
it was, as a rule, much too simple. More complex and more fruitful
were the world-wide historical plans of the Macedonian Empire, which
rested upon the superior power of Hellenic culture deeply and firmly
rooted among the conquered races of the East. The idea of universal and
eternal peace became perfectly definite among the Romans, who firmly
believed that they were destined to subjugate the universe to the power
of one single law. This idea was particularly dwelt upon by Vergil.
Apart from the well-known ‘tu regere imperio populos,’ etc.,
But Rome! ’tis thine alone, with awful sway
To rule mankind and make the world obey.
Disposing peace and war thy own majestic way
To tame the proud, the fetter’d slave to free--
he returns to it at every opportunity in his _Aeneid_, as the inspiring
motive of the whole poem. Thus, for instance, he represents Jupiter as
saying to Venus about her descendants:
“The people Romans call, the city Rome.
To _them_ no bounds of empire I assign,
Nor term of years to their immortal line....
Then dire debate, and impious war, shall cease,
And the stern age be softened into peace.
Then banish’d faith shall once again return,
And Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn;
And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain
The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain.”
_Aeneid_ i. 278-294.
The same god tells Mercury that the ancestor of the Romans, Aeneas, is
destined to conquer Italy throbbing with war, and to instal in power
the noble line of the Teucre, who ‘shall on the conquered world impose
the law’ (_Aeneid_ iv. 229-231).
In comparing the four ‘world empires’ we find that as they succeeded
one another they gradually approached the ideal of _universal_ peace
both from the point of view of their extension and of their inner
principles. The first empire, the Assyro-Babylonian, did not extend
beyond near Asia, was supported by constant devastating wars, and its
legislation was limited to military decrees. The second empire, that of
Cyrus and the Achaemenides, added to the near Asia a considerable part
of Central Asia on the one hand and extended to Egypt on the other;
its inner force was the light religion of Ormuzd, which sanctioned
morality and justice. In the third empire, that of Alexander and his
successors, historical East was for the first time united to historical
West, and the two were welded together not merely by the force of the
sword but also by the ideal elements of hellenic culture. Finally,
the progress made by the fourth--the Roman Empire, consisted both in
the fact that Romans extended the former unity as far as the Atlantic
Ocean, and that they gave it a firm political organisation and a stable
juridical form. War was inevitably the means and the armed powers the
necessary support of this work of establishing peace. War and peace
were correctly symbolised by the opposed but inseparable faces of the
Roman god Janus.
War unites more powerfully than anything else the inner forces of each
of the warring states and at the same time proves to be the condition
for subsequent coming together and mutual interpenetration of the
opponents themselves. This is most clearly seen in the history of
Greece. It was only three times in the course of their history that the
majority of independent Greek tribes and city-states united for the
sake of a common cause and manifested their inner national unity in a
practical way--and every time it was due to a war: the Trojan war at
the beginning, the Persian wars in the middle, and the expedition of
Alexander the Great as the culminating achievement, owing to which the
creations of the national genius of Greece finally became the common
property of humanity.
The Trojan war established the Greek element in Asia Minor, where,
nurtured by other civilising influences, it blossomed out for the first
time. It was on the shores of Asia Minor that Greek poetry was born
(the Homeric epos) and that the most ancient school of their philosophy
arose and developed (Thales of Miletus, Heracleitus of Ephesus). The
quickening of the united national forces in the struggle with the
Persians gave rise to another and a still more rich manifestation of
the creative genius of the Greeks. And the conquests of Alexander,
throwing as they did these ripe seeds of Hellenism on to the ancient
soil of civilised Asia and Egypt, produced that great Helleno-oriental
synthesis of religious and philosophical ideas which, together with the
subsequent unity established by the Roman Empire, was the necessary
historical condition for the spread of Christianity. Without the
Greek language and Greek ideas, as well as without the ‘Roman peace’
and Roman military roads, the work of preaching the Gospel could not
have been accomplished so quickly as it was and on so wide a scale.
The Greek words and ideas became common property solely thanks to the
warlike Alexander and his generals; the Roman ‘peace’ was attained
through many centuries of wars, and was guarded by legions; and it
was for these legions that the roads were made along which walked the
apostles. ‘Throughout the earth their voice was heard and to the ends
of the world their words went forth,’ sings the Church. This ‘earth,’
these ‘ends of the world,’ were no other than the wide circle (_orbis_)
which Rome drew round itself with its blood-stained sword.
Thus all the wars in which ancient history abounds served to increase
the sphere of peace. The heathen ‘kingdoms of the _beast_’ prepared the
way for the messengers proclaiming the kingdom of the Son of _man_.
Apart from this, however, the military history of antiquity shows
important progress in the direction of peace in another respect. Not
only did war serve the purposes of peace; as time went on, lesser
and lesser numbers of active military forces were required for the
attainment of these purposes, while the peaceful results became, on the
contrary, more and more important and far-reaching. This paradoxical
fact is beyond dispute. In order to take Troy it was necessary for
almost all the Greek population to be under arms for a period of ten
years,[175] and the direct result of this terrible effort was next
to nothing. But to accomplish the great catastrophe--the conquest
of the East by Alexander the Great, which crowned the whole of the
Greek history and had immediate consequences for the civilisation of
the world, all that was needed from the military point of view was a
three-year long expedition of an army of thirteen thousand men. If we
compare the results and, on the other hand, take into account the total
population of Greece and Macedon under Alexander and the small number
of the Achaean population which sent to Troy so large a contingent of
military force, we shall be struck by the relative _diminution_ that
has taken place in the course of these seven centuries in the number
of lives that had to be sacrificed for the attainment of historical
purposes. Another comparison leads to the same conclusion. The Persian
Empire, whose millions of soldiers could not secure to it military
success in the struggle with tiny Greece, was hardly able to exist
for two centuries. The Roman Empire, three times as great and with a
population of at least 200 millions, kept under arms some 400 thousand
legionaries to defend its endless frontiers, and existed three times
as long as the kingdom of Darius and Xerxes. And how immeasurably
more important to humanity were the blessings of culture guarded by
those few legions than the objects for the sake of which gathered
the innumerable hordes of the king of kings! The nature of military
progress exemplified in the advantages of the Macedonian phalanx
and the Roman legion over the Persian hordes, consisted, generally
speaking, in the preponderance of quality over quantity and of form
over matter. It was at the same time a great moral and social progress,
since it led to an enormous decrease in the number of human lives
swallowed up by war.
IV
When the Roman world--and peace--came to be replaced by the Christian,
the problem of war remained essentially unchanged on its externally
historical side. True, by its absolute condemnation of all hatred and
enmity, Christianity abolished the principle, the moral root of war.
But cutting down the roots does not mean felling the tree; and indeed
the preachers of the Gospel did not wish to fell this Nebuchadnezzar’s
tree, for they knew that the earth needed its shade until out of the
small seed of true faith there would grow up, to replace it, ‘the
greatest of plants,’ under the boughs of which there would be secure
shelter both for men and beasts of the field.
The teachers of Christianity did not reject the state and its
destination to ‘bear the sword against the wicked,’ and therefore they
did not reject war. The followers of the new faith saw great triumph
in the fact that two victorious wars allowed Caesar Constantine to
plant the cross of Christ over the old unchanged building of the Roman
Empire. Under the unchanged external appearance of the state, however,
secret spiritual forces were at work. The state, even when surmounted
by the cross, ceased for the Christian to be the supreme good and the
final form of life. Faith in the eternal Rome, that is, in the absolute
significance of political unity, was replaced by the expectation
of ‘the new Jerusalem,’ that is, of the inner spiritual union of
regenerated men and nations. Apart, however, from human consciousness
being thus ideally raised to a higher level, the process of external
realisation of unity in the body of humanity continued unceasingly,
though at first slowly.
The Christian world (_tota christianitas_, _toute la chrétienté_),
which in the Middle Ages took the place of the ancient Roman Empire,
was considerably wider than it. True, there were frequent wars within
it--just as in the Roman Empire there had been insurrections of
peoples and mutinies of military leaders; but the representatives of
the Christian principles looked upon these wars as upon lamentable
feuds, and in every way tried to put a stop to them. As to the constant
struggle between the Christian and the Mahommedan world (in Spain
and the Levant), it undoubtedly was in the interests of progress and
culture. The defence of Christianity against the advance of Islam
preserved for historical humanity the possibility of higher spiritual
development which was in danger of being submerged by the comparatively
lower religious principle.[176] Besides, the interaction between
the two worlds, though based on hostility, could not be limited to
bloodshed alone and gradually led to a widening of the intellectual
horizon on both sides. It thus prepared the ground in the case of
Christians for the great epoch of the Renaissance of arts and learning,
and later on for the Reformation.
In modern history three general facts have the most important bearing
upon the question we are considering--namely, (1) the development
of nationality; (2) the corresponding development of international
relations of all kinds; and (3) the extension of the unity of culture
to the whole of the globe.
Having freed themselves from the tutelage of the Roman Church, and
rejected the impotent pretensions of the holy Roman Empire, European
nations became differentiated into independent political wholes. Each
national state recognised itself and was recognised by others as a
_perfect body_, as possessed, _i.e._, of supreme authority or absolute
fulness of power and therefore as unsubordinated to any other power on
earth. The direct consequences of this national segregation were not
favourable to the cause of peace. In the first place, it legitimised
war even among Christian states, since war proved to be the sole means
of settling disputes between separate and absolutely independent wholes
which had no supreme arbiter to appeal to, after the manner in which
in the Middle Ages they always could, and sometimes did, appeal to the
Pope and to the Emperor. Secondly, the national idea, when taken to be
the supreme principle in the life of nations, naturally became national
pride; patriotism lost its true character; active love for one’s own
people became idolatrous worship of it as of the supreme good, and this
in its turn passed into hatred and contempt for other nations, and led
to unjust aggressive wars and oppression of other peoples.
Concealed by these negative features, however, lies the positive
significance of nationality. Nations must live and develop in their
essential peculiarities as the living organs of humanity; apart from
them its unity would be dead and devoid of content, and this peace
of death would be worse than war. The true unity of mankind and the
hoped-for peace must be based not upon the weakness and subjugation
of nations but upon the highest development of their powers and a
free interaction between nationalities which serve as a complement to
one another. And in spite of all the efforts of national selfishness
which strives to bring about hostile estrangement between nations,
positive interaction among them exists, and is constantly increasing
in depth and in breadth. The former international relations have not
disappeared but have gained in inner force, and new ones have been
added to them. Thus in the West the Roman Church, in spite of losing
its external power, has considerately gained in spiritual authority;
it has been purged of many of the crude abuses of the Middle Ages, and
has made good by other conquests the damage it deservedly suffered
at the hands of the Reformation. By the side of this Church and
in opposition to it arose the equally wide-embracing and powerful
brotherhood of the freemasons, which, however enigmatic it may be
in other respects, is unquestionably international and universal
in character. Relations of another kind came to be established on
an unprecedented scale in the economic sphere. _World-market_ came
into existence. There is not a single country which is economically
self-sufficient, producing everything necessary for itself, getting
nothing from others and giving them nothing in return, so that the idea
of the state as ‘a perfect body,’ _i.e._ an absolutely independent
social organism, proves in this fundamental respect to be the purest
fiction. Further, constant co-operation of all educated countries in
scientific and technical work, the results of which immediately become
common property; inventions whereby distance is annulled; the daily
press, with its continual news from everywhere; finally, the remarkable
increase in the international ‘exchange of substances’ by the new means
of communication--all this makes civilised humanity one whole which
actually, even though involuntarily, lives one common life.
And civilised humanity tends more and more to become _the whole_ of
humanity. When at the beginning of modern history Europeans extended
their activity on all sides, taking America in the West, India in the
South-east, and Siberia in the North-east, the greater part of the
globe proved to be in their power. Now this power may be said to have
extended to the whole of the globe. The Mahommedan world is surrounded
and permeated through and through with European culture, and it is only
in the tropical deserts of the Soudan that it can, and that without
any hope of success, maintain its primitive independence (the kingdom
of the Dervishes). The whole of the African coast has been divided
between European Powers, and now the centre of the black continent has
become the arena of their rivalry. Mongolian Asia--China and Japan--had
alone remained outside the boundary of European influence, but this
last barrier between human races is being removed before our eyes.
With astonishing success and rapidity the Japanese, in the course
of a quarter of a century, acquired all the material and positively
scientific side of European civilisation and then at once proceeded
to prove to their Mongolian brethren, in the most convincing way
possible, the necessity of following their example. The Chinese, who
had already been shaken in their self-confidence by the English, but
were still rather slow at understanding these foreigners, understood
a fellow-nation at once; and henceforth the famous wall of China is
no longer a symbol of a continuing isolation but only a relic of the
irrevocable past.
We must now consider what bearing this curious process of ‘gathering
together of lands’ by means of a single material culture had upon
war. On the one hand, war played an _active_ part in it. The wars
of the Revolution and the Napoleonic wars are well known to have
had a powerful influence upon the advance and the dissemination of
universally-European ideas which conditioned the scientific, technical,
and economic progress of the nineteenth century and thus brought about
the material unification of humanity. In a similar way the final act
of that unification--its extension to the last stronghold of isolated
barbarism, China--began, in our eyes, with war and not with peaceful
persuasion. On the other hand, the universality of material culture,
realised partly through means of war, itself becomes a powerful means
and ground of peace. At the present time the enormous majority of
the population of the globe constitutes one connected body, between
the parts of which there is physical, if not moral, solidarity. This
solidarity shows itself in the sphere from which none can escape--the
economic sphere. Some industrial crisis in New York immediately makes
itself felt in Moscow and Calcutta. The body of humanity has evolved
a common sense-organ (_sensorium commune_), owing to which every
particular stimulus _sensibly_ produces a general effect.
Every prolonged and serious war is inevitably accompanied by profound
economic disturbances which are bound to be _world-wide_, now that the
different parts of the earth have become so closely connected. This
state of things was being evolved throughout the nineteenth century,
though it became clear to all only at the end of it. It is a sufficient
foundation for the _fear of war_, completely unknown in earlier times,
which has now taken possession of all civilised nations. During the
first half of the century wars became shorter and more rare. Between
Waterloo and Sebastopol, Europe had forty years of peace--a thing which
had not happened during the whole of its previous history. Later on,
special historical causes brought about several comparatively short
European wars in 1859, 1864, 1866, and 1870; the Russo-Turkish war
of 1877-78 could not be made into a general European war. The most
important of these wars--the Franco-Prussian--is very characteristic.
It left in the most civilised nation of Europe a feeling of national
injury and a thirst for vengeance--and yet for the last twenty-eight
years these feelings have not been able to pass into action solely from
fear of war. In the seventeenth or eighteenth century, not to speak of
epochs more remote, such prudence would have been quite inconceivable.
And what do the monstrous armaments of European countries indicate
if not the terrible, overwhelming fear of war, and consequently the
approaching end of wars?[177]
It would be irrational, however, to think and to act as though that
approaching end had already come. Although the common economic
sensorium does at present unite all the parts of the earth with a tie
of which the people themselves are conscious, yet this tie is not
everywhere of the same strength and the parts are not all equally
sensitive. There are still some nations left which in the case of a
world war risk little--and there are some which are prepared to risk a
great deal. The introduction of the Mongolian race into the sphere of
the material European culture has a twofold significance. This race,
the chief representatives of which, the Chinese people, number at least
two hundred million souls, are noted for great racial pride and extreme
contempt for life, both their own and other people’s. It is more than
probable that the now inevitable acquisition of the technique of
European culture by the yellow race will only serve it as a means for
proving in a decisive struggle the superiority of its spiritual powers
over the spiritual powers of Europe. This forthcoming armed struggle
between Europe and Mongolian Asia will certainly be the last war, but
it will on that account be all the more terrible. It will indeed be a
world war, and it is not a matter of indifference to the destinies of
humanity which side will prove victorious.
V
There is a wonderful system and unity in the general history of human
wars, the chief moments of which I have indicated. From the rosy mist
of historical childhood there stands out in the first place the clear
though half-fantastical image of the Trojan war--that first great
encounter of East and West, of Europe and Asia. This is how Herodotus
regarded the Trojan war, with which his history begins; and it is not
for nothing that the first inspired work of purely human poetry (the
_Iliad_) is connected with it too. This war was indeed the beginning of
the earthly, worldly history of humanity which throughout its course
turns round the fateful struggle between East and West, while its arena
is becoming wider and wider. Now that arena has reached its utmost
limit--the whole surface of the globe. In the place of the deserted
Skamander there is the Pacific Ocean, in the place of the smoking
Troy--the ominous mass of China, and the struggle is still as before
between the opposing principles of East and West. There was a moment
of crisis, a pause in the struggle, when, following upon the external
union of the historical East with the West in the Roman Empire--under
the power of the descendants of Aeneas of Troy,--the light of
Christianity abolished the ancient hostility from within:
And streaming afar the light that came
Out of the East arose,
And glimmering with portent and celestial power
It reconciled East and West.
But the old material and cultural union proved to be unstable, and the
spiritual is still awaiting its final realisation. True, in the place
of the political unity of the Roman Empire, modern humanity has evolved
another unity--the economic one, which, like the first, puts great
external obstacles in the way of armed struggle. But these obstacles
which have of late saved us from a _European_ war are unable to
prevent the last and the greatest struggle between the two worlds--of
Europe and of Asia. These now are no longer represented by separate
peoples, such as the Acheans and the Trojans, or even the Greeks and
the Persians, but appear in their true proportions as the two great
and hostile halves into which _the whole of humanity_ is divided. The
victory of one side or another will indeed give peace to the whole
world. There will be no more struggle between nations; but the question
still remains whether this political peace, this establishment of
international unity in the shape of a world empire--be it a monarchy or
some other form of state,--will indeed mean a real and lasting peace,
whether it will stop the struggle--sometimes an armed struggle--between
other, non-political elements of humanity. Or, maybe, it will simply
be a repetition on a vast scale of what has happened, within our
memory, in more narrow limits. Germany had once consisted of many
states at war with one another. The national body suffered from lack
of real unity, and the creation of such a unity was the cherished
dream of the patriots. It came to be realised after several wars--and
it proved to be insufficient. The Germans, of course, will never
relinquish their political unity, but they clearly see that it was
only one necessary step forward and not the attainment of the supreme
goal. The political struggle between small states came to be replaced
throughout the empire by a more deep-rooted struggle--religious and
economical. The Ultramontanes and the social democrats are proving
to be more formidable foes than the Austrian and the French. When
the whole of humanity is politically united, whether in the form of
a world empire or a world-wide federation of states, the question
still remains whether such union will put an end to the struggle of
freemasonry with clericalism, or appease the hostility of socialism
against the propertied classes and of anarchism against all social and
political organisation. It is clear that the struggle between religious
beliefs and material interests survives the struggle between states
and nations, and that the final establishment of external political
unity will clearly show its inner insufficiency. It will make plain
the moral truth that external peace is not necessarily a true good _in
itself_ and that it becomes a good only in connection with an inner
regeneration of humanity. And it is only when the insufficiency of
external union will have been known _by experience_ and not merely in
theory that the time will be ripe for spiritualising the united body
of the universe, and for realising in it the Kingdom of Truth and of
Eternal Peace.
