First Section: From Everyday Moral Reasoning to Philosophy

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

Nothing in the world, or even beyond it, can possibly be considered good without qualification except a good will. Intelligence, wit, judgment, and all other mental talents, whatever their names, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many ways. So are qualities of temperament such as courage, determination, and perseverance. But these natural gifts may also become extremely bad and harmful if the will directing them is not good. The will that uses these gifts therefore forms what we call character. The same applies to the gifts of fortune. Power, wealth, honor, even health, and the general well-being and satisfaction with our circumstances called happiness inspire pride, often arrogance. They do so if no good will corrects their influence on the mind. A good will must also, through this correction, set the whole guiding principle of action right and direct it toward its proper end. An impartial, rational observer can never take pleasure in seeing someone enjoy uninterrupted prosperity while showing no trace of a pure, good will. So a good will appears to be essential even to being worthy of happiness.

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

Some qualities even help a good will itself and may make it easier for that will to act. Yet these qualities have no unconditional value in themselves. Their value always depends on a good will. This dependence limits the respect we rightly have for these qualities and prevents us from calling them absolutely good. Restraint in emotions and passions, self-control, and calm judgment are not only good in many ways. They even seem to form part of a person's inherent worth. But these qualities are far from good without qualification, although ancient thinkers praised them without reservation. For without the principles of a good will, these qualities may become extremely bad. A villain's coolness not only makes him far more dangerous. It also directly makes him more hateful in our eyes than he would have been without that coolness.

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

A good will is not good because of what it accomplishes or produces, or because it can achieve some intended goal. It is good simply because of its willing, which means it is good in itself. Considered on its own, a good will deserves far greater esteem than anything it could achieve to satisfy any desire. This holds even for what it could achieve to satisfy all desires combined. Suppose that, through especially bad luck or the meager gifts of an unkind, stepmotherly nature, this will could not achieve its purpose. Suppose that, despite its greatest efforts, it achieved nothing, leaving only the good will. This would not mean a mere wish, but an effort using every means within our power. Then, like a jewel, the good will would still shine by its own light, with its full value in itself. Its usefulness or failure to produce results could neither increase nor diminish that value. Such usefulness would be only like a jewel’s setting, making the good will easier to handle in everyday dealings. Or it might attract the attention of those who are not yet expert judges. But it would neither recommend the good will to true experts nor determine its value.

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

Yet there is something so strange about the idea that the will alone has absolute value, regardless of its usefulness. Even ordinary reason fully accepts this idea, but a suspicion must still arise. Perhaps the idea is really nothing more than an extravagant fantasy. And perhaps we have misunderstood nature’s purpose in giving reason control over our will. We will therefore examine the idea from this perspective.

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

We assume a basic principle about the physical makeup of an organized being, one suited to the purposes of life. Every organ serving a purpose is the best and most suitable organ for that purpose. Now consider a being with reason and a will. Suppose nature’s true aim for that being were its survival, its well-being, in short, its happiness. Then nature would have made a very poor choice in giving reason the task of achieving that aim. Instinct would prescribe all the actions needed for happiness, and the entire rule of conduct, far more reliably than reason. Instinct would therefore achieve happiness much more certainly than reason ever could. If this favored creature had also been given reason, reason would have served only to contemplate its happy natural constitution. The creature could admire that constitution, congratulate itself on it, and feel grateful to the benevolent cause responsible for it. But reason would not have been given so that the creature could put its desires under reason’s weak, misleading guidance. Nor would reason have been given so that the creature could clumsily interfere with nature’s purpose. In short, nature would have ensured that reason did not enter into practical use. Reason, with its limited understanding, would not have presumed to devise its own plan for happiness or ways to achieve happiness. Nature would have chosen not only the ends but also the means. With wise foresight, nature would have entrusted both to instinct.

And, in fact, we find that the more a cultivated reason applies itself with deliberate purpose to the enjoyment of life and happiness, so much the more does the man fail of true satisfaction. And from this circumstance there arises in many, if they are candid enough to confess it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred of reason, especially in the case of those who are most experienced in the use of it, because after calculating all the advantages they derive, I do not say from the invention of all the arts of common luxury, but even from the sciences (which seem to them to be after all only a luxury of the understanding), they find that they have, in fact, only brought more trouble on their shoulders, rather than gained in happiness; and they end by envying, rather than despising, the more common stamp of men who keep closer to the guidance of mere instinct and do not allow their reason much influence on their conduct. And this we must admit, that the judgement of those who would very much lower the lofty eulogies of the advantages which reason gives us in regard to the happiness and satisfaction of life, or who would even reduce them below zero, is by no means morose or ungrateful to the goodness with which the world is governed, but that there lies at the root of these judgements the idea that our existence has a different and far nobler end, for which, and not for happiness, reason is properly intended, and which must, therefore, be regarded as the supreme condition to which the private ends of man must, for the most part, be postponed.