VI
War, as we have seen, has been the chief historical means of bringing
about the external political unification of humanity. Wars between
clans and tribes led to the formation of the state which abolished
war within its own limits. External wars between separate states gave
rise to vaster and more complex political bodies possessing a unity of
culture, and seeking to establish peace and equilibrium within their
limits. At one time the whole mass of humanity, broken up and divided,
was permeated through and through with war which never ceased between
innumerable small groups. War was everywhere; but gradually driven
further and further back it now appears to be an almost inevitable
danger at one point only--at the dividing line between the two chief
races into which historical humanity is divided. The process of
unification is drawing towards its end, but that end has not yet come.
It is extremely improbable that the yellow race will peacefully enter
within the circle of European culture, and, from the historical point
of view, there is no reason to believe that war is to be immediately
and completely abolished. Is, however, this point of view binding upon
the moral consciousness?
The matter appears as follows: “Whatever the historical significance
of war may be, it is in the first place murder of men by men. But our
conscience condemns murder, and therefore we ought conscientiously to
refuse to take any part in war, and ought to persuade others to do
the same. To spread such a view by word and example is the true and
the only certain means of abolishing war, since it is clear that when
every one refuses to do military service, war will become impossible.”
In order that this argument might be convincing, it would have in
the first place to be proved that war and even military service is
the same as murder. But this is not the case. Military service means
only a _possibility of war_. During the forty years between the
wars of Napoleon I. and Napoleon III. several million men in Europe
underwent military training, but only an insignificant part of them
had actual experience of war. Even when war does break out, however,
it cannot be reduced to murder, that is, to a crime which presupposes
evil intention directed upon a certain object, upon this particular
man whose life I take. In war the individual soldier has, generally
speaking, no such intention, especially with the present method of
fighting by means of guns and cannons against an enemy who is too far
off to be _seen_. Only in cases of actual hand-to-hand fighting does
the question of conscience arise for the individual, and then it must
be decided by each according to his conscience. Speaking generally,
war as a conflict between collective organisms (states) and their
collective organs (armies) is not the work of individuals who play a
passive part in it, and for them possible murder is _accidental_ only.
It might be said, however, that it is better to avoid the very
possibility of accidental murder by refusing to do military service.
This is undoubtedly true if it is a question of free choice. A man
who has attained a certain level of moral consciousness, or one whose
feeling of pity is strongly developed, will certainly not choose the
army as a profession, but will prefer to follow a peaceful calling.
But so far as compulsory military service required by the state is
concerned, it must be admitted that so long as it exists a refusal on
the part of the individual to submit to it is a _greater evil_ than
the institution itself, however much we may disapprove of the modern
system of universal military service, the disadvantages of which are
obvious and the efficiency doubtful. The person who refuses to serve
his time in the army _knows_ that the requisite number of recruits will
_in any case_ be gathered and that _somebody else_ will be called in
_his_ stead. Therefore he _consciously_ forces his neighbour, who would
otherwise be free, to all the hardships of military service. Besides,
the whole meaning of such a refusal satisfies the demands neither of
logic nor of morality, since this is what it comes to. For the sake
of avoiding a remote _future_ possibility of accidentally killing an
enemy in a war which will not depend upon me, I myself declare war
to the state _now_ and _compel_ its representatives to take a number
of violent measures against me _at once_, in order that I might save
myself from committing problematic and accidental violence in the
unknown future.
The purpose of military service is defined in our law by the formula
‘to defend the throne and the fatherland,’ that is, the political whole
to which a given individual belongs. The state may, as it often has
done in the past, abuse its armed forces, and, instead of self-defence,
undertake unjust and aggressive wars; but this is not a sufficient
ground for determining my own present actions. Such actions must be
solely determined by _my own_ moral duties and not by those of others.
The question then in the last resort comes to this: _Is it my moral
duty to take part in the defence of my country?_
Theories which take up an absolutely negative attitude towards war
and maintain that it is the duty of every one to refuse the demand of
the state for military service, altogether deny that the individual
has any duties towards the state. From their point of view the state
is simply a band of brigands who hypnotise the crowd in order to keep
it in subjection and to use it for their own purposes. But seriously
to believe that this account exhausts or in the least expresses the
_true nature of the case_ would be altogether too naïve. This view is
particularly ill-founded when it appeals to Christianity.
Christianity has revealed to us our absolute dignity, the unconditional
worth of the inner being or of the soul of man. This unconditional
worth imposes upon us an unconditional duty--to realise the good in the
whole of our life, both personal and collective. We know _for certain_
that this task is impossible for the individual taken separately or
in isolation, and that it can only be realised if the individual life
finds its _completion_ in the universal historical life of humanity.
One of the means of such completion, one of the forms of the universal
life--at the present moment of history the chief and the dominant
form--is the _fatherland_ definitely organised as the _state_. This
form is not, of course, the supreme and final expression of human
solidarity, and the fatherland must not be put in the place of God
and of His universal kingdom. But from the fact that the state is not
everything, it by no means follows that it is unnecessary and that it
would be right to aim at abolishing it.
Suppose that the country in which I live is visited by a calamity
such as famine. What is in this case the duty of the individual as
an unconditionally moral being? Both reason and conscience clearly
say that he must do one of two things--either feed all the hungry or
himself die of starvation. It is impossible for me to feed millions who
are starving, and yet my conscience does not in the least reproach me
for remaining alive. Now this is naturally due to the fact that the
state takes upon itself my moral duty to provide bread for all the
starving, and that it can fulfil it owing to its collective resources
and to its organisation intended for prompt action on a wide scale. In
this case the state proves to be an institution which can successfully
perform work that is morally binding but physically impossible for
the individual. If, however, the state fulfils for me my direct moral
duties, it cannot be said that I owe nothing to it and that it has
no claim upon me. If it had not been for it I would have been in
conscience bound to give my very life; can I then refuse to contribute
my small share towards the means which it needs for carrying out my own
work?
But, it will be said, the rates and taxes collected by the state may
be expended upon things which appear to me to be useless, and even
pernicious, instead of upon obviously useful work. In that case it will
be my duty to expose such abuses, but certainly not to deny, by word
and deed, the very principle of taxation by the state, the recognised
destination of which is to serve the general welfare.
Now the military organisation of the state is really based upon the
same principle. If savages such as the Caucasian mountaineers of the
old days, or the Kurds and the Black Flags of the present times,
attack a traveller with the obvious intention of murdering him and his
family, it is no doubt his _duty_ to fight them--not out of hostility
or malice against them, not to save his life at the expense of his
neighbour’s life, but to save the defenceless beings entrusted to his
protection. To help others in such circumstances is an absolute moral
duty, and it cannot be limited to one’s own family. But successfully
to defend all the weak and innocent against the attacks of evil-doers
is impossible for isolated individuals or even for groups of many men.
Collective organisation of such defence is precisely the destination of
the military force of the state, and to support the state in one way
or another in this work of pity is the moral duty of every one, which
no abuses can render void. Just as the fact that ergot is poisonous
does not prove that rye is injurious, so the burdens and the dangers of
_militarism_ are no evidence against the necessity of armed forces.
The military or indeed any compulsory organisation is not an evil,
but a consequence and a symptom of evil. There was no trace of such an
organisation at the time when the innocent shepherd Abel was killed by
his brother out of malice. Justly fearing lest the same thing should
happen to Seth and other peaceful men, the guardian angels of humanity
mixed the clay with copper and iron and created the soldier and the
policeman. And until Cain’s feelings disappear from the hearts of men,
soldier and policeman will be a good and not an evil. Hostility against
the state and its representatives is, after all, _hostility_--and this
fact would alone be sufficient to justify the _necessity_ of the state.
And it is strange, indeed, to be hostile to it for the sole reason
that the state merely limits by external means and does not inwardly
abolish in the whole world the malice which we are unable to abolish in
ourselves!
VII
Between the historical necessity of war on the one hand, and the
abstract denial of it on the other, lies the duty of the individual
to the organised whole--the state--which, down to the end of history,
conditions both the existence and the progress of humanity. The
unquestionable fact, however, that the state possesses the means
both for preserving human society in its present condition, and also
for moving it forward, imposes upon the individual other duties with
regard to the state than a mere fulfilment of its lawful demands. Such
fulfilment would be sufficient were the state a perfect embodiment of
the normal social order. But since in truth it is only the condition
and the means of human progress, and is itself gradually becoming more
perfect in different respects, it is the duty of the individual to
take, so much as in him lies, active part in this general political
progress. The individual is the bearer of the absolute moral
consciousness, of the perfect ideal of truth and peace, or of the
kingdom of God. This consciousness he received, not from the state,
but from above and from within. The ideal, however, cannot be actually
_realised_ in the collective life of humanity except by means of a
_preparatory_ state organisation. Hence for every individual who really
adopts the moral point of view there follows the direct positive duty
of helping the state by persuasion or preaching to fulfil in the best
possible way its preliminary function. _After_ this function has been
discharged--but not _until_ then--the state itself will of course
become superfluous. The individual both can and must thus influence
society both with reference to war and to all other aspects of the
political life.
The evil of war is in the extreme hostility and hatred between the
_disjecta membra_ of humanity. In personal relations bad feelings are
not justified by any one, and it is useless to denounce them. In the
case of international hatred, however, the bad feeling is usually
associated with false opinions and erroneous reasoning, and is indeed
often created by them. To struggle against this deception is the first
duty of every man who truly desires to bring humanity nearer to a good
peace.
As to the future decisive struggle between Europe and Asia, probable
as it is, it does not threaten us as an unavoidable impending doom.
The future is still in our hands. The first condition which could
render the peaceful inclusion of the Mongolian race within the circle
of Christian culture possible--though not very probable--is that the
Christian nations should themselves become more Christian, and that in
_all_ relations of the collective life they should be more guided by
moral principles than by shameful selfishness and evil economic and
religious hostility.
Not long ago at the world congress of religion in Chicago some Asiatic
men--Buddhists and Brahmanists--addressed the Europeans with the
following words, expressive of the popular opinion of the East: “You
send to us missionaries to preach your religion. We do not deny its
merits, but having got to know you during the last two centuries we
see that your whole life is opposed to the demands of your faith. You
are moved, not by the spirit of love and truth which your God revealed
to you, but by the spirit of greed and violence, natural to all bad
people. It must then be one of two things: either your religion, in
spite of its inner excellence, cannot be practically realised, and
therefore is of no use even to you who profess it; or you are so bad
that you do not want to fulfil the demands which you can and you ought
to fulfil. In either case you have no advantage over us and you should
leave us in peace.” The only convincing answer to this criticism are
deeds and not words. Asia would be neither justified in fighting nor
capable of conquering a Europe that was inwardly united and truly
Christian.
War has been the direct means of the external and the indirect means of
the inward unification of humanity. Reason forbids us to give up this
weapon so long as it is needed, but conscience compels us to strive
that it should be _needed no longer_, and that the natural organisation
of the human race divided into hostile parts should really become a
moral or spiritual organisation. Such an organisation has its source
in the nature of man, is inwardly based upon the absolute good, and
attains complete realisation through means of the world history. The
description of this moral organisation, or of the totality of the
moral conditions which justify the good in the world, must be the
coping-stone of moral philosophy.
FOOTNOTES:
[174] See above, Chap. X.
[175] The number of Greek forces given in the _Iliad_ cannot, of
course, be taken as literally exact, but as an approximate estimate.
This number (110,000 men) seems to be entirely probable. It should be
noted with reference to the _Iliad_ generally that recent excavations
have re-established the historical value of the poem, allowing, of
course, for its mythological setting.
[176] See above, Part III., Chap. V.
[177] The three last half-European wars do not contradict this
statement. The Servo-Bulgarian war of 1885, the Greco-Turkish of 1897,
and the Spanish-American of 1898 all came to an end before they had
really begun.
CHAPTER X
THE MORAL ORGANISATION OF HUMANITY AS A WHOLE
I
The _natural_ organisation of humanity consists in the fact that
different individuals and groups are compelled by nature to interact in
such a way that their private needs and activities lead to results of
universal significance and to comparative progress of the whole. Thus
from ancient times the needs of the shepherds and the agriculturists,
the warlike spirit of the chieftains, and the self-interested
enterprise of the merchants created material culture and were the
means of historical progress. This natural arrangement, owing to
which private interests lead to the common good, expresses a certain
real unity of the human race. But this unity is both inwardly and
outwardly imperfect. It is outwardly imperfect because, as a fact, it
is incomplete; it is imperfect inwardly because it is not the object
of the conscious will of the individuals and the groups which enter
into it. Such unconscious and involuntary solidarity is already found
in the pre-human world in the unity of the genus and the development
of organic species. To advance no further is unworthy of man in
whom the objective and generic reason--the universal _predicate_ of
nature--becomes the individual _subject_. What is needed is a moral,
conscious, and voluntary organisation of humanity for the sake of,
and inspired by, the all-embracing good. It became the direct object
and purpose of life and thought from the moment when, in the middle
of the historical development, this good was revealed as absolute and
complete. Unity in the good means not only a coexistence of private
interests and actions and a harmony between them in the general
result, but a direct co-fellowship of individuals and of social
groups in unanimous striving to attain a universal purpose--it means
that absolute perfection is taken and understood by each as _his own_
purpose.
The purpose of the moral organisation of human life is to realise the
absolute norm of the good or of the active (practical) perfection,
and the life as morally organised may be defined as the process of
_growing perfect_. This logically involves the question, _Who is
growing perfect?_ _i.e._ the question as to the subject of the moral
organisation. We know that _isolated individuals_ do not exist and
therefore do not grow in perfection. The true subject of the moral
progress--as well as of the historical progress in general--is the
individual man _together with and inseparably from the collective man_
or society. Not every configuration of molecules forms a living cell,
and not every conglomeration of cells forms a living being. Similarly
not every gathering of individual men or of social groups constitutes a
true and living bearer of the moral organisation. In order to possess
such a significance, _i.e._ in order to be an organic complement of the
moral personality, the collective whole must be no less real than the
individual, and, in this sense, must possess the same worth and the
same rights as the latter.
The natural groups which actually widen the life of the individual are
the family, the nation, and humanity--the three abiding stages in the
development of the collective man. Corresponding to them we have in
the historical order the kinship-group stage, the nationally-political
stage, and the spiritually universal stage. The latter may only be
revealed on condition that the first two become spiritualised.
It will be asked whether the family is to form part of the final and
universal organisation of morality or whether it is simply a transitory
limitation in the development of human life. But the individual person
_in his given condition_ and in his selfish striving for exclusive
separateness is also only a transitory stage, just like the nation or
even humanity itself. It is not a question of idealising and preserving
for all eternity the corruptible aspect of this or that living subject,
but of discovering and setting aglow the spark of divinity hidden
under the corruption, of finding the absolute and eternal significance
inherent in the conditional and the temporal, and of affirming it
not as a fixed idea only, but as the beginning of fulfilment, as a
token of perfection. The positive elements of life in their relative
and temporary manifestations must be understood and recognised as
_conditional data for the solution of an unconditional problem_. In
the case of the family these natural data are the three generations
successively connected by the fact of birth: grandparents, parents, and
grandchildren. The continuous and the relative character of the bond
does not abolish its triple character as an abiding norm. The members
of the series which extend beyond it on either side--great-grandparents
and great-grandchildren--constitute no independent element in the
idea of the family relation. The supreme task is to spiritualise the
relative natural connection of the three generations and to make it
unconditionally moral. This purpose is achieved in three ways--through
family religion, marriage, and the bringing up of children.
II
Family religion is the most ancient, deeply rooted, and stable
institution of humanity. It has survived the patriarchal stage and all
the religious and political changes. The object of family religion is
the older generation, the departed fathers or forefathers. According
to the most ancient ideas, the forefathers must necessarily be dead;
this was so inevitable that, by a natural process of thought, all the
dead, independently of their age and sex, were called forefathers (the
Lithuanian and Polish _dziady_--a relic of remote antiquity). If a real
grandfather happened to live too long, it was out of order, it violated
the religiously moral norm, which, however, was easily re-established
by the voluntary sacrifice of the old man. This barbarous practice
really contained a true idea, or, rather, two true ideas--in the
first place that a being who is on the same level as man and has the
same needs and faculties cannot be the true _object_ of reverence and
worship, and, secondly, that in order to have a powerful and beneficial
_influence_ in the earthly sphere, such as is characteristic of a
higher being, one must _withdraw_ from that sphere and sever one’s
immediate physical connection with it. If family worship of the older
generation was to be maintained in the epoch when force predominated,
it could not be allowed to be associated with the spectacle of
debility and weakness. The old men understood it themselves and with
noble wisdom parted in good time with their enfeebled life for the sake
of another, powerful and mysterious existence.
“My day is drawing to its close,” the Konung thus began,
“Mead does not taste sweet to me, my helmet weighs me down.
* * * * *
“Make then two mounds for us, O sons,
On the banks of the bay, by the wave-beaten shore,
* * * * *
“When the rocks are white with the light of the moon,
And wet our graves with the dew,
We shall rise from the hills, from the waters, O Thorsten,
And whisper of the days to be.”
Even in the heathen ancestor-worship the natural bond between the
successive generations tended to acquire a spiritual and moral meaning.
A complete realisation of this religious bond with the forefathers
is made possible through the revelation of the absolute significance
of life in Christianity. Instead of the material sacrificial feeding
of the departed who on their side help the living in affairs of this
world, there is established a spiritual interaction in prayer and
sacrament. Both sides pray for one another, both help one another in
attaining an _eternal good_. Both are concerned with an unconditional
good--the salvation of the soul. Eternal memory,[178] rest with the
saints, universal resurrection of life--this is what the living desire
_for the departed_, what they help them to attain, and it is in this
that they expect help from the departed _for themselves_. The mutual
relation, as it enters the sphere of the absolute, ceases to be
self-interested and becomes purely moral, being understood and carried
out as part of the perfect good.
_Eternal memory_ does not mean, of course, that people on earth will
eternally remember the dead as those who have been and are no more.
To begin with, it would not be of much importance for the dead, and,
secondly, it is impossible, since earthly humanity itself ought
certainly not to expect an _eternal_ continuation of its _temporal_
existence--if there is any meaning in the world. We ask eternal memory
of God and not of men, and it means dwelling in the eternal mind of
God. ‘To grant eternal memory’ means to make a man conformable to his
eternal idea--to God’s eternal thought about him, and to raise him to
the sphere of the absolute and the changeless. By comparison with the
anxieties of the world, it is eternal rest. Death as such is not rest,
and the dead among natural humanity may be more appropriately described
as restless (the French _revenant_, the German _Poltergeister_) than
as those at rest. The rest we ask for our departed depends upon God’s
eternal memory of them. Affirmed in their absolute idea, they find
in it a secure and indefeasible token that the perfect good will be
finally realised in the world, and therefore they cannot be troubled.
The distinction between the present and the future still exists for
them, but no element of doubt or anxiety attaches to that future. It is
separated from them only by an inevitable delay, and they may already
contemplate it _sub specie aeternitatis_. But for those who die in the
natural humanity, the future, though it becomes their main interest,
still remains an awe-inspiring riddle and mystery.
We shall rise from the hills, from the waters, O Thorsten,
And whisper of the days to be.
Eternal rest is not inactivity. The departed remain active, but the
character of the activity is essentially changed. It no longer springs
from an anxious striving towards a distant and uncertain end. It
proceeds on the basis and in virtue of the already attained and the
ever-abiding connection with the absolute good. Therefore in this case
activity is compatible with serene and happy rest. And just as the
beneficial influence of the departed expresses their moral connection
with their _neighbours in nature_, their living posterity, so in their
blessed rest they are inseparable from their _neighbours in God and in
eternity_. It is rest with _the saints_.
This is the ideal. If it is not attained by all, if the departed are
not all at rest, if not all to whom ‘eternal memory’ is sung deserve
it of God, this fact in no way affects our religious attitude to the
‘forefathers,’ which is the foundation of the family morality, and,
through it, of all morality. For in the first place the actual destiny
of each of the departed remains for us, after all, problematical only.
Secondly, even if the unfavourable supposition is the more probable
one, our religious attitude simply acquires a different character, and
the feeling of pity which comes to be added to it prompts us to more
active intercession. Finally, in the case of each person the majority,
or at any rate a certain number, of his ancestors satisfy the demands
of the ‘eternal memory’ and of ‘rest with the saints.’ Therefore every
man in addition to all other relations is bound to have a generic bond,
a bond of kinship with the world of God’s eternity. In this essential
respect the family may have an absolute significance for every one,
and, through the abiding past, be the true complement of our moral
personality.
On the other hand, the fulness of life for the forefathers, even when
they are eternally remembered by God and are at rest with the saints,
depends upon the work of their descendants who bring about the earthly
conditions under which the end of the world process may come, and, with
it, the bodily resurrection of the departed. Each of the departed is
naturally connected with the final humanity of the future through the
blood tie of successive generations.[179] By spiritualising his bodily
organism and the external material nature, each fulfils his duty in
relation to his forefathers, and pays his moral debt to them. Having
received from them physical existence and all the legacy of the past
ages, the new generation continues further the work which will finally
make the fulness of life possible for the departed also. Thus from
this new point of view, the natural bond with former generations, or
the family religion of the past, acquires an absolute significance and
becomes an expression of the perfect good.
It is only when the purpose shall have been reached that man’s work
of spiritualising his body and the earthly nature in general will be
reflected _backwards_ and exercise its beneficial influence upon the
past. It is only in the future that the past will attain the fulness of
reality. But until this task is accomplished, until the perfection of
life is attained in which the spiritual and the corporeal being will
entirely interpenetrate one another, until the gulf between the visible
and the invisible world is bridged and death becomes impossible both
for the living and for the dead--until then the necessary condition
of this future perfection and the moral problem of the present state
is the struggle of the spirit with the flesh, its strengthening and
concentration. The _present_ means of bodily resurrection is the
subjugation of the flesh; the necessary condition of the fulness of
life is asceticism or the suppression of the unlimited vitality. True
asceticism, _i.e._ spiritual power over the flesh leading to the
resurrection of life, has two forms--_monasticism_ and _marriage_.
The first, exclusive and exceptional, has already been discussed
elsewhere;[180] the explanation of the second forms part of the
argument now before us.
III
It is not for nothing that the relation, which appears to be so simple,
and the physical basis of which is found in the animal and even in
the vegetable kingdom, is called ‘a great mystery,’ and is recognised
as the abiding symbol, sanctified by the word of God, of the union
of the God of Israel with His people, of Christ crucified with the
earthly church, and of Christ the King of Glory with the New Jerusalem.
Reverence for the forefathers and religious interaction with them
connects man with the perfect good through the past; true marriage
has the same significance for the present, for the central period of
life. It is the realisation of the absolute moral norm in the vital
centre of human existence. The opposition of the sexes, which in the
world of pre-human organisms expresses simply a general interaction
between life as giving, and as receiving, form, between the active
and the passive principles, acquires a more definite and profound
meaning in the case of man. Woman, unlike the female of animals, is
not merely the embodiment of the passively receptive aspect of the
material reality. She is the concentrated substance of nature as a
whole, the final expression of the material world in its _inward_
passivity, as ready to pass into a new and higher kingdom and be
morally spiritualised. And man in his relation to woman does not merely
represent the active principle as such, but is the bearer of the purely
human activity, determined by the absolute meaning of life, in which
woman comes to participate through him. And he in his turn owes to her
the possibility of _realising_ that meaning or the absolute good in a
direct and immediate way.
The highest morality, proceeding from the absolute principle and
determined by it (that which in theology is called _grace_), does
not annihilate nature but imparts true perfection to it. The natural
relation between man and woman involves three elements: (1) the
_material_, namely, the physical attraction, due to the nature of the
organism; (2) the _ideal_, that exaltation of feeling which is called
being in love; and, finally, (3) the _purpose_ of the natural sexual
relation or its final result, namely, reproduction.
In true marriage the natural bond between the sexes does not disappear
but is transmuted. Until, however, this transmutation becomes a
fact, it is a moral problem, for which the elements of the natural
sexual relation are the data. The chief significance belongs to the
intermediate element--the exaltation or the ecstasy of love. In
virtue of it man sees his natural complement, his material other--the
woman,--not as she appears to external observation, not as others
see her, but gains insight into her true essence or idea. He sees
her as she was from the first destined to be, as God saw her from
all eternity, and as she shall be in the end. Material nature in its
highest individual expression--the woman--is here truly recognised as
possessed of absolute worth; she is affirmed as an end in herself,
an entity capable of spiritualisation and ‘deification.’ From such
recognition follows the moral duty--so to act as to realise in this
actual woman and in her life that which she ought to be. The highest
form of love in woman has a corresponding character. The man whom she
has chosen appears to her as her true saviour, destined to reveal to
her and to realise for her the meaning of her life.
Marriage remains the satisfaction of the sexual want, which, however,
no longer refers to the external nature of the animal organism, but to
the nature that is human and is awaiting to become divine. A tremendous
_problem_ arises which can only be solved by constant _renunciation_.
To be victorious in the struggle with the hostile reality the soul has
to pass through _martyrdom_.[181] From this point of view the complete
and real satisfaction which includes bodily sensibility is connected
not with desire that precedes it, but with the subsequent joy of
realised perfection.
It is obvious, of course, that in a _perfect_ marriage in which the
inner completeness of the human being is finally attained through a
perfect union with the spiritualised material essence, reproduction
becomes both unnecessary and impossible. It becomes unnecessary because
the supreme purpose has been achieved, the final goal attained. It
becomes impossible, just as it is impossible that when two equal
geometrical figures are placed one upon the other there should be a
remainder that does not coincide. The perfect marriage is the beginning
of a new process which does not reproduce life in time but re-creates
it for eternity. But we must not forget that perfect marriage is not
necessarily the original condition of, but only the _final means_ for,
the moral union of man and woman. One cannot assume this higher stage
from the first, just as one cannot begin to build a house by making a
roof, or call the roof a real house. The true human marriage is one
which consciously _aims_ at the perfect union of man and woman, at the
creation of the complete human being. So long, however, as it merely
aims at this and has not yet actually realised the idea, so long as
there still is a duality between the idea and the empirical material
reality opposed to it, so long external, physical reproduction is both
the _natural consequence of the perfection not yet attained_ and _the
necessary means for its future attainment_. It is clear that so long
as the union of man and woman is not wholly spiritualised, so long as
it is complete in idea and subjective feeling only, and in objective
reality continues to be superficial and external like that of animals,
it can have _no other_ result. But it is equally clear that _in the
present imperfect condition_ this result is of supreme importance,
for the children will do what the parents failed to accomplish. The
external, temporal succession of generations exists _because_ marriage
has not yet attained perfection, because the union of individual
man and woman is not sufficiently spiritual and inwardly complete to
re-create in them the perfect human being in the image and likeness of
God. But this ‘_because_’ also proves to be ‘_in order that_’--namely,
in order that the task which has been too great for the strength
of this individual being (man and woman) should be realised by him
indirectly, through a series of future generations taking their start
from him. Thus the inward completeness and the unconditional meaning of
family is re-established; man even in his imperfect state retains his
absolute significance, and the living bond between the temporal members
of the series, extending to eternity, remains unbroken.
For the moral organisation of humanity the connection with the past
through heredity alone, through the fact of descent, _i.e._ from a
particular line of ancestors, is insufficient; there must also be an
abiding moral bond, and this is found in the family religion. Further,
so far as the present is concerned, the natural fact of the sexual
relation is also insufficient for that organisation; the relation must
be raised to the spiritual level, which is done in true marriage.
Finally, from the point of view of the future, it is not enough for
the moral organisation of the collective man that the children should
be simply a _new_ generation, with an unknown future before it; in
addition to the fact of external succession there must be the inner
moral succession as well--the parents must not merely produce the
children for the future, but are in duty bound to _bring them up_
so that they could work in the future for the realisation of their
world-wide historical task.
IV
The natural moral feeling of pity which does not permit us to injure
our neighbours and compels us to help them is naturally concentrated
upon those of them who are most intimately related to us and at the
same time need our help most--that is, on the children. This relation
has a moral character when the family is simply an empirical factor in
the natural life of man; it acquires an absolute significance when the
family becomes the basis of a new, spiritually-organised life.
The moral significance of marriage consists in the fact that woman
ceases to be the instrument of natural desires but is recognised as a
being possessed of absolute worth, as a complement necessary to make
the individual man truly whole. When the marriage fails or does not
completely succeed in realising this absolute significance of human
individuality, the task acquires a different object and is transferred
to the children as bearers of the future. With the simple natural
pity for the weak and suffering offspring comes to be associated the
world-woe for the evils and troubles of life, the hope that these new
beings shall be able to lighten the universal burden, and, finally, the
duty to preserve them for this work and to prepare them for it.
In a spiritually-organised family the relation of the parents to
children is chiefly determined by the conception of the supreme destiny
of man. The purpose of education is to connect the temporal life of
this future generation with the supreme and eternal good which is
common to all generations, and in which the grandparents, parents, and
children are indivisibly one. For it is only through abolishing the
temporal disruption of humanity into generations that exclude and expel
one another from existence that the Kingdom of God can be revealed
and the resurrection of life accomplished. But until the perfection
is reached, the moral bond between generations and the absolute
supertemporal unity of man is maintained by reverent regard for the
forefathers on the one hand, and by the bringing up of children on the
other.
There is a great argument going on in man between Time and Eternity as
to who is the stronger--the Good or Death. “Your fathers,” says the
Prince of this world to man, “those through whom you have received
everything you possess, were and are no more, nor ever shall be; but,
if so, where is the Good? You are reconciled to the death of your
fathers, you sanction it by your consent, _you live and enjoy yourself,
whilst those to whom you owe your existence are gone forever_. Where,
then, is the good, where is the very source of piety--gratitude, where
is pity, where is shame? Have they not been completely conquered
by selfishness, self-seeking, sensuality? Yet do not despair. This
condemnation of your life has meaning only from the point of view of
the Good, only on the supposition that the Good exists. But this is
just where the fundamental error lies: there is no Good. If there were,
either your fathers would not have died, or you could not have been
reconciled to their death. And now it is clear that the Good, with its
fictitious demands and standards of piety, shame, and pity, is but an
empty claim. If you want to live, live forgetful of the Good, for it
has been swallowed up by death, is no more and never shall be.” “Your
fathers died, but they have not ceased to exist, for the keys of life
are in _my_ hands,” says Eternity. “Believe not that they disappeared.
That you might behold them again bind yourself to the unseen by the
secure bond of the Good: revere them, pity them, be ashamed to forget
them.” “Illusion!” says the Prince of Time again. “You may believe
in their hidden subjective existence if you like; but if you are not
content with such a counterfeit of life for yourself, and cling to
the fulness of the visible objective life, then, if the Good exists,
you must demand the same for your fathers. But the visible objective
existence--the only one worth speaking about--has been lost by your
fathers, and shall never more be returned to them. Renounce, then, the
impotent Good, the exhausting struggle with chimeras, and enjoy life
to the full.” But the last word is with Eternity, which, admitting the
past, appeals all the more confidently to the future. “The Good does
not depend upon the degree of your power, and your weakness is not the
impotence of the Good. And you yourself are only impotent when you do
not go beyond your own self; the incompleteness of your life is your
own doing. In truth all is open to you. Live in all things, be a unity
of yourself and your other, not only in relation to the past, to your
forefathers, but also in relation to the future. Affirm yourself in new
generations that with active help from you they might bring the world
to that final stage in which God will give back the fulness of life to
all--to them themselves, to you, and to your fathers before you. By
doing this you can at the present moment show the absolute power of
the Good over time and death, not by idly denying them, but by making
use of them for the full and perfect revelation of the immortal life.
Make use of the death of your forefathers, so as to preserve, in the
religious regard for the departed, a sure token of their resurrection.
Make use of your temporal existence, so that, by giving it to
posterity, by transferring the centre of your moral gravity into the
future, you might anticipate and bring nearer the final revelation of
the Kingdom of God in the world.”
V
Even the conventional everyday morality demands that man should hand
down to his children not only the goods he has acquired, but also
the capacity to work for the further maintenance of their lives. The
supreme and unconditional morality also requires that the present
generation should leave a twofold legacy to the next,--in the first
place, all the positive acquisitions of the past, all the savings of
history; and, secondly, the capacity and the readiness to use this
capital for the common good, for a nearer approach to the supreme goal.
This is the essential purpose of true education, which must be at once
both _traditional_ and _progressive_. The division and opposition
between these two factors of the true life--between the ground and that
which is built upon it, between the root and that which grows out of
it--is absurd and detrimental to both sides. If the past that is good
is self-contained and is no longer a real foundation for the new that
is better, it means that the old has lost its vital force. In regarding
it as _finished_ and worshipping it in this form as an external object,
we make _religion_ into a _relic_--dead, but not working miracles. This
is the besetting sin of popular conservatism which strives to replace
the living fruits of the spirit by artificial preserves. In so far as
it finds expression in religion, this pseudo-conservatism produces
men who are hostile and indifferent to religion. Faith cannot be the
_consequence_ of such bringing up, since it is absent from the _ground_
of it. It is obvious, indeed, that exclusive zeal for preserving faith
can only be due to the lack of faith in the zealots themselves. They
would have neither time nor occasion to be so distressed and worried
about faith if they _lived by faith_.
When _tradition_ is put in the place of _its object_--when, _e.g._, the
traditional conception of Christ is preserved in absolute purity, but
the presence of Christ Himself and of His spirit is not felt--religious
life becomes impossible, and all efforts artificially to evoke it only
make the fatal loss more clear.
But can the life of the future grow out of a past that is really dead?
If there is no real connection between the parts of time, what is the
meaning of progress? _Who_ is it that progresses? Could a tree actually
grow if its roots and trunk existed in thought only, and its branches
and leaves alone were actually real? Without dwelling at present upon
the logical absurdity involved in this point of view, let us deal with
its ethical aspect alone. Man as a moral being has absolute worth; his
present condition, taken as such, does not correspond, or is inadequate
to that worth. Hence arises the moral problem, not to separate
oneself, one’s own personality and existence, from the absolute
good which abides as the one in all. In so far as a moral being is
inwardly related to all, he really has absolute worth and his dignity
is satisfied. In the order of time the _all_ from which we must not
separate ourselves, and to which we must be inwardly united, appears
in two immediate ways, as our _past_ and as our _future_, as ancestors
and posterity. In order to realise our moral dignity in time, we must
spiritually become that which physically we are already, namely, a
uniting and intermediate link between the two. And to do so we must
recognise the abiding reality of the departed and the unconditional
future of the posterity. We must not regard the deceased as ended.
They are bearers of the absolute principle, which must be completely
realised for them also. The departed, the forefathers, living in the
memory of the past, have also a hidden existence in the present,
which will become manifest in the future. _They have both future and
actuality._
It is on this basis alone that true education is possible. If we are
indifferent to the future of our forefathers, we can have no motive
for caring about the future of the new generation. If we can have
no absolute moral solidarity with those who _died_, there can be no
ground for such solidarity with those who certainly _will die_. In
so far as education mainly consists in transferring moral duty from
one generation to another, the question arises _what_ duty and in
relation to _whom_ are we to hand down to our successors, if our own
bond with our ancestors be severed. It would be a mere play of words
to say that it is the duty to move humanity forward, for neither
‘forward’ nor ‘humanity’ have in this case any real meaning. ‘Forward’
must mean to the good, but there can be no good if we start with
evil--the most elementary and unquestionable evil of ingratitude to the
fathers, acquiescence in their disappearance, callous separation and
estrangement from them. And what is the humanity which our pupils and
successors are to move forward? Do last year’s leaves, scattered by the
wind and rotten on the ground, form part, together with the new leaves,
of one and the same tree? From this point of view there is no humanity
at all, and what exists are merely separate generations of men that
replace one another.
If this external relation, which is constantly passing away, is
to be replaced by the real and abiding moral tie, this obviously
must be done in two directions. The form of time, in itself morally
indifferent, cannot really determine our moral relations. Compromise
here is impossible--there cannot be two absolute principles of life.
The question whether we attach absolute significance to the temporal
order of events or to the moral order, that is, to the inner bond
between beings, must be settled finally and once for all. If the first
alternative be adopted, humanity, irremediably broken up in time, is
devoid of real unity; there can be no common task and therefore no duty
to bring up future generations that they might carry it on further.
In case of the second alternative, however, education inevitably
involves reverence for the past, of which it is the natural complement.
This traditional element in education conditions its progressive
character, since _moral progress can only consist in a better and more
far-reaching fulfilment of the duties which follow from tradition_.
The absolute worth of man--his capacity to be the bearer of eternal
life and to participate in the divine fulness of being--which we
religiously revere in the departed, we morally educate in the coming
generation by affirming that the two are connected by a bond that
triumphs over time and death. Special problems, the technique of
education, belong to a sphere of its own which I need not touch
upon here. But if pedagogy is to be based upon a positive universal
principle, indisputable from the moral point of view and bestowing
absolute worth upon its aims, it can find it only in the indissoluble
bond between generations which support one another in furthering one
common task--the task of _preparing for the revelation of the kingdom
of God and for universal resurrection_.