In fact, the more a person deliberately uses a cultivated reason to pursue enjoyment and happiness, the less true satisfaction they find. This leads many people to a certain degree of misology, or hatred of reason, if they are honest enough to admit it. This is especially true of those most experienced in using reason. They calculate all the benefits they gain from reason, not just from inventions that provide everyday luxuries, but even from the sciences. To them, the sciences seem, after all, to be only a luxury for the intellect. Yet they find that reason has actually brought them more trouble rather than greater happiness. They end up envying, rather than looking down on, more ordinary people. Such people follow instinct more closely and allow reason little influence over their conduct. We must acknowledge something about those who question the extravagant praise of reason's benefits for happiness and satisfaction in life. Some would greatly reduce these estimates of reason's benefits, or even judge that reason does more harm than good. Their judgment is by no means gloomy or ungrateful toward the goodness that governs the world. Rather, these judgments rest on the idea that our existence has a different and far nobler purpose. Reason is properly intended to serve that purpose, not happiness. We must therefore regard that purpose as the highest condition, to which people's personal aims must generally give way.

For as reason is not competent to guide the will with certainty in regard to its objects and the satisfaction of all our wants (which it to some extent even multiplies), this being an end to which an implanted instinct would have led with much greater certainty; and since, nevertheless, reason is imparted to us as a practical faculty, i.e., as one which is to have influence on the will, therefore, admitting that nature generally in the distribution of her capacities has adapted the means to the end, its true destination must be to produce a will, not merely good as a means to something else, but good in itself, for which reason was absolutely necessary. This will then, though not indeed the sole and complete good, must be the supreme good and the condition of every other, even of the desire of happiness. Under these circumstances, there is nothing inconsistent with the wisdom of nature in the fact that the cultivation of the reason, which is requisite for the first and unconditional purpose, does in many ways interfere, at least in this life, with the attainment of the second, which is always conditional, namely, happiness. Nay, it may even reduce it to nothing, without nature thereby failing of her purpose. For reason recognizes the establishment of a good will as its highest practical destination, and in attaining this purpose is capable only of a satisfaction of its own proper kind, namely that from the attainment of an end, which end again is determined by reason only, notwithstanding that this may involve many a disappointment to the ends of inclination.

Reason cannot reliably guide the will in choosing its objects and satisfying all our needs. Indeed, reason even increases those needs to some extent. An inborn instinct would have led us toward satisfying them with much greater certainty. Yet we have been given reason as a practical faculty, meaning a capacity meant to influence the will. Let us grant that nature generally assigns capacities in ways that fit the means to the end. Reason’s true purpose must therefore be to produce a will that is good in itself. Such a will is not merely good as a means to something else. To produce such a will, reason was absolutely necessary. Although this will is not the sole and complete good, it must be the highest good. It must also be the condition of every other good, even the desire for happiness. Developing reason is necessary for this first and unconditional purpose. Yet developing reason often interferes, at least in this life, with achieving the second purpose, happiness, which is always conditional. Under these circumstances, this interference does not conflict with nature’s wisdom. Indeed, developing reason may even reduce happiness to nothing, without nature thereby failing to achieve its purpose. For reason recognizes establishing a good will as its highest practical purpose. In achieving this purpose, reason can gain only a satisfaction of its own particular kind: satisfaction in achieving an end. That end, in turn, is determined by reason alone. This remains so even though achieving that end may involve many disappointments for the aims of our inclinations.

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

We must now develop the idea of a will that deserves the highest respect for its own sake. Such a will is good without regard to any further purpose. This idea already exists in sound, ordinary understanding and needs clarification rather than teaching. When we judge the value of our actions, this idea always comes first and is the condition for all other value. To develop this idea, we will examine the idea of duty. Duty includes the idea of a good will, though with certain restrictions and obstacles within the person. These restrictions and obstacles do not hide the good will or make it unrecognizable. Instead, they bring the good will into sharper contrast and make it shine all the more brightly.

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

I leave out all actions already recognized as contrary to duty, although they may be useful for some purpose. We cannot ask whether these actions are done from duty, since they actually conflict with duty. I also set aside actions that conform to duty but that people have no direct desire to perform. People perform these actions because some other desire drives them to do so. In such cases, we can easily distinguish between acting from duty and acting for selfish reasons. The distinction is much harder when an action conforms to duty and the person also directly wants to perform it. For example, a shopkeeper always has a duty not to overcharge an inexperienced customer. Wherever trade is extensive, a prudent shopkeeper does not overcharge but charges everyone the same fixed price. A child can therefore buy on the same terms as anyone else. Customers are thus treated honestly. But honest treatment alone does not show that the shopkeeper