VI
Reverence for the forefathers and family education based upon it
overcome the immoral separateness and re-establish the moral solidarity
of men in the order of time or in _the succession of existence_. It is
a victory of the good over individual selfishness--the affirmation of
the personality as a positive element in the family union which abides
in spite of time and death. But if it is to be the basis of a moral
and, therefore, a universal organisation, if it is to be the incipient
form of the absolute and therefore all-embracing good, this union
cannot be self-contained, limited, and exclusive. The family directly
re-establishes the moral wholeness in one fundamental relation--that of
the succession of generations. This wholeness, however, must also be
re-established in the order of _coexistence_.
The linear infinity of the family can only become morally complete in
another wider whole--just as a geometrical line becomes real only as
the limit of a surface, which has the same relation to the line as the
line itself has to a point. The moral point--the single individual--has
actual reality only as the bearer of generic succession. The whole
line of this succession becomes truly real only in connection with
a multitude of collectively coexisting families which constitute a
_nation_. We received all our physical and moral possessions from
our fathers, and _the fathers had them only through the fatherland_.
Family traditions are fractions of the national traditions; the future
of the family is inseparable from the future of the nation. Therefore
reverence for the fathers necessarily passes into reverence for the
fatherland or into patriotism, and family education is linked with
national education.
The good which is in its essence inexhaustible and ungrudging
bestows upon every subject of moral relations, whether individual or
collective, an inner dignity and absolute worth of its own. For this
reason the moral bond and the moral organisation differs essentially
from every other by the fact that in it the subject of the lower, or,
more strictly, of the narrower order in becoming the subordinate member
of a higher or a wider whole, is not absorbed by it, but preserves its
own individual peculiarity. Indeed, it finds in this subordination both
the inner condition and the external environment for realising its
highest dignity. Just as the family does not blot out its individual
members, but gives them, within a certain sphere, the fulness of life,
and lives not by them only, but also in and for them, so the nation
absorbs neither the individual nor the family, but _fills_ them with
living content in a definite national form. This definite form, which
constitutes the particular significance or the positive quality of
a nation, is to be found, in the first place, in _language_. As a
definite expression, as a special characteristic of universal reason,
language unites those who speak some one particular language without
separating them, however, from people who speak another language--for
all languages are but special qualifications of the _all-embracing
word_; in it all languages are commensurate with or understandable by
one another.
The multiplicity of languages is in itself something as positive and
normal as the multiplicity of grammatical elements and forms in each of
these languages. What is abnormal is mutual lack of understanding and
the alienation that follows therefrom. According to the sacred story
of the tower of Babel, the divine punishment for, and at the same time
the natural consequence of seeking external and godless unity, consists
in the loss of the inner unity and solidarity and in being unable to
understand one another’s _speech_ (which is possible even when the
vocabulary is identical). Had not the inner moral unity been lost, the
difference of languages would not have mattered; one might have learnt
them, and there would have been no need to scatter upon the face of
the earth. The important point was not the creation of new languages,
but _confusion_ of them. “Go to, let us go down, and there confound
(_nabla_) their language (_safatam_), that they may not understand one
another’s speech. So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon
the face of all the earth” (Gen. xi. 7-9). It is clear that the story
does not refer to the origin of the many languages, for in order that
they might be confused they must have existed already.
The profound significance of this remarkable ancient revelation can
be fully understood only by comparing the book of Genesis with the
New Testament book of the Acts of the Apostles. “And when the day of
Pentecost was fully come, they were all _with one accord_ in one place.
And suddenly there came a sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty
wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there
appeared unto them cloven tongues, like as of fire, and it sat upon
each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began
to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. And
there were dwelling at Jerusalem Jews, devout men, out of every nation
under heaven. Now when this was noised abroad, the multitude came
together, and were confounded, because that every man heard them speak
in his own language. And they were all amazed, and marvelled, saying
one to another, Behold, are not all these which speak Galilaeans?
And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born?
Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, and the dwellers in Mesopotamia,
and in Judaea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus, and Asia, Phrygia, and
Pamphylia, in Egypt, and in the parts of Libya about Cyrene, and
strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians, we do hear
them speak in our tongues the wonderful works of God” (Acts ii. 1-11).
True unity does not annul multiplicity but finds its realisation in it,
setting it free from the limitations of exclusiveness. One language
inspired by the Spirit of God means communicability and understanding
between many _distinct languages, which are divided but do not divide_.
This is not the idea of the inventors and adherents of various Volapucs
and Esperantos, who consciously or unconsciously imitate the builders
of the Tower of Babel.[182]
The normal relation between languages is at the same time the normal
relation between nations (in Slavonic the two conceptions are expressed
by the same word). The true unity of languages is found not in a
_single_ language but in an _all-embracing_ language, that is in
an interpenetration of all languages which would make them equally
understandable to all while the peculiarity of each would be preserved.
Similarly the true unity of nations does not mean a single nationality,
but an all-embracing nationality, that is, interaction and solidarity
of all nations for the sake of each having an independent and full life
of its own.
VII
When, having learnt a new language, we understand a foreigner whose
language it is, when we not only understand the meaning of words he
speaks but by means of them enter into a real communion of feelings,
thoughts, and aspirations with him, we clearly prove thereby that
true unity of men is not limited to persons belonging to the same
people. It is impossible to deny the fact of this inter-lingual and
international and therefore universally-human communion, but it may
be maintained that the communion is purely a superficial relation
based upon no real unity. This contention is often urged by those who
maintain that although a nation is a real whole, humanity is purely a
general idea, abstracted from the fact of interaction between separate
nations essentially external to one another. Leaving it to metaphysics
to decide to what extent all interaction involves an underlying unity
of those that interact, I will only note here that the peculiarity of
the particular interaction which obtains between different nations or
between individuals belonging to different nations, presupposes, apart
from all metaphysics, at least the same kind of real unity which is
assumed to hold within each nation between the groups and individual
persons who compose it.
What ground is there for regarding nationality as a real power and
a nation as a real unit rather than a mere conglomeration of human
entities? With regard to the family the question is answered by
pointing out the _evident_ physical bond. With regard to the nation
three grounds are indicated.
1. _The supposed physical bond_, or the unity of descent.--This
_supposition_, however, has equal and, indeed, far greater force in
reference to humanity as a whole than to distinct nations. The original
unity of mankind is a dogma of three monotheistic religions and the
prevailing opinion of philosophers and naturalists--while a direct
unity of physical descent within the limits of a nation is, in the vast
majority of cases, obvious fiction.
2. _Language._--Identity of language unites those who speak it, but
we know that difference of language does not prevent men from being
of the same mind, thinking the same thoughts, and even using the same
words. For such difference does not abolish but makes manifest the one
inner language undoubtedly common to all men, who can under certain
conditions understand each other whatever their particular tongue may
be. This is not a superficial result of external interaction, for that
which is here mutually understood refers not merely to accidental
objects but embraces the inmost contents of the human soul. This
fundamental and profoundly real fact expresses the actual connection
and unity of all men. Difference of tongue is the difference between
the essential forms of the mental life, and is important, since every
such form represents a particular quality of the soul. Yet still more
important is the content which each form expresses in its own way and
which though present in all is not exhausted by, nor is exclusive of,
any. That content is the positive and independent principle of the
hidden unity and of the visible unification of all.
Language is the deepest and most fundamental expression of character.
But just as differences of individual character do not destroy the
unity of the nation which includes all the different people, so
differences of national character cannot destroy the real unity of all
nations in humanity, which is also a ‘character.’
3. _History._--If national history is the basis of national unity,
universal or world-history is the basis of a wider, but not less
stable, all-human unity. Moreover, national history is altogether
unthinkable except as an inseparable part of world-history. Try to
think of Russian history from the exclusively national point of view.
Even if the Scandinavian origin of our state could somehow be explained
away, it cannot be denied that the introduction of Christianity into
Russia by the Greeks at once brought our nation into the sphere of the
supernational life of the world. Christianity as such or in its content
is an absolute truth and is therefore superhuman, and not merely
supernational. Even from the purely historical point of view, however,
it cannot be traced to any one particular nationality. It is impossible
to separate the Jewish nucleus from the Chaldean and Persian, Egyptian
and Phoenician, Greek and Roman setting. And yet without this national
nucleus and this national setting there could have been no Christianity
as positive revelation, and the foundation for the world-wide Kingdom
of God would not have been laid. But whatever the significance of the
national elements in the historical formation of the world religion
may be, new nations such as Russia, which appeared after Christianity
became established and accepted it in its crystallised form as the
final revelation of the supreme and absolute good, cannot look to
themselves for the true source of their life. Their history can only
have meaning as a more or less perfect acquisition of the given,
as a more or less successful preparation for fulfilling the task
Christianity had put before them. It is obvious that during such a
preparatory process not a single Christian nation can or ought to be
separate from, alien or hostile to other nations, for such a relation
is opposed to the very essence of Christianity--and it is impossible
to prepare for carrying out a given task while remaining in direct
opposition to its inner meaning. Russia definitely confirmed her faith
in Christian universalism when in the most glorious and important epoch
of her new history she finally abandoned her national isolation and
showed herself to be a living member of the international whole. And it
was not till then that the national strength of Russia found expression
in what is still the most significant and precious thing we have--and
not for ourselves only, but for other nations as well. On the powerful
stem of the state, ‘Europeanised’ by Peter, grew the beautiful flower
of our pensive, deep, and tender poetry. Russian universalism--which
resembles cosmopolitanism as little as the language of the Apostles
resembles Volapuc--is connected with the names of Peter the Great and
Pushkin. What other national Russian names can be said to equal these?
Just as the individual man finds the meaning of his personal existence
through the family, through his connection with his ancestors and
posterity, just as the family has an abiding living content in the
nation and national tradition, so the nation lives, moves, and has its
being only in a supernational and an international environment. Just
as the whole series of successive generations live in and through the
individual man, just as the whole nation lives and acts in and through
the totality of these series, so the whole humanity lives and works out
its history in the totality of nations.
If nation be a real fact and not an abstract general idea, if the
inward organic nature of the bond which unites nations with one another
in the universal history be a fact also, humanity as a whole, too,
must be recognised as a fact. Real living organs can only be organs
of a real living organism, and not of an abstract idea. The absolute
moral solidarity in the good, uniting man with his ancestors and his
descendants, and thus forming the normal family, also unites him,
by means of this elementary and immediate bond of liberation, to
the world-whole concentrated inhumanity. Humanity is the complete
collective subject or ‘recipient’ of the perfect good, the full image
and likeness of the Deity, the bearer of the actual moral order--the
Kingdom of God. But, as has already been said, it follows from the
very nature of the moral order or the moral organisation that every
part or every member of the great collective man participates in the
absolute completeness of the whole, since he is as necessary to that
completeness as it is to him. The moral bond is perfectly mutual.
Humanity is unthinkable apart from the nations that compose it, the
nation is unthinkable apart from families and the family apart from
individuals, and, _vice versa_, the individual cannot exist, either
physically or morally, apart from the succession of generations, the
moral life of the family is impossible apart from the nation, and the
life of the nation is impossible apart from humanity. This truism used
to be readily accepted by all. Recently, however, for reasons which the
existing systems of the philosophy of history have not yet been able to
discover, it has become customary to separate, contrary to all logic,
this elementary truth from its necessary apex, and to declare that the
inner dependence of nations upon humanity is a fancy and a chimera. It
is granted that a bad son and a bad father, a man who has no reverence
for his ancestors and does not care about the upbringing of his
descendants (whether physical or spiritual), cannot be a good patriot,
and that a bad patriot cannot truly serve the common good. It is also
granted that, _vice versa_, a bad patriot cannot be a good member of a
family, and that a bad member of a family cannot be a really good man.
But it is not allowed that in virtue of the same solidarity between the
different degrees of organisation a man indifferent to the one supreme
good of all nations taken together cannot be a really good patriot (and
consequently cannot be a good member of a family, and, finally, cannot
be individually good). And yet it is perfectly clear that if a man has
for his supreme purpose the good of his own nation, taken separately
and independently of others, he in the first place deprives the highest
good of its essential characteristic of universality, and therefore
distorts the purpose itself. Secondly, in dividing the interest of
one nation from the interests of the others, while in reality they
are intimately connected, he distorts the idea of his own nation.
Thirdly, it follows from this double distortion that such a man can
only be serving a distorted nation by communicating to it a distorted
good--that is, he can only be serving evil, and, since he does nothing
but harm to his fatherland, he must be pronounced a bad patriot.
The good embraces all the details of life, but in itself it is
_indivisible_. Patriotism as a virtue is part of the right attitude to
everything, and in the moral order this part cannot be separated from
the whole and opposed to it. In the moral organisation not a single
nation can prosper _at the expense of_ others; it cannot positively
affirm itself to the detriment or the disadvantage of others. Just as
the positive moral dignity of a private person is known from the fact
that his prosperity is truly useful to all others, so the prosperity of
a nation true to the moral principle is necessarily connected with the
universal good. This logical and moral axiom is crudely distorted in
the popular sophism that we must think of our own nation only, because
it is good, and therefore its prosperity is a benefit to every one.
It either thoughtlessly overlooks or impudently rejects the obvious
truth that this very alienation of one’s own nation from others, this
_exclusive_ recognition of it as pre-eminently good, is in itself evil,
and that nothing but evil can spring from this evil root. It must be
one or the other. Either we must renounce Christianity and monotheism
in general, according to which “there is none good but one, that is,
God,” and recognise our nation _as such_ to be the highest good--that
is, put it in the place of God--or we must admit that a people becomes
good not in virtue of the simple fact of its particular nationality,
but only in so far as it conforms to and participates in the absolute
good. And it can only do so if it has a right attitude to everything,
and, in the first place, to other nations. A nation cannot be really
good so long as it feels malice or hostility against other nations, and
fails to recognise them as its neighbours and to love them as itself.
The moral duty of a true patriot is then to serve the nation in the
good, or to serve the true good of a nation, inseparable from the good
of all, or, what is the same thing, _to serve the nation in humanity,
and humanity in the nation_. Such a patriot will discover a positive
aspect in every foreign race and people, and by means of it will seek
to relate this race or people with his own for the benefit of both.
When we hear of a _rapprochement_ between nations, of international
agreements, friendships, and alliances, we must, before rejoicing
or being grieved about it, know _in what_ it is that the nations are
being united, in good or in evil. The fact of union as such decides
nothing. If two private people or two nations are united by the hatred
of a third, their union is an evil and a source of fresh evil. If they
are united by mutual interest or by common gain, the question still
remains open. The interest may be unworthy, the gain may be fictitious,
and in that case the union of nations, as well as of individuals, even
if it is not a direct evil, can certainly not be a good desirable for
its own sake. The union of men and nations can be positively approved
only in so far as it furthers the moral organisation of humanity, or
the organisation of the absolute good in it. We have seen that the
ultimate _subject_ of this organisation, the real bearer of the _moral
order_, is the collective man or humanity, successively differentiated
into its organs and elements--nations, families, persons. Having
determined _who_ it is that is morally organised, we must decide _what_
he is organised _in_--that is, must consider the question as to the
_universal forms of the moral order_.
VIII
The right or the due relation of man to the higher world, to other men,
and to the lower nature is collectively organised in the forms of the
Church, the state, and the economic society or the zemstvo.
Individual religious feeling finds its objective development and
realisation in the universal Church, which thus may be said to be
_organised piety_.
From the point of view of religious morality, man lives in three
different spheres: the worldly or the conditional (this world), the
Divine or the unconditional (the Kingdom of God), and the sphere which
is intermediary between the two, and binds them together--the religious
sphere in the strict sense (the Church).
To stop at a direct opposition between the world and the Deity,
between earth and heaven, is contrary to sound religious feeling. Even
supposing that we are genuinely prepared to regard the universe as
worthless dust, that dust does not fear our contempt--it _remains_. _On
whom or what?_ To say that it remains on the Deity would obviously be
impious. To declare the world dust to be an illusion of our imagination
would mean that our own self, enslaved by the weary nightmare of
phenomena and powerless before the phantoms it has created, is itself
a worthless speck of dust which has somehow got into the eye of
eternity and hopelessly mars its purity; and this second view would
be still more impious than the first. Everything in the long run
must be referred to God, and, therefore, the more contempt we have
for the world, the more unworthy is our conception of the Absolute
being. To declare that the world is pure nothing is the height of
blasphemy, since in that case all the evil aspects of existence, which
are not abolished by a verbal rejection of them, must be directly and
immediately ascribed to God. This argument cannot be avoided so long
as only two opposing terms are recognised. But there exists a third
intermediary term, the historical environment in and through which
the worthless dust of the earth is converted, by a skilful system of
fertilisation, into a fruitful ground for the future Kingdom of God.
Sound religious feeling demands not that we should reject the world and
seek to abolish it, but only that we should not accept the world as
an absolutely independent principle of our life. Being _in the world_
we must become _not of the world_, and in this capacity influence the
world so that it too should cease to be on its own account and become
more and more from God.
The essence of piety at the highest stage of universal consciousness
consists in ascribing absolute worth to God alone and in valuing all
else only as related to Him and as capable of having absolute worth not
in itself and of itself, but in and through God. _Everything acquires
worth through the fixing of its positive relationship with the one
worthiness._
If all men and nations were truly pious, that is, identified their
own good with the one absolute good and blessedness, that is, God,
they would obviously be united among themselves. And being at one in
God, they would live in God’s way; their unity would be holiness. The
present humanity, however, which is not brought together and elevated
by the one exclusive interest in God, is following its own will, and
is divided between a multitude of relative and disconnected interests.
The result is alienation and disruption; and since good actions cannot
spring from an evil root, the activity of divided humanity can _as
such_ lead to nothing but sin. Therefore the moral organisation of
humanity cannot begin until mankind is really united and its activity
is consecrated.
Perfect unity and holiness is in God, sin and division in the worldly
humanity, union and consecration in the Church which harmonises and
reconciles the divided and sinful world with God. But in order to unite
and consecrate, the Church must itself be _one_ and _holy_, that is,
it must have its foundation in God, independently of the divided and
sinful men who are _in need of_ union and consecration, and therefore
cannot obtain it of themselves. _The Church, then, is in its essence
the unity and holiness of the Godhead_, not, however, of the Godhead
as such, but _as abiding and acting in the world_. It is _the Godhead
in its other_, the true substance of God-in-man. The unity and the
holiness of the Church are expressed in space as its universality or
_catholicity_, and in time as _apostolic_ succession. The meaning
of catholicity (καθ’ ὅλον--according to or in conformity with the
whole) is that all the forms and activities of the Church unite
individuals and nations with the whole of the divine humanity, both
in its individual concentration the Christ, and in its comprehensive
form--the world of the incorporeal powers and the departed saints
living in God, and of the faithful who are still fighting the battle
here on earth. In so far as everything in the Church is catholic,
conformable to the absolute whole, all exclusiveness of racial and
personal characteristics and of social position disappear in it. All
divisions or _separations_ disappear, and all the _differences_ are
left--for piety requires that unity in God should be understood not as
empty indifference and bare uniformity, but as the absolute fulness of
every life. There is no division but there is difference between the
invisible and the visible Church, since the first is the hidden moving
power of the second, and the second the growing realisation of the
first. The two are one in essence but different in condition. There is
no division but there is difference in the visible Church between the
many tribes and nations to which, in their unity, the one spirit speaks
in different tongues of the one identical truth, and communicates by
different gifts and callings one and the same good. Finally, there is
no division but there is difference between the Church as teaching and
as taught, between the clergy and the people, between the mind and the
body of the Church. In a similar manner the difference between husband
and wife is not an obstacle to, but the basis of, their perfect union.
IX
The catholicity of the Church--the fundamental form of the moral
organisation of humanity--is the conscious and intentional unity
between all the members of the universal body in relation to the
one absolute purpose of existence, a unity, accompanied by complete
division of ‘spiritual labour,’ of gifts and services, by which that
purpose is expressed and realised. This moral unity essentially differs
by its voluntary and conscious character from the natural unity of
the organs in the body or the members in the various natural groups.
It forms a true _brotherhood_ which gives to man positive _freedom_
and positive _equality_. The individual does not enjoy true freedom
when his social environment weighs upon him as external and alien to
him. Such alienation is abolished by the conception of the universal
Church alone, according to which each must find in the social whole
not the external limit but the inward completion of his liberty. Man
_in any case_ stands in need of such completion by his ‘other’; for
in virtue of his natural limitations he is necessarily a dependent
being, and cannot by himself or alone be a sufficient ground of his own
existence. Deprive man of what he owes to others, beginning with his
parents and ending with the state and the world-history, and nothing
will be left of his existence, let alone his freedom. It would be
madness to deny this fact of inevitable dependence. Man is not strong
enough and he needs _help_ in order that his freedom might be a real
thing and not merely a verbal claim. But the help which man obtains
_from the world_ is accidental, temporal, and partial, whilst the
universal Church promises him secure, eternal and all-sufficient help
from God. It is with that help alone that he can be actually free, that
is, have sufficient power to satisfy his will. Man obviously cannot
be truly free so long as that which he does not want is inevitable,
and that which is demanded by his will is impossible. Every object
of desire, every good is only possible for man on condition that he
himself lives, and those whom he loves live also. There is therefore
one fundamental object of desire--the continuation of life, and one
fundamental object of aversion--death. But it is precisely in the
face of this that all worldly help proves to be of no avail. The
calamity of calamities--death--proves to be inevitable; and the good
of goods--immortality--utterly impossible. The world then can give no
real freedom to man. It is only God-in-man, or the Church, based upon
an inner unity and a perfect harmony of the visible and the invisible
life in the kingdom of God--the Church affirming the essential primacy
of spirit and promising the final resurrection of the flesh, that alone
discloses to man the sphere in which his freedom can find positive
realisation, and his will--actual satisfaction. Whether we believe this
or not does not depend upon philosophical arguments. But although the
most perfect philosophy can neither give faith nor take it away, the
simplest art of logical reflection is sufficient to show that man who
wants to live and is sentenced to death cannot be seriously regarded as
free, and from the standpoint of the world or of nature this no doubt
is the position of every man and of all mankind. It is then through the
universal Church alone that the individual can obtain positive freedom.
In no other way is positive equality possible for him either.
The natural dissimilarity of people is as inevitable as it is
desirable. It would be very regrettable if all men were spiritually
and physically alike, and in that case the multiplicity of men would
have no meaning. Direct equality between distinct particular men is
altogether impossible. They can be equal not in themselves, but only in
their common relationship to something other, supreme and universal.
Such is the equality of all before the law, or equal civic rights.
This equality of rights, important as it is in the order of worldly
existence, remains essentially formal and negative. The law fixes
certain general limits to human activity, equally binding upon all and
each, but it does not form the content of any one’s life, secures to no
one the essential goods of life, and indifferently leaves to some their
helpless nothingness, and to others the superabundance of all possible
advantages. The world may recognise as an abstract possibility or a
theoretical right the unconditional significance of each human being,
but the realisation of this possibility and this right is given by the
Church alone. It initiates each into the wholeness of the Divine life
made manifest in man, communicates to each the absolute content of
life, and thus equalises all--in the way similar to that in which all
finite magnitudes are equal to one another in relation to infinity.
If in Christ “dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily” in the
words of the Apostle, and Christ lives in every believer, there can
be no room for inequality. Participation in the absolute content of
life through the universal Church, liberating and equalising all in a
positive way, makes of them one absolute whole or a perfect brotherhood.
In so far, however, as this brotherhood, perfect in nature, is
conditioned in origin, as established and matured in time, it requires
a corresponding expression for its connection with God-in-man
throughout the ages--it requires religious succession or _spiritual
parentage_. This demand is satisfied by the definition of the Church as
_apostolic_.
X
Since we live in time, the bond of our dependence upon the divine
principle as manifested in history must also be preserved in time and
handed down through it. In virtue of that bond our present spiritual
life begins _not of itself_, but springs from the earlier or older
bearers of the grace of God. The one holy catholic Church is of
necessity an _apostolic_ Church. Apostleship or messengership is the
opposite of imposture. Messengership is a religious basis of activity
and imposture--an anti-religious one. It is precisely with reference
to this point that Christ indicates the opposition between Himself
and the antichrist. “I am come in My Father’s name and ye receive Me
not; if another shall come _in his own name_, him ye will receive.”
The primitive basis of religion, namely, the pious recognition of
one’s dependence upon the progenitor, attains its perfect expression
in Christianity. “The Father sent Me.” “I do the will of Him Who sent
me.” The only-begotten Son is pre-eminently a messenger, is essentially
the apostle of God, and, strictly speaking, the profound and eternal
meaning of calling the Church ‘apostolic’ refers to Him--and the
other, the direct historical meaning, depends upon that. “As My Father
has sent Me, even so send I you”--the apostles born of Christ by the
word and the spirit are sent by Him to give spiritual birth to new
generations so that the eternal bond between the Father and the Son,
the One Who sends and the One Who is sent, should be continually handed
down through time.
_Filial relationship is the archetype of piety_, and the only-begotten
Son of God--the Son by pre-eminence--is the individual embodiment of
piety itself. The Church as the collective organisation of piety must
be entirely determined by Him in its social structure, in its doctrine
and holy practices. Christ as the incarnation of piety is the way, the
truth, and the life of His Church.
The _way_ of piety for all that exists (with the exception, of course,
of the First Beginning and the First Object of all piety) consists
in starting not with oneself or with what is lower, but with the
higher, the senior, the preceding. It is the way of hierarchy, of
holy succession and tradition. Therefore whatever external forms
the order of the Church government might assume under the influence
of historical conditions, the strictly ecclesiastical religious
form--ordination through the laying on of hands--always proceeds in the
hierarchical order, from above downwards. Laymen may not ordain their
spiritual fathers, and indeed the clergy themselves must necessarily be
arranged in order of degrees so that those of the highest degree--the
bishops--alone represent the _active_ principle itself, and transfer
the grace of consecration to the two other orders.
The _truth_ of the Church depends upon the same piety, though in
another way, or in another, theoretic respect. The truth of the
Church, revealing to us the mind of Christ, is neither scientific nor
philosophical, nor even theological--it contains nothing but _dogmas
of piety_. This fact is the key to the understanding of Christian
dogmatism, and of the Councils that were engaged in formulating it.
With regard to religious teaching the interest of piety is obviously
concerned with the fact that our conceptions of the Deity should not
in any way detract from the fulness of our religious attitude to it,
given once for all in Christ as the Son of God and the Son of Man.
All ‘heresies’ from which the Church protected itself by its dogmatic
definitions denied, in one way or another, this religious fulness
or the entirety and completeness of our adoption by God through the
perfect God-man. Some regarded Christ as a half-god, others as a
half-man; some put a kind of double personality in the place of the one
God-man, others limited His nature as God-man to the intelligible side
alone, and regarded the divinity as incapable of sensible expression,
etc.[183]
The lawful _way_ of the hierarchical order, as well as the _truth_ of
faith, finds its fulfilment and justification in the _life_ of the
Church. Human life must be inwardly collected, united, and consecrated
by the action of God and thus transformed into a divinely-human
life. The nature of the case and the principle of piety demand that
the process of regeneration should begin from above, from God,
that it should be founded upon the effects of grace and not upon
the natural human will alone--it demands that the process should
be _divinely-human_ and not humanly-divine. This is the meaning of
sacraments as the special foundation of the new life. The moral
significance of sacraments in general consists, from the point of view
of religious morality or piety, precisely in this--that in sacraments
man adopts his proper attitude of absolute dependence upon a perfectly
real and yet perfectly mysterious, sensuously unknowable good which is
given to him and not created by him. In the presence of the sacrament
the human will renounces all that is _its own_, remains in a state of
perfect potentiality or purity, and in virtue of it becomes capable, as
pure form, of receiving superhuman content. Through sacraments the one
and holy essence, which is the Church in itself (the _Ding an sich_ or
the _noumenon_ of the Church, to use philosophic language), actually
unites to itself or absorbs into itself the inner being of man and
renders his life divine.
This life, supernatural so far as the other kingdoms of nature,
including the rationally-human, are concerned, but perfectly natural
for the kingdom of God, has its regular cycle of development, the
chief moments of which are signalised by the Church in the seven
sacraments especially so called. This life comes to birth (in baptism),
receives the beginning of a right organisation and the power to grow
and develop (in confirmation), is healed from accidental imperfections
(in penitence), nurtured for eternity (in Eucharist); it completes or
integrates the individual being of man (in marriage), creates spiritual
fatherland as the basis of the true social order (in ordination), and,
finally (in extreme unction), sanctifies the diseased and dying bodily
nature for the perfect wholeness of future resurrection.[184]
XI
The real and mysterious tokens of the higher life or the Kingdom
of God, received in the sacraments of the Church, do not in their
origin and their essence depend upon the will of man. But since this
higher life is _the divinely-human life_, our part in it cannot be
merely passive. It demands a conscious and voluntary co-operation
of the human soul with the supreme Spirit. The positive strength
for such co-operation is from the very first given by the grace
of God (disregard of this truth leads to the dangerous errors of
semi-Pelagianism), but it is received by the will of man, which
formally differs from the divine will; and it is manifested in actions
which spring from the human will. Disregard of this second truth, which
is as important as the first, found expression in the Monothelite
heresy, so far as Christology is concerned, and in Quietism in the
sphere of the moral doctrine.
The specifically-human actions conformable to the grace of God (and
caused by its preliminary influence) must obviously express man’s
normal relation to God, men, and to his own material nature, in
accordance with the three general foundations of morality--piety, pity,
and shame. The first concentrated active expression of the religious
feeling or piety--its chief _work_--is _prayer_; in the same way, the
work of pity is _almsgiving_, and the work of shame is abstinence or
_fasting_.[185] These three works condition the beginning and the
development of the new life of grace in man. This is depicted with
wonderful clearness and simplicity in the holy narrative about the
devout centurion Cornelius, “which gave much alms to the people, and
prayed to God alway.” In his own words, “I was fasting until this
hour: and at the ninth hour I prayed in my house; and, behold, a man
stood before me in bright clothing, and said, Cornelius, _thy prayer_
is heard, and _thine alms_ are had in remembrance in the sight of
God” (then follows the command to send for Simon, who has the words
of salvation). The hidden anticipatory effect of God’s grace, which
Cornelius did not reject, incited him to do human good and strengthened
him in the works of prayer, almsgiving, and fasting; and these works
themselves, as is here directly indicated, called forth new manifest
effects of the Divine grace. It is noteworthy, too, that just as the
appearance of the angel from heaven was simply an exceptional means
of carrying out the established method of piety and sending for the
earthly messenger of God, the earthly mediator of the higher life and
truth, so the exceptional and abundant pouring out of the gift of the
Holy Ghost on Cornelius and his household after Peter’s preaching at
his house did not render superfluous for them the usual and, so to
speak, the organic method of beginning the life of grace through the
real and mystical means of baptism.[186]
This typical narrative is still more remarkable for _what it does not
contain_. Neither the angel of God nor Peter the apostle of _Christ’s
peace_, nor the voice of the Holy Spirit Himself, suddenly revealed
in the newly converted, told the centurion of the Italian band that
which, according to the recent interpretation of Christianity, was the
most important and urgently necessary thing for this Roman soldier.
They did not tell him that in becoming a Christian he had _first of
all_ to lay down his arms, and _was bound to give up military service_.
This supposed necessary demand of Christianity is not even hinted at
in the narrative, although it is concerned with a soldier. Refusal to
do military service does certainly not form part of the New Testament
idea of what is required of a warrior of this world in order that he
might become a citizen with full rights in the kingdom of God. In
addition to the things the centurion Cornelius was already doing,
namely, prayer, almsgiving, fasting,--he had “to call Simon, whose
surname is Peter: ... he shall tell thee what thou oughtest to do.”
And when Peter came, Cornelius said to him, “Now therefore are we all
here present before God, to hear _all things that are commanded thee
of God_.” But the things which God commanded the apostle to reveal
to the Roman soldier for his salvation contained no reference to
military service. “Then Peter opened his mouth and said, Of a truth I
perceive that God is no respecter of persons: but in every nation he
that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him. The
word which God sent unto the children of Israel, preaching peace by
Jesus Christ: (he is Lord of all:) that word, I say, ye know, which
was published throughout all Judæa, and began from Galilee, after the
baptism which John preached; how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with
the Holy Ghost and with power; who went about doing good, and healing
all that were oppressed of the devil: for God was with him. And we are
witnesses of all things which he did, both in the land of the Jews, and
in Jerusalem; whom they slew and hanged on a tree; him God raised up
the third day, and shewed him openly; not to all the people, but unto
witnesses chosen before of God, even to us, who did eat and drink with
him after he rose from the dead. And he commanded us to preach unto the
people, and to testify that it is he which was ordained of God to be
the Judge of quick and dead. To him give all the prophets witness, that
through his name whosoever believeth in him shall receive remission of
sins. While Peter yet spake these words, the Holy Ghost fell on all
them which heard the word.”
I am dwelling upon the story of Cornelius the centurion, not because
I want to raise once more the question of military service,[187] but
because this story seems to me to throw clear light on the general
question as to the relation of the Church to the state, of Christianity
to the empire, of the Kingdom of God to the kingdom of this world,
or, what is the same thing, on the question of the _Christian state_.
If the centurion Cornelius, having become a real Christian, remained,
nevertheless, a soldier, and was not divided into two alien and
disconnected personalities, it is clear that he must have become a
_Christian soldier_. A collection of such soldiers forms a Christian
army. Now the army is both the extreme expression and the first real
basis of the state; and if a Christian army is possible, a Christian
state is therefore even more possible. That the historical Christianity
solved the question precisely in this sense there can be no doubt. The
only thing that can be called in question is the inner ground for that
solution.
XII
When the centurion Cornelius was a pagan, the same feeling of pity
which impelled him ‘to give much alms’ also urged him, no doubt, to
defend the weak from injuries and to force violent and aggressive men
to obey the law. He knew that law, like every human utility, is only
a relative good and may be abused; he may have heard of the revolting
abuse of legal authority which the procurator Pontius allowed when,
under the influence of the envious and vindictive priesthood of
Jerusalem, he sentenced to death the virtuous Rabbi from Nazareth. But
being a just man, Cornelius knew also that _abusus non tollit usum_,
and deduced no general conclusions from exceptional instances. A true
Roman--to judge by his name,--he was conscious with noble pride of his
own share in the destiny of the city that ruled the world:
... to make the world obey,
To tame the proud, the fetter’d slave to free.
And it was not for him an abstract conviction. In Palestine, where his
band was stationed, it was Roman arms alone that put a stop, for a time
at any rate, to the fierce intestine wars between different dynasties
and parties, accompanied by savage slaughter. And it was only under the
ægis of the Roman power that the neighbouring clans of the Edomites and
the Arabs gradually emerged out of the condition of continual wars and
crude barbarism.
Cornelius then did not err in thinking highly of his vocation, and in
considering the state and its chief organ, the army, a power necessary
for the common good. Ought he to have changed his judgment when he
became a Christian? A new, higher, and purely spiritual life was
revealed _in him_, but this fact did not abolish the evil _outside_ of
him. The pity which justified his military calling referred precisely
to those who were suffering from the _external_ evil, which remained
what it was. Or perhaps the higher life revealed in him, ought,
without abolishing the external evil, to have abolished the inward
good in him--the pity or charity which was ‘remembered by God,’ and
to have replaced it by indifference to the sufferings of others. Such
indifference or unfeelingness, however, is the distinctive mark of the
stone--of the lower and not of the higher grade of being. But perhaps,
in addition to compassion, the Christian receives, together with the
new life, a special power to overcome every external evil without
resisting it by force--to overcome it by immediate moral effect alone,
or by the miracle of grace. This supposition is remarkably ill-founded
and is based upon a complete misunderstanding both of the nature
of grace and of its moral conditions. We know that Christ Himself
encountered upon earth such human environment that His grace could not
work miracles ‘because of their unbelief.’ We know that in the very
best environment--in the midst of His apostles--He found ‘the son of
perdition.’ We know that of the two thieves who were crucified only
one repented. It is uncertain whether he would have been susceptible
to the Divine grace under other circumstances, but it is quite certain
that his comrade remained inaccessible to it even under _these_
circumstances.
Those who affirm that _every_ evil-doer may be all at once converted to
the good and restrained from crime by the immediate effect of the inner
power of grace alone, do not in the least realise the meaning of what
they are saying. So far as the inward, purely-spiritual power of the
good is concerned, its distinctive characteristic lies precisely in the
fact that it does not work like a mechanical agency which inevitably
produces external physical changes, but that it acts only on condition
of being inwardly received by the person upon whom it acts--a truth
which, one would have thought, the case of Judas made obvious to the
blind.
The power of the grace of Christ affected men who were sinful owing
to the infirmity of the flesh and not owing to the firmness of the
evil will--men who were not happy in their sins, but suffered from
them and felt the need of a physician. It was of these sick ready
to be healed Christ said that they will enter the kingdom of heaven
before the self-righteous, and this precisely was the reason why the
latter hated Him and reproached Him for condescending to mix with
publicans and sinners. But even His enemies could find no pretext to
accuse Him of condoning bloodthirsty murderers, impious blasphemers,
shameless seducers, and professional criminals of all kinds, enemies
of human society. But, it will be said, He left them in peace. There
was, however, no occasion for Him to deal with them since there
existed Roman and Jewish authorities whose business it was precisely to
restrain evil, as far as possible, by compulsion.
According to both the spirit and the letter of the Gospel we must
not appeal to the powers that be for enforced defence of _ourselves_
against attacks on our person or property. I ought not to drag into
the law court and prison the man who strikes me or walks away with
my fur coat. I ought with all my heart to forgive the wrong-doer for
the wrong which he does me, and not to offer any resistance to him so
far as I alone am concerned. This is clear and obvious. It is clear,
too, that I must not give way to evil feeling against the person who
wrongs my neighbours--him, too, I must forgive in my heart and regard
him as a fellow-man. What _practical_ duty, however, does the moral
principle impose upon us in that case? Can my duty be actually the same
in the case of my own injury and that of another? To allow injury to
myself means to sacrifice myself, and is a moral act; to allow injury
to others means sacrificing others, and this can certainly not be
called self-sacrifice. The moral duty towards others, psychologically
based upon pity, must not in practice give rights to violent men and
evil-doers alone. Peaceful and weak persons also have a right to our
active pity or help. And since, as individuals, we are unable to give
continual and sufficient help to all the injured, we must do this
in our collective capacity, that is, through the state. Political
organisation is a naturally-human good, as necessary to our life as our
physical organism is necessary to it. In giving us a higher spiritual
good Christianity does not deprive us of the lower, natural goods--it
does not pull from under our feet the ladder which we are mounting.
With the coming of Christianity and the good news of the Kingdom of
God, the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms did not disappear.
And if they have not been abolished, there is no reason why the
naturally-human kingdom, embodied in political organisation, should
be abolished either, since it is just as necessary in the historical
process as the others are in the cosmical. Nothing could be more absurd
than to maintain that although we cannot cease to be animals we ought
to cease being citizens.
The fact that the purpose of Christ’s coming to the earth could not
consist in creating a kingdom of this world or a state--which had
already been founded long ago--in no way proves that He took up a
negative attitude with regard to the state. The circumstance that the
Gospel does not deal with the external means of protecting humanity
from the crudely-destructive effect of the powers of evil could
entitle us to draw conclusions only if the Gospel had appeared before
the foundation of the state, in a community that had neither law nor
authority nor organised justice. There was no need to give in the
Gospel over again the principles of civic and juridical order which
had, many centuries before, been already given in the Pentateuch. If
Christ did not intend to reject them, He could do nothing but confirm
them, _and this was precisely what He did_. “One jot or one tittle
shall in no wise pass from the law.... Think not that I am come to
destroy the law.... I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.”
But, it will be urged, the grace and truth manifested in Christ
made the law void. Now, _when exactly_ did this happen? Was it when
Judas betrayed his master, or when Ananias and Sapphira deceived the
Apostles, or when the deacon Nicolas introduced sexual laxity under
the pretext of brotherhood, or when a Christian of Corinth was guilty
of incest? Or was it when the Spirit wrote through the prophet of the
New Testament to the Churches and said to the representative of one
of them, “I know thy works, that thou hast a name that thou livest,
and art dead” (Rev. iii. 1); and to another, “I know thy works, that
thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then
because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee
out of my mouth” (vv. 15, 16).
If then, from the time grace and truth first appeared and to this day,
they have not taken possession either of the whole nor even of the
majority of Christian humanity, the question is how and in whom has the
law been made void. Could the law have been made void by grace in those
who have neither law nor grace? It is obvious that for them, that is,
for the majority of mankind, the law must, according to the word of
Christ, remain in full force as the external limit of their liberty.
And in order to be such a limit, the law must possess sufficient
power of compulsion, that is, must be embodied in the organisation
of the State with its law courts, police, armies. And in so far as
Christianity did not abolish the law, it could not abolish the State.
This necessary and rational fact does not, however, by any means prove
that the inner relation of men to the external force embodied in the
state, and consequently the general and particular character of its
activity, remained unchanged. Chemical substance does not disappear in
vegetable and animal bodies, but acquires new peculiarities in them,
so that there exists a whole science of organic chemistry. The case of
_Christian policy_ is similar. A Christian state must, if it is not a
mere name, distinctly differ from a heathen state, though as _states_
both have the same basis and common aim.
XIII
“A peasant goes forth into the fields to his husbandry; a Polovets
falls upon him, slays him, and drives away his horse. Then in a crowd
the Polovtsi come out against the village, kill all the peasants, set
fire to the houses and lead the women away into captivity, while the
princes are taken up with feuds among themselves.”[188] If _pity_ for
these peasants was not to be confined to sentimental words alone, it
was bound to lead to the organisation of a strong central authority
sufficient to defend the peasants from intestine wars between the
princes and the raids of the Polovtsi.
When, in another country, the greatest of her poets exclaimed with
profound grief, which he showed not in words only:
Ahi, serva Italia dei dolor’ ostello,
Nave senza nocchiero in gran tempesta![189]
--the same pity directly incited him to call from beyond the Alps a
supreme representative of state authority, a strong protector from
incessant and unbearable acts of violence. The pity for the actual
calamities of Italy, expressed in many passages of the _Divine
Comedy_, and the appeal for a state invested with the fulness of
power as a necessary means of salvation took the form of a definite,
well-thought-out conviction in Dante’s book _On Monarchy_.
The troubles of anarchy or of a weakly-developed state, that called
forth the pity of Vladimir Monomakh and of Dante, can only be cured or
remedied by a powerful state, and would inevitably arise again if it
disappeared. The purely moral motives were obviously insufficient in
the thirteenth century to prevent men from trying to exterminate one
another. And even granting that at the present day these motives have
become stronger and more widely spread--though this is doubtful,--it
would be ridiculous to maintain that they are in themselves sufficient
for the maintenance of peace. It is obvious that Italian citizens no
longer give vent to their party differences by cutting each other’s
throats solely because of the compulsory order of the state with its
army and police. As to Russia--not to speak of the intestine wars
among the princes, and of the people taking the law into their own
hands,--there is no doubt that the savage races which the duchy of
Moscow and the Russian empire had with such difficulty gradually driven
farther and farther away from the centre of the country, submitted to
force rather than became regenerated. And if, God forbid, the lance and
the bayonet were to disappear or to lose their force on the Caucasian,
Turkestan, or Siberian frontier all moralists would become at once
convinced of the true nature of these excellent institutions.[190]
_Just as the Church is collectively organised piety, so the state is
collectively organised pity._ To affirm, therefore, that from its very
nature the Christian religion is opposed to the state is to affirm
that the Christian religion is opposed to pity. In truth, however, the
Gospel not merely insists upon the morally binding character of pity
or altruism, but decidedly confirms the view, expressed already in the
Old Testament, that there can be no true piety apart from pity: “I will
have mercy and not sacrifice.”
If, however, pity be admitted in principle, it is logically inevitable
to admit also the historical organisation of social forces and
activities, which raises pity from the stage of a powerless and
limited feeling and gives it actuality, wide application, and means of
development. From the point of view of pity it is impossible to reject
the institution owing to which one can _practically pity_, i.e. _give
help and protection_ to tens and hundreds of millions of men instead of
dozens or at most hundreds of people.
The definition of the state (so far as its moral significance
is concerned) as organised pity can only be rejected through
misconception. Some of these misconceptions must be considered before
we go on to deal with the conception of the Christian state.
XIV
It is urged that the stern and often cruel character of the state
obviously contradicts the definition of it as organised pity. But this
objection is based on a confusion between the necessary and sensible
severity and useless and arbitrary cruelty. The first is not opposed to
pity, and the second, being an abuse, _is opposed to the very meaning
of the state_, and therefore does not contradict the definition of the
state--of the normal state, of course--as organised pity. The supposed
contradiction is based upon grounds as superficial as the argument that
the senseless cruelty of an unsuccessful surgical operation and the
sufferings of the patient in the case even of a successful operation
are in obvious contradiction to the idea of surgery as a beneficent art
helpful to man in certain bodily sufferings. It is obvious that such
representatives of state authority as Ivan the Terrible are as little
evidence against the altruistic basis of the state, as bad surgeons are
against the usefulness of surgery. I am aware that an educated reader
may well feel insulted at being reminded of such elementary truths, but
if he is acquainted with the recent movement of thought in Russia he
will not hold me responsible for the insult.
But, it will be maintained, even the most normal state is inevitably
pitiless. In pitying peaceful people whom it defends against men
of violence, it is bound to treat the latter without pity. Such
_one-sided_ pity is out of keeping with the moral ideal. This is
indisputable, but again it says nothing against our definition of
the state, for, in the first place, even one-sided pity is pity and
not anything else; and secondly, even the normal state is not by any
means an expression of the moral ideal already attained, but only
one of the _chief means_ necessary for its attainment. The ideal
condition of mankind, or the Kingdom of God, when _attained_, is
obviously incompatible with the state, but it is also incompatible
with pity. When everything will once more be good there will be no
one to pity. And so long as there are men to be pitied, there are men
to be defended; and the moral demand for organising such protection
efficiently and on a wide scale--_i.e._ the moral significance of the
state--remains in force. As for the pitilessness of the state to those
from whom or against whom it has to defend the peaceful society, it
is not anything fatal or inevitable; and although it undoubtedly is a
fact, it is not an unchangeable fact. In point of history there is no
doubt that the relation of the state towards its enemies is becoming
less cruel, and consequently more merciful. In old days they used to be
put to painful death together with their family and relatives (as is
still the case in China). Later, every one had to answer for himself,
and subsequently the very character of the responsibility has changed.
Criminals have ceased to be tormented solely for the sake of inflicting
pain; and at the present time the positive task of helping them morally
is recognised. What can be the ultimate reason of such a change?
When the state limits or abolishes the penalty of death, abolishes
torture and corporal punishment, is concerned with improving prisons
and places of exile, it is obvious that in pitying and protecting
peaceful citizens who suffer from crimes, it begins to extend its pity
to the opposite side also--to the criminals themselves. The reference,
therefore, to the one-sided pity is beginning to lose force as a fact.
And it is through the state alone that the organisation of pity ceases
to be one-sided, since the human crowd is still for the most part
guided in its relation to the enemies of society by the old pitiless
maxims, ‘to the dog, a dog’s death’; ‘the thief deserves all he gets’;
‘as a warning to others,’ etc. Such maxims are losing their practical
force precisely owing to the state, which is in this case more free
from partiality either to the one side or the other. Restraining with
an authoritative hand the vindictive instincts of the crowd, ready to
tear the criminal to pieces, the state at the same time never renounces
the humane duty to oppose crimes,--as the strange moralists, who in
truth pity only the aggressive, violent, and rapacious, and are utterly
indifferent to their victims, would have it do. This indeed is a case
of one-sided pity![191]
XV
Our definition of state may lead to a less crude misconception on the
part of the jurists, who regard the state as the embodiment of legality
as an absolutely independent principle, distinct from morality in
general and from motives of pity in particular. The true distinction
between legal justice and morality has already been indicated.[192]
It does not destroy the connection between them; on the contrary, it
is due to that connection. If this distinction is to be replaced by
separation and opposition, an unconditional principle must be found
which shall ultimately determine every legal relation as such and be
altogether outside of, and as far as possible removed from, the moral
sphere.
Such an a-moral and even anti-moral principle is to be found in the
first place in _might_ or force: _Macht geht vor Recht_. That in the
order of history relations based upon right follow those based upon
force is as unquestionable as the fact that in the history of our
planet the organic life appeared after the inorganic and on the basis
of it--which does not prove, of course, that inorganic matter is the
specific principle of the organic forms as such. The play of natural
forces in humanity is simply the _material_ for relations determined
by the conception of right and not the principle of such relations,
since otherwise there could be no distinction between right and
rightlessness. Right means the _limitation_ of might, and the whole
point is the _nature_ of the limitation. Similarly, morality might be
defined as _the overcoming of evil_, which does not imply that evil is
the principle of morality.
We shall not advance any further in the definition of right if we
replace the conception of might, derived from the physical sphere, by
the more human conception of freedom. That individual freedom lies at
the basis of all relations determined by law there can be no doubt,
but is it really the unconditional principle of legality? There are
two reasons why this cannot be the case. In the first place, because
in reality it is _not unconditional_, and, secondly, because it is
not the determining principle of _legality_. With regard to the first
point, I mean not that human freedom is never unconditional, but
that it is not unconditional in that sphere of concrete relations
in which and for the sake of which law exists. Suppose that some man
living in the flesh on earth actually possessed absolute freedom, that
is, that he could by the act of his will alone, independently of any
external circumstances and necessary intermediate processes, accomplish
everything he wished. It is obvious that such a man would stand outside
the sphere of relations determined by legality. If his unconditionally
free will determined itself on the side of evil, no external action
could limit it; it would be inaccessible to law and authority. And if
it were determined on the side of the good it would make all law and
all authority superfluous.
It is then irrelevant to speak of unconditional freedom in this
connection, since it belongs to quite a different sphere of relations.
Legality is concerned only with limited and conditional freedom,
and the question is precisely as to what limitations or conditions
are lawful. The liberty of one person is limited by the liberty of
another, but not every such limitation is consistent with the principle
of legality. If the freedom of one man is limited by the freedom of
his neighbour who is free to wring his neck or chain him up at his
pleasure, there can be no question of legality at all, and in any case
such a limitation of freedom shows no specific characteristics of the
principle of legality as such. These characteristics must be sought not
in the mere fact of the limitation of freedom, but in the equal and
universal character of the limitation. If the freedom of one is limited
to the same extent as the freedom of the other, or if the free activity
of each meets with a restriction that is common to all, then only is
the limitation of freedom determined by the conception of law.
The principle of legality is then freedom within the limits of
equality, or freedom conditioned by equality--consequently a
conditional freedom. But the equality which determines it is not an
absolutely independent principle either. The essential characteristic
of the legal norms is that, in addition to equality, they should
necessarily answer, too, the demand for _justice_. Although these two
ideas are akin, they are far from being identical. When the Pharaoh
issued a law commanding to put to death all the Jewish new-born babes,
this law was certainly not unjust on account of the unequal treatment
of the Jewish and the Egyptian babes. And if the Pharaoh subsequently
gave orders to put to death all new-born infants and not only the
Jewish ones, no one would venture to call this new law just, although
it would satisfy the demand for equality. Justice is not mere equality,
but _equality in fulfilling that which is right_. A just debtor is not
one who equally refuses to pay all his creditors but who equally pays
them all. A just father is not one who is equally indifferent to all
his children but who shows equal love for all of them.
Equality, then, can be just or unjust, and it is the just equality
or, in the last resort, justice that determines the legal norms. The
conception of justice at once introduces us into the moral sphere. And
in that sphere we know that each virtue is not in a cage by itself, but
all of them, justice among them, are different modifications of one
or, rather, of the threefold principle which determines our rightful
relation to everything. And since justice is concerned with man’s moral
interaction with his fellow-beings, it is merely a species of the moral
motive which lies at the basis of inter-human relations, namely of
pity: _justice is pity equally applied_.[193]
In so far then as legality is determined by justice it is essentially
related to the moral sphere. All definitions of law which try to
separate it from morality leave its real nature untouched. Thus,
in addition to the definition already mentioned, Iering’s famous
definition declares that ‘law is a protected or safeguarded interest.’
There can be no doubt that law does defend interest, but not every
interest. It obviously defends only the just interests or, in other
words, it defends every interest in so far as it is just. What,
however, is meant by justice in this connection? To say that a just
interest is an interest safeguarded by law is to be guilty of the
crudest possible logical circle which can only be avoided if justice
be once more taken in its essential, _i.e._ in its moral, sense. This
does not prevent us from recognising that the moral principle itself,
so far as the inevitable conditions of its existence are concerned,
is realised in different ways, and to a greater or lesser degree.
For instance there is the distinction between the external, formal,
or strictly-legal justice and the inner, essential, or purely-moral
justice, the supreme and ultimate standard of right and wrong being
one and the same--namely, the moral principle. Possible conflict
between ‘outer’ and ‘inner’ justice in particular cases is in itself no
argument against their being essentially one, since similar conflict
may arise in the carrying out of the simplest and most fundamental
moral demands. Thus, for instance, pity may demand that I should save
two men who are drowning, but being unable to save both, I have to
choose between the two. The cases of difficult choice between complex
applications of legal justice and morality in the strict sense are no
proof of there being any essential and irreducible opposition between
the two. The argument that the conceptions of justice and morality
alter in the course of history is equally unconvincing. It might carry
some weight if the rights and laws remained meanwhile unchanged. In
truth, however, they change even more according to place and time.
What conclusion, then, are we to adopt? There is change in the
particular conceptions of justice, there is change in the rights and
laws, but one thing remains unchangeable: the demand that the rights
and laws should be just. The inner dependence of legal forms upon
morality--independently of all external conditions--remains a fact. To
avoid this conclusion one would have to go very far--to the country,
seen by the pilgrim women in Ostrovsky’s play, where lawful requests
to Mahmut of Persia and Mahmut of Turkey were to begin by the phrase
“Judge me, O thou _unjust_ judge.”
Iering’s definition undergoes a change in the formula according to
which law _discriminates_ between interests in contradistinction to
morality which _values_ them. There can be no doubt that legal justice
discriminates between people’s interests and, equally, that it defends
them. But this fact alone gives as yet no idea of the essence of
legality. There may be discrimination of interests on grounds which
have nothing to do with legality, and the definition thus proves to be
too wide. Thus if robbers in a wood attack the travellers and leave
them their life but seize all their property, this will no doubt be
a case of the discrimination of interests, but to see in it anything
in common with legal right is only possible in the sense in which all
violence is the expression of the right of the fist, or the right of
brute force. In truth, legality is determined not of course by the
fact of the discrimination between interests, but by the constant and
universal _norm_ of such discrimination. To be consistent with the
conception of right, the discrimination of interests must be correct,
normal, or just. In drawing a distinction between the normal and the
abnormal discrimination of interests, and referring the first only to
the province of legal justice, we obviously make a _valuation_ of them,
and therefore the supposed opposition between legality and morality
falls to the ground. When we find some laws to be unjust and work for
their repeal, then, though we do not leave the domain of legality, we
are concerned not with any real discrimination of interests, but in the
first place with valuing the already existing discrimination, which in
its own day was also conditioned by judgments of value, though they
were different from those we pass now and opposed to them.
If morality then be defined as the valuation of interests, legal
justice forms an essential part of morality. This is by no means
contradicted by the fact that the standard of value in morality in the
strict sense and in the legal sphere is not the same. This difference,
the necessity, namely, for recognising legal relations apart from the
purely-moral ones, is itself based upon moral grounds--upon the demand,
namely, that the highest, the final good should be realised apart
from any external compulsion, and that, consequently, there should be
some possibility of choice between good and evil. Or, to put it in a
paradoxical form, the highest morality demands a certain freedom to
be immoral. This demand is carried out by legal justice which compels
the individual to do the minimum of good necessary to the social life,
and, in the interest of the truly moral, that is, of free perfection,
safeguards him from the senseless and pernicious experiments in
compulsory righteousness and obligatory holiness.[194]
Thus if the state is the objective expression of right, it necessarily
forms part of the moral organisation of humanity, which is binding upon
the _good_ will.
XVI
The connection of right with morality makes it possible to speak of the
Christian state. It would be unjust to maintain that in pre-Christian
times the state had no moral foundation. In the kingdoms of Judæa and
of Israel, the prophets directly put moral demands to the state, and
reproached it for not fulfilling these demands. In the pagan world it
is sufficient to mention Theseus, for instance, who at the risk of his
life freed his subjects from the cannibalistic tribute to Crete, in
order to recognise that here too the fundamental moral motive of the
state was pity, demanding active help to the injured and the suffering.
The difference between the Christian and the pagan state is not then
in their natural basis but in something else. From the Christian point
of view the state is only a part in the organisation of the collective
man--a part conditioned by another higher part, the Church, which
consecrates the state in its work of serving indirectly in its own
worldly sphere and by its own means the unconditional purpose which
the Church directly puts before it--to prepare humanity and the whole
earth for the Kingdom of God. From this follow the two chief tasks
of the state--the conservative and the progressive: to _preserve the
foundations of social life apart from which humanity could not exist_,
and _to improve the conditions of its existence_ by furthering the
free development of all human powers which are to be the instrument of
the future perfection, and apart from which the Kingdom of God could
not be realised in humanity. It is clear that just as without the
conservative activity of the state humanity would fall apart and there
would be _no one left_ to enter the fulness of life, so without its
progressive activity mankind would always remain at the same stage of
the historical process, would never attain the power finally to receive
or to reject the Kingdom of God, and therefore there would be _nothing
to live for_.
In paganism it was the conservative task of the state that was
exclusively predominant. Although the state furthered historical
progress, it did so involuntarily and unconsciously. The supreme
purpose of action was not put by the agents themselves, it was not
_their_ purpose since they had not yet heard ‘the gospel of the
kingdom.’ The progress itself, therefore, although it formally differed
from the gradual perfecting of the kingdoms of the physical nature did
not really have a purely-human character: it is unworthy of man to move
in spite of himself to a purpose he does not know. God’s word gives a
beautiful image of the great heathen kingdoms as powerful and wonderful
_beasts_ which rapidly appear and disappear. The natural, earthly men
have no final significance, and cannot have it; and the state, created
by such men, is their collective embodiment. But the pagan state,
conditional and transitory in nature, affirmed itself as unconditional.
Pagans began by deifying individual _bodies_ (astral, vegetable,
animal, and especially human) in the multitude of their various gods,
and they ended by deifying the collective body--the state (cult of the
kings in the Eastern kingdoms, the apotheosis of the Roman emperors).
The pagans erred not in ascribing positive significance to the state,
but only in thinking that it possessed that significance _on its own
account_. This was obviously untrue. Neither the individual nor the
collective body of man has life on its own account but receives it from
the spirit that inhabits it. This is clearly proved by the fact of the
decomposition both of the individual and of the collective bodies. The
perfect body is that in which dwells the spirit of God. Christianity,
therefore, demands not that we should reject or limit the power of the
state, but that we should fully recognise the principle which alone
may render the significance of the state actually complete--namely,
its moral solidarity with the cause of the Kingdom of God on earth,
all worldly purposes being inwardly subordinated to the one spirit of
Christ.
XVII
The question as to the relation of the Church to the state, which has
arisen in Christian times, can be solved in principle from the point
of view here indicated. The Church is, as we know, a divinely-human
organisation, morally determined by piety. From the nature of the case
the Divine principle decidedly predominates in the Church over the
human. In the relation between them the first is pre-eminently active
and the second pre-eminently passive. This obviously must be the case
when the human will is in direct correlation with the Divine. The
active manifestation of the human will, demanded by the Deity itself,
is only possible in the worldly sphere collectively represented by the
state, which had reality previously to the revelation of the Divine
principle, and is in no direct dependence upon it. The _Christian_
state is related to the Deity, as the Church is; it too is in a certain
sense an organisation of the God-in-man, but in it the human element
predominates. This is only possible because the Divine principle is
realised not _in_ the state, but _for_ it in the Church. So that in the
state the Divine principle gives _full play_ to the human and allows it
_independently_ to serve the supreme end. From the moral point of view
both the independent activity of man and his absolute submission to the
Deity as such are equally necessary. This antinomy can only be solved
and the two positions united by distinguishing the two spheres of life
(the religious and the political), and their two immediate motives
(piety and pity), corresponding to the difference in the immediate
object of action, the final purpose being one and the same. Pious
attitude towards a perfect God demands pity for men. The Christian
church demands a Christian state. Here as elsewhere _separation_
instead of _distinction_ leads to _confusion_, and confusion to
dissension and perdition. Complete separation of the Church from
the state compels the Church to do one of two things. It either has
to renounce all active service of the good and to give itself up to
quietism and indifference--which is contrary to the spirit of Christ;
or, zealous actively to prepare the world for the coming of God’s
kingdom, but, in its separation and alienation from the state, having
no means at its command for carrying out its spiritual activity, the
Church, in the person of its authoritative representatives has itself
to seize the concrete instruments of worldly activity, to interfere in
all earthly affairs and, absorbed in the question of means, forget its
original purpose--an unquestionably pure and high one--more and more.
Were such confusion allowed to become permanent, the Church would lose
the very ground of its existence. The separation proves to be no less
harmful to the other side. The state separated from the Church either
gives up spiritual interests altogether, loses its supreme consecration
and dignity, as well as the moral respect and the material submission
of its subjects, or, conscious of the importance of the spiritual
interests for the life of man, but, in its separation from the Church,
having no competent and independent institution to which it could
entrust the supreme care of the spiritual good of its subjects,--the
task of preparing the nations for the Kingdom of God,--it decides to
take that task upon itself. To do so consistently the state would have
to assume _ex officio_ the supreme spiritual authority--which would
be a mad and dangerous usurpation recalling the ‘man of lawlessness’
of the last days. It is clear that in forgetting its filial attitude
towards the Church, the state would be acting in its own name, and not
in the name of the Father.
The normal relation, then, between the state and the Church is this.
_The state recognises the supreme spiritual authority of the universal
Church, which indicates the general direction of the goodwill of
mankind and the final purpose of its historical activity. The Church
leaves to the state full power to bring lawful worldly interests into
conformity with this supreme will and to harmonise political relations
and actions with the requirements of this supreme purpose. The Church
must have no power of compulsion, and the power of compulsion exercised
by the state must have nothing to do with the domain of religion._
The state is the intermediary social sphere between the Church on the
one hand and the material society on the other. The absolute aims of
religious and moral order which the Church puts before humanity and
which it represents, cannot be realised in the given human material
without the formal mediation of the lawful authority of the state (in
the worldly aspect of its activity), which retains the forces of evil
within certain relative bounds until the time comes when all human
wills are ready to make the decisive choice between the absolute good
and the unconditional evil. The direct and fundamental motive of
such restraint is pity, which determines the whole progress of legal
justice and of the state. The progress is not in the principle, but in
its application. Compulsion exercised by the state draws back before
individual freedom and comes forward to help in the case of public
distress. _The rule of true progress is this, that the state should
interfere as little as possible with the inner moral life of man, and
at the same time should as securely and as widely as possible ensure
the external conditions of his worthy existence and moral development._
The state which chose on its own authority to teach its subjects true
theology and sound philosophy, and at the same time allowed them to
remain illiterate, to be murdered on the high-roads, or to die of
famine and of infection, would lose its _raison d’être_. The voice
of the true Church might well say to such a state: “It is I that am
entrusted with the spiritual salvation of these men. All that thou
are required to do is to have pity on their worldly difficulties and
frailties. It is written that man does not live by bread _alone_, but
it is not written that he lives without bread. Pity is binding upon
all, and upon me also. If, therefore, thou wilt not be the collective
organ of my pity, and wilt not, by rightly dividing our labour, make
it morally possible for me to devote myself to the work of piety,
I will once more have to set myself to do the work of pity, as I
have done in the old days when thou, the state, wast not yet called
Christian. I will myself have to see that there should be no famine and
excessive labour, no sick uncared for, that the injured should receive
reparation, and injurers be corrected. But will not then all men say:
What need have we of the state, which has no pity for us, since we have
a Church which took pity on our bodies as well as on our souls?” The
Christian state, worthy of this name, is one which, without interfering
in ecclesiastical affairs, acts within its own domain in the _kingly_
spirit of Christ, who pitied the sick and the hungry, taught the
ignorant, forcibly restrained abuses (driving out the money-changers),
was kind to the Samaritans and the Gentiles, and forbade his disciples
to use violence against unbelievers.
XVIII
Just as the fundamental moral motive of piety, determining our right
attitude to the absolute principle, is organised in the Church, and
the other ultimate moral principle, that of pity, determining our
right attitude to our neighbours, is organised in the state, so with
reference to the third essential aspect of human life our moral
relation to the lower nature (our own and that of others) is organised
objectively and in a collective form in society as an economic union or
zemstvo.
The moral duty of abstinence based as a fact upon the feeling of shame
inherent in human nature, is the true principle of the economic life of
humanity and of the corresponding social organisation, so far as its
own specific task is concerned. The economic task of the state which
acts from motives of pity, is compulsorily to secure for each a certain
minimum of material welfare as the necessary condition of worthy human
existence. This is the right solution of the economic question with
regard to one aspect of it, namely, with regard to relations between
human beings. Economic activity as such is, however, vitally concerned
with man’s relation to the material nature, and the unconditional
character of the moral principle and the completeness of the moral
order necessarily demand that this relation, too, should be brought
under the norm of the good or of perfection. Humanity must therefore
be morally organised not only in the ecclesiastical and the political,
but also in the specifically economic sphere of relations. And just as
between the Church and the state, so between the three parts of the
collective moral organisation there must be _unity without confusion
and distinction without separation_.
What form must, then, the good assume in the materially-economic
society as such? It is understood, of course, that moral philosophy
can do no more than indicate what the informing principle and the
final end of such a society ought to be. This principle is abstinence
from the evil of inordinate carnality; this end is the transmutation
of the material nature, both of our own and of that external to us,
into the free form of the human spirit, a form which does not limit it
from without, but unconditionally completes its inward and external
existence.
But what is there in common, it will be asked, between these ideas and
the economic reality whose principle is the infinite multiplication of
wants and whose end is an equally infinite multiplication of things
that satisfy these wants. Shame and shamelessness, spiritualisation of
the body and materialisation of the soul, resurrection of the flesh and
death of the spirit, certainly do have something in common, but the
common element is purely negative. This, however, is of no importance.
The fact that a moral norm is rejected does not abolish, but, on the
contrary, brings out its inner significance. There is no rational
ground for supposing that the economic life corresponds to the ideal
from the first in a way in which neither the Church nor the state
in their empirical reality correspond to it. There undoubtedly is a
certain opposition between the feeling of shame and the operations on
the stock exchange, but the opposition is certainly not any greater,
and perhaps is even less than that between real Christian piety and
the policy of the mediaeval Church. There is a lack of correspondence
between the principle of abstinence and money speculations, but again
it is not any greater, and, indeed, is less great than that between
the principle of the state as based upon justice and morality and the
institution of _lettres de cachet_, the dragonnades or the wholesale
expulsions of persons belonging to a different religion. On the
strength of what has happened and of what happens still, one may think
that the whole of the economic sphere is simply the field for greed
and self-interest, just as for some people the whole significance of
religion and the Church is summed up by the ambition of the clergy and
the superstitiousness of the masses, and for others the political world
contains nothing but tyranny of the rulers and blind submissiveness of
the crowd. Such views, no doubt, exist, but they are due either to a
desire to misunderstand the true meaning of things, or to incapacity
to understand it. The following argument is of more weight. Even if
we give up the immediate demand for the ideal of perfection in human
relations, we still ought to insist upon two things before we recognise
that the relations in question have any moral worth or significance.
(1) The moral principle said to be involved in them must not be
altogether foreign to them, but must show itself in them, even if in
an imperfect way only. (2) In their historical development they must
approximate to the norm or become more perfect. But the economic life,
if it is taken as a certain organisation of the material relations,
does not. in any way satisfy these two necessary demands. In spite
of all possible abuses in the ecclesiastical sphere, it could not be
seriously denied that the moral principle of piety is inherent in the
Church. It could not, for instance, be denied that the temples of God
are, generally speaking, erected owing to the feeling of piety, and
that the majority of people coming to the services are moved by it.
It could not be denied, either, that in some, if not in all, respects
the life of the Church is improving, and that many of the old abuses
have now become impossible. In a similar way no just man will deny
that state institutions--law courts, police, schools, hospitals,
etc.--are intended for the moral purpose of defending men from injuries
and calamities and of promoting their welfare, nor that the means of
attaining that purpose by the state are gradually improving in the
sense of becoming more merciful. But in the economic realm there exists
no institution which serves of objective expression to the virtue of
abstinence and helps to spiritualise the material nature. The moral
principle by which our material life ought to be determined, and our
external environment transformed, has no reality whatever in the domain
of the economic relations, and, therefore, there is in that domain
nothing to improve.
This complete separation of the economic life from its own moral
purpose is unquestionably a fact, but from our point of view it can
be satisfactorily explained. The moral organisation of humanity,
the principle of which was given in the Christian religion, could
not be _equally_ realised in all its parts. A certain historical
successiveness followed from the very nature of the case. The religious
task, the organisation of piety in the Church, was bound to occupy
the foremost place, both because it was the most essential and, in a
sense, the simplest thing, and the least conditioned by man. Indeed,
man’s relation to the unconditional principle revealed to him cannot be
determined by anything other than that principle itself, since nothing
can be higher than it; the relation rests upon its own foundation, upon
what is given. The second task of the moral organisation--the task of
the Christian state--is, in addition to the motive of collective pity,
also conditioned by the supreme religious principle which liberates
that worldly pity from the limitations it had in the heathen state.
And we see that the political task of historical Christianity, more
complex and conditioned than the religious one, comes on the scene
subsequently to the latter. There was a period in the Middle Ages when
the Church acquired definite organic forms, while the Christian state
was in the same condition of apparent non-existence as the Christian
economic life is to-day. The right of the fist, which was predominant
in the Middle Ages, no more corresponded to the ideal of the state than
modern banks and stock exchanges correspond to the ideal of economic
relations. Practical realisation of the latter is naturally the last
in the order of time since the economic sphere is the furthest limit
for the application of the moral principle. Its rightful organisation,
_i.e._ the establishment of the moral relation between man and material
nature, is inevitably conditioned in two ways: first, by the normal
religious attitude of humanity organised in the Church; and, secondly,
by the normal inter-human or altruistic relations organised in the
state.
It is no wonder, therefore, that the true economic problem to which
some socialists of the first half of the nineteenth century vaguely
groped their way, and from which modern socialists are as far removed
as their opponents, has not yet received a stable and definite
expression even in theory.
But however indefinite the last practical task may be, the changes in
the moral sentiments that predominated in the history of the Christian
world point with sufficient clearness to three main epochs. The _epoch
of piety_ was characterised by its exclusive interest for the ‘divine,’
its indifference and distrust of the human element, its hostility
and fear of the physical nature. This first epoch, in spite of its
stability and long duration, contained in itself a seed of destruction:
the spirit of the one-sided, intolerant piety of the Middle Ages was
regarded as the absolute norm. When this contradiction found its
direct and extreme expression in the inhuman and pitiless religious
persecutions inspired by ‘piety,’ there was a reaction which found its
first expression in idealistic humanism, and then showed itself in
works of practical pity and mercy. This movement of _human morality_
characteristic of the second epoch of the Christian history--from the
fifteenth to the nineteenth century inclusive--began to pass in the
course of that century into a third stage. Two preliminary truths
appeared in the living consciousness of mankind. The first is that
if mercy is to be fully carried out it must include the domain of
the _material life_, and the second is that the norm of the material
life is continence. To the philosophers this truth was clear in times
of antiquity, but it has not yet shed its light upon the general
consciousness for which it is but vaguely beginning to dawn. A glimmer
of it can unquestionably be seen in the nineteenth century in such
phenomena as the ascetic morality of the fashionable philosopher
Schopenhauer, the spread of vegetarianism, the popularity of Hinduism
and Buddhism which, though badly understood, are taken precisely on
their ascetic side; the success of the ‘_Kreuzer Sonata_,’ the fear of
the good people lest the preaching of continence might lead to a sudden
cessation of the human race, etc.
_Economic relations_ and _asceticism_ are the two apparently wholly
heterogeneous orders of facts and ideas, which, in the beginning of
the nineteenth century, were brought together in a perfectly crude and
external way by Malthusianism. _The inner and essential connection
between them consists in the positive duty of man to save material
nature from the necessity of death and decay, and to prepare it for
universal bodily resurrection._
XIX
It is generally believed that the purpose of the economic activity is
the increase of wealth. But the purpose of wealth itself--unless one
adopts the point of view of the ‘_avaricious knight_’--is to possess
the fulness of physical existence. This fulness no doubt depends
upon man’s relation to the material nature, and here two ways are
open before us. We can either selfishly exploit the earthly nature
or lovingly cultivate it. The first way has already been tried, and
although it has been of some indirect benefit to the intellectual
development of man and to the external human culture, the main purpose
cannot be attained by it. Nature yields to man on the surface, gives
him the semblance of dominion over her, but the fictitious treasures,
won by violence, bring no happiness and scatter in the wind like
burnt-up cinders. By means of external exploitation of the powers of
the earth man cannot secure that which is essential to his material
welfare,--he cannot, that is, heal his physical life and render it
immortal. And he cannot possess nature from within, for its true
substance is unknown to him. But in virtue of his reason and conscience
he knows the moral conditions, lying within his own control, which may
place him in the right relation to nature. Reason reveals to him that
every real fact or event is subject to the undefeasible law of the
conservation of energy. Carnal desires seek to bind the soul to the
surface of nature, to the material things and processes, and to turn
the inner potential infinity of the human being into the evil external
boundlessness of passions and lusts. Conscience even in its elementary
form of shame condemns this path as _unworthy_, and reason shows that
it is _perilous_. The more the soul expends itself outwardly, upon the
surface of things, the less inner force it has left for penetrating to
the inmost substance of nature and taking possession of it. It is clear
that man can truly spiritualise nature, that is, call forth and develop
its inner life, only by his own overflowing spirituality; and it is
equally clear that man himself can only become spiritualised at the
expense of his external, outwardly directed mental powers and desires.
The powers and desires of the soul must be _drawn within_ and, through
this, increase in intensity. And the inwardly concentrated, powerful
and spiritualised being of man will be in communion with the inner
substance of nature and no longer with its material surface.
What is required is not that man should give up externally acting
upon nature and carrying on the work of civilisation, but that he
should change the purpose of his life and the centre of gravity of his
will. External objects which most men passionately seek as ends in
themselves, expending upon them their inner powers of feeling and will,
must entirely become the means and the instruments, while the inner
forces gathered and concentrated within must be used as a powerful
lever to lift the weight of the material being which crushes both the
scattered soul of man and the divided soul of nature.
_The normal principle of the economic activity is economy--the saving,
the collecting of psychical forces by means of transmuting one species
of mental energy (the external or extensive) into another kind of
energy (the internal or the intensive)._ Man either scatters his
sensuous soul or he gathers it together. In the first case he achieves
nothing either for himself or for nature, in the second he heals and
saves both himself and it. Speaking generally, organisation signifies
that the means and instruments of the lower order are co-ordinated for
the attainment of one general purpose of a higher order. Therefore the
principle of economic activity that has hitherto been dominant--the
indefinite multiplication of the external and particular wants,
and the recognition of the external means of satisfying them as
ends in themselves--is the principle of disorganisation, of social
decomposition, while the principle of moral philosophy--the collecting
and the drawing in of all the external material purposes into one
inward and mental purpose of the complete reunion of the human being
with the substance of nature, is the principle of organisation and
universal resuscitation.
It must be remembered, however, that this task is _third_ in the order
of time in the general moral organisation of humanity, and that the
real solution of it is conditioned by the first two. The practice of
personal asceticism can be normal and rational only on condition of
a pious attitude to God and pity to men. If this were not so, the
devil would be the pattern of asceticism. In a similar manner the
collective organisation of the material life of man in accordance
with the principle of gathering the inner forces and restraining
the outer wants, cannot be rightly and successfully carried out by
isolated agents in the economic realm taken by itself. It involves the
recognition of the absolute purpose--the Kingdom of God--represented
by the Church, and requires the help of the rightful methods of state
organisation. Neither the individual nor the collective man can
introduce normal order into his material life apart from his religion
and his relation to other men.
Moral organisation of the human race or its regeneration into the
divine humanity is an indivisible threefold process. Its absolute
purpose is laid down by the Church as the organised piety, collectively
receptive of the Divine grace; its formal means and instruments are
supplied by the purely human, free principle of just pity or sympathy,
collectively organised in the state; and it is only the ultimate
substratum or the material body of the God-in-man that is found in the
economic life, determined by the principle of continence.
XX
The individual factor is, from the nature of the case, inevitably
involved in the social or the collective aspect of the moral
organisation of humanity. It is only in and through the activity of
the individual bearers of the supreme principles of life that humanity
increases in perfection, or is morally organised in the various aspects
of its existence. The unity, the completeness, and the right direction
of the general moral progress depend upon a harmonious co-operation
of the leading or ‘representative’ individuals. The normal relation
between the state and the Church would find its essential condition
and visible real embodiment in the abiding harmony of their supreme
representatives, the high priest and the king. The power of the
king would be consecrated by the authority of the priest, and the
authoritative will of the latter would only find expression through
the fulness of the power of the former. The high priest of the Church,
the direct bearer of the Divine principle, the representative of the
spiritual _parentage_, the father by pre-eminence, ought, every time
that he is tempted to abuse his authority by turning it into a power
of compulsion, to remember the words of the gospel that the Father
judges no one, but has passed all judgment to the Son, _for he is the
Son of man_. The Christian king, pre-eminently the son of the Church,
when tempted to raise his supreme temporal power to the level of the
highest spiritual authority, and allow it to interfere with the affairs
of religion and conscience, ought in his turn to remember that even the
King of Heaven does the _will of the Father_.
The authority of the high priest, as well as the power of the king,
are, however, inevitably connected with external advantages, and are
open to temptations that may prove too strong. Disputes, encroachments
and misunderstandings are bound to arise, and they obviously cannot
be finally settled by one of the interested parties. All external
limitations are, as a matter of principle or of ideal, incompatible
with the supreme dignity of the pontifical authority and of the
royal power. But a purely moral control over them on the part of the
free forces of the nation and society is both possible and extremely
desirable. In the old Israel there had existed a third supreme
calling, that of the prophet. Abolished by Christianity in theory, it
practically disappeared from the stage of history, and came forward in
exceptional cases only, for the most part in a distorted form. Hence
all the anomalies of mediaeval and modern history. The restoration
of the prophetic calling does not rest with the will of man, but a
reminder of its purely moral significance is very opportune in our day,
and is appropriate at the end of an exposition of moral philosophy.
Just as the high priest of the Church is the highest expression of
piety, and the Christian monarch the highest expression of mercy and
truth, so the true prophet is the highest expression of shame and
conscience. This inner nature of the prophetic calling determines its
external characteristics. The true prophet is a social worker who is
absolutely independent, and neither fears, nor submits to, anything
external. Side by side with the representatives of absolute authority
and absolute power there must be in human society representatives of
absolute freedom. Such freedom cannot belong to the crowd, cannot
be an attribute of democracy. Every one, of course, desires to have
moral freedom, as every one, perhaps, might wish to have the supreme
authority and power; but desiring is not enough. The supreme authority
and power are given by the grace of God; the true freedom man must
deserve for himself by self-renunciation. _The right to be free_
follows from the very nature of man and must be externally safeguarded
by the state. But the degree to which this right may be _realised_
entirely depends upon inner conditions, upon the level of the moral
consciousness. The man who has complete freedom, both external and
inward, is one who is not inwardly bound by anything external, and in
the last resort knows of no other standard of judgment and conduct than
the good will and the pure conscience.
The high priest is the coping-stone of a numerous and complex hierarchy
of the clergy, through which he comes into contact with the whole of
the laity; the king carries out his work among the people through
a complex system of civil and military institutions represented by
individual men; in a similar manner the free followers of the supreme
ideal realise it in the life of the community through a number of
men who more or less fully participate in their aspirations. The
three services can be best distinguished by the fact that the office
of the priest derives its main force from pious devotion to the
true traditions of the past; the office of the king--from a correct
understanding of the true needs of the present and the office of
the prophet, from the faith in the true vision of the future. The
difference between the prophet and the idle dreamer lies in the
fact that in the case of the prophet the flowers and fruits of the
ideal future do not hang in the air of personal imagination, but are
supported by the visible stem of the present social needs and by the
mysterious roots of religious tradition. And it is this same fact that
connects the calling of the prophet with the office of priest and king.
FOOTNOTES:
[178] The prayer for granting ‘eternal memory’ to the departed forms an
important part of the funeral and the requiem services in the Orthodox
Church.--_Translator’s Note._
[179] I cannot enlarge upon the details of this connection and upon
other cognate questions without passing into the sphere of metaphysics
and mystical aesthetics. But the general necessity of resurrection as
the fulness of the spiritual and bodily existence is sufficiently clear
from the point of view of the absolute moral principle and of the moral
order of reality.
[180] See above, Part I. Chapter II., ‘The Ascetic Principle of
Morality.’
[181] D. P. Yurkevitch, Professor of Philosophy, now deceased, told
me that a young scholar, son of an evangelical pastor in Moscow, was
present once at the marriage ceremony in the Russian Church, and was
very much struck by the fact that in the service the bridal crowns are
compared to crowns of the martyrs. This profound idea affected him so
deeply that it caused a complete revolution in his mind. As a result of
it, the young philologist gave up worldly learning and the university
chair he was going to occupy, and, to the distress of his relatives,
went into a monastery. He was the well-known Father Clement Sederholm,
of whose life and character the late K. N. Leontyev wrote so excellent
an account.
[182] The inner relation and contrast between the confusion of Babel
and the meeting of the Apostles in Sion, as the violation and the
restitution of the norm, are clearly indicated in the Church anthems
sung at Pentecost.
[183] The profound and important significance of the dogmatic disputes
dealing with the very essence of the Christian religion or piety I
have more definitely indicated elsewhere. See, _e.g._, _Veliki spor i
christianskaya politika_ (_The Great Dispute and Christian Policy_)
(1883), _Dogmatitcheskoe razvitie tserkvi_ (_The Dogmatic Development
of the Church_) (1886), _La Russie et l’Église universelle_ (1889).
This significance is particularly clear in the dispute concerning the
ikons which in the Christian East completed the circle of the dogmatic
development.
[184] This is discussed more fully in my _Duhovniya osnovi zhizni_
(_The Spiritual Foundations of Life_) and _La Russie et l’Église
universelle_ (last chapter).
[185] These three religiously moral works are dealt with at length in
the first part of the _Duhovniya osnovi zhizni_.
[186] Acts x.
[187] See above, Chapter IX., ‘The Significance of War.’
[188] From the _Instruction_ of Vladimir Monomakh, one of the rulers of
Russia in the eleventh century, to his children.--_Translator’s Note._
[189] “Italy, the slave and the abode of suffering, a ship without a
pilot amidst terrible storms.”
[190] My father had as a boy heard first-hand reminiscences of how
armed bands of Mongolians on the Volga engaged in open brigandage
carried away into captivity whole families of Russian travellers and
tormented them in all sorts of ways. At the present time this no longer
happens on the Volga, but on the Amur such things are still known to
take place. The perpetual war mission of the state is therefore not yet
over for Russia, and, had the good centurion Cornelius lived in our
day, no moral motives could prevent him from being a _sotnik_ of the
Kossacks in the Ussuriisky region.
[191] See above, Part III. Chapter VI., ‘The Penal Question from the
Moral Point of View.’
[192] See above, Part III. Chapter VIII., ‘Morality and Legal Justice.’
[193] See above, Part I. Chapter V., ‘Virtues.’
[194] See above, Part III. Chapter VIII., ‘Morality and Legal Justice.’
CONCLUSION
THE FINAL DEFINITION OF THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE AND THE
TRANSITION TO THE THEORETICAL PHILOSOPHY
Our life acquires moral worth and significance when, through striving
after perfection, it becomes related to the perfect good. It follows
from the very conception of the perfect good that all life and all
existence are connected with it. There is meaning in the animal life,
in its functions of nourishment and reproduction. But this meaning,
important and unquestionable as it is, expresses only an involuntary
and partial connection of a particular being with the universal good,
and cannot satisfy the life of man; _his_ will and his reason, being
forms of the infinite, demand something more. The spirit is nurtured
by the knowledge of the perfect good and is propagated by doing
good, by realising, that is, the unconditional and universal in all
the particular conditions and relations. In inwardly _demanding_ a
_perfect_ union with the absolute good we show that that which is
demanded by us has not yet been given us, and that, therefore, the
moral significance of our life can only consist in _approaching_ the
perfect association with the good or in _rendering perfect_ our actual
inner connection with it.
The demand for moral perfection involves the general idea of
the absolute good and of its necessary attributes. It must be
all-embracing, that is, it must be the criterion of our moral relation
to all things. All that exists or may exist is from the moral point
of view exhausted by three categories: it is either above us, or on
a level with us, or below us. It is logically impossible to find a
fourth relation. Our inner consciousness testifies that above us
is the absolute good or God and that which already is in perfect
union with Him, a union we have not yet attained; on a level with
us is everything which, like ourselves, is capable of spontaneously
increasing in moral perfection, everything which, like us, is on the
way to the absolute, and can conceive the purpose of its action,--that
is, all human beings; below us is all that is incapable of inward
spontaneous perfection and that can enter through us only into a
perfect relation with the absolute--namely, material nature. This
threefold relation in its most general form is a fact. We are, as a
fact, subordinate to the absolute, by whatever name we might describe
it. We are, as a fact, equal to other men in the essential attributes
of human nature, and through heredity, history, and social life are
one with them in our earthly destiny. We possess, as a fact, important
advantages over the material creation. _The moral problem then can
only consist in perfecting what is given._ The fact of the threefold
relation must be transformed into a threefold norm of rational and
voluntary activity. The inevitable submission to the supreme power
must become the conscious and free service of the perfect good; the
natural solidarity with other human beings must be transformed into
sympathetic and harmonious co-operation; the actual advantages we have
over material nature must become rational mastery over it for our good
and its own.
The true beginning of moral progress is contained in the three
fundamental feelings which are inherent in human nature and constitute
natural virtue: the feeling of _shame_ which safeguards our higher
dignity against the encroachments of the animal desires, the feeling
of _pity_ which establishes an inner equality between ourselves and
others, and, finally, the _religious_ feeling which expresses our
recognition of the supreme good. Inseparable from these feelings is
the consciousness, even though it be a dim one, that they are the
norm, and express what is good, while the opposite of them is bad--the
consciousness that one ought to be ashamed of immoderate physical
desires and slavery to the animal nature, that one ought to pity
others, ought to do homage to the Divine. These feelings, representing
the _good nature_ which strives from the first towards that which
_ought_ to be, and the testimony of conscience that accompanies them
constitute the one or rather the three-in-one foundation of moral
progress. _Conscientious reason generalises the impulses of the good
nature and makes them into a law._ The content of the moral law is that
which is given in the good feelings, but it is clothed in the form of
a universal and binding demand or imperative. Moral law grows out of
the testimony of conscience, and conscience itself is the feeling of
shame developed on its formal and not on its material side.
With regard to our lower nature the moral law, generalising the
immediate feeling of modesty, commands us always to dominate all
sensual desires, admitting them only as a subordinate element within
the limits of reason; morality at this stage no longer takes the
form--as in the elementary feeling of shame--of the mere instinctive
rejection of the hostile element or recoiling before it, but demands
actual _struggle_ with the flesh. With regard to other human beings,
the moral law gives to the feeling of pity or sympathy the form of
justice, and demands that we should recognise each of our neighbours
as having the same absolute significance as ourselves, or that we
should regard others as we could consistently wish them to regard us,
independently of this or that particular feeling. Finally, in relation
to the Deity the moral law affirms itself as the expression of Its
law-giving will, and demands that that will should be unconditionally
recognised for the sake of its own dignity or perfection. But when
this _pure_ recognition of God’s will as the all-embracing and
all-sufficient good has been attained, it must be clear that the
_fulness_ of this will can only be revealed through its own inner
_effects_ in the soul of man. Having risen to this level, the formal or
rational morality enters the domain of the absolute morality--the good
of the rational law is completed by the good of the Divine _grace_.
According to the usual teaching of true Christianity, which correctly
represents the position, grace does not abolish nature and natural
morality but ‘perfects’ it, that is, brings it to perfection; in like
manner grace does not abolish law, but fulfils it, and only in so far
as it does so, renders it unnecessary.
The fulfilment of the moral law, whether instinctive or deliberate,
cannot, however, be limited to the personal life of the individual--for
two reasons, a natural and a moral one. The natural reason is that
the individual taken separately does not exist at all. From the point
of view of practice this reason is quite sufficient, but strict
moralists who care not for what _is_ but for what _ought to be_ will
attach greater weight to the moral reason--to the incompatibility,
namely, between the idea of a separate isolated man and the idea
of moral perfection. On natural and moral grounds the process of
attaining perfection, which constitutes the moral significance of our
life, can only be conceived as a collective process, taking place
in the collective man, that is, in the family, in the nation, in
humanity. These three aspects of the collective man do not replace
but mutually support and complete one another, each following its own
path towards perfection. Perfection is being attained by the family
which spiritualises and preserves for eternity the significance of the
individual past in and through the moral bond with the forefathers, the
significance of the real present in true marriage and the significance
of the individual future in the upbringing of new generations.
Perfection is being attained by the nation, which deepens and extends
its natural solidarity with other nations by entering into moral
communion with them. Perfection is being attained by humanity which
organises the good in the general forms of the religious, political,
and social-economic culture, rendering them more and more conformable
to the final end--the preparation of humanity for the unconditional
moral order, or the kingdom of God. Religious good or piety is
organised in the Church which seeks to make its human aspect more
perfect by making it more and more conformable to the Divine. The
inter-human good or justice and pity is organised in the State which
grows more perfect by extending the domain of justice and mercy at
the expense of violence and arbitrariness both within the nation and
between nations. The physical good or man’s moral relation to material
nature is organised in the economic union, the perfection of which
consists not in the accumulation of things, but in the spiritualisation
of matter as the condition of normal and eternal existence in the
physical world.
Constant interaction between personal moral effort and the organised
moral work of collective man finally justifies the moral significance
of life--that is, it justifies the good, which thus appears in all its
purity, fulness, and power. The system of moral philosophy worked out
in the present book is a conceptual reproduction of this process in
its totality; it follows history in what has been attained already,
and anticipates it in what is still left to be done. In reducing its
contents to one formula we shall find that the perfection of the good
finally shows itself as the _inseverable organisation of a threefold
love_. The feeling of reverence or piety, which means at first a timid
and involuntary and then a free and filial submission to the supreme
principle, comes to know its object as absolute perfection, and is
transformed into a pure, all-embracing, and boundless love for it,
conditioned solely by the recognition of its absolute character--an
_ascending love_. In conformity with its all-embracing object this
love includes all else in God, and, in the first place, those who,
like us, can participate in it, _i.e._ human beings. Our physical
and subsequently our moral and political pity for men becomes a
spiritual love for them, or an _equalising love_. But the Divine and
all-embracing love to which man attains does not stop at this; becoming
a _descending love_ it acts upon material nature, bringing it also
within the fulness of the absolute good, making it the living throne of
the Divine glory.
When this universal justification of the good, its extension to all the
relations of life, is clearly seen as a historical fact by every mind,
the only question for the individual will be the practical question of
will,--to accept this perfect moral significance of life for oneself,
or to reject it. But as long as the end has not yet come, as long as
the rightness of the good has not become self-evident in all things and
to all, further theoretical doubt is still possible. That doubt cannot
be solved within the limits of moral or practical philosophy, although
it in no way detracts from the binding character of its maxims upon men
of good will.
If the moral significance of life in the last resort consists in
the struggle with evil and in the triumph of good over evil, there
arises the eternal question as to the origin of evil itself. If evil
springs from the good, struggle with it seems to be based upon a
misconception; if it arises independently of the good, the good cannot
be unconditional, since the condition of its realisation will be
external to it. And if the good is not unconditional, wherein does its
essential superiority consist, and what is the final guarantee of its
triumph over evil?
Rational faith in the absolute good is based upon inner experience,
and upon that which with logical necessity follows from it. But inner
religious experience is a personal matter, and, from the external
point of view, is conditional. When, therefore, rational faith based
upon it becomes a system of universal theoretic assertions, it must be
theoretically justified.
The question as to the origin of evil is purely intellectual, and can
be solved by a true metaphysic alone, which, in its turn, presupposes
the solution of the question as to the nature, the validity, and the
means of knowing the truth.
The independence of moral philosophy in its own sphere does not prevent
it from being inwardly connected with theoretical philosophy--the
theory of knowledge and metaphysics.
It least of all befits believers in the absolute good to fear
philosophical investigation, as if the moral significance of the world
could lose by being finally explained, and as though union with God in
love, and harmony with His will, could leave us no part in the Divine
intellect. Having justified the good as such in moral philosophy; we
must, in theoretical philosophy, justify the good _as Truth_.
THE END
_Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Obvious typographical errors corrected, however inconsistencies in
hyphenation and diacritical forms left unchanged.
Page 182: apparent inconsistent italicization of “movements seek”, has
been retained.
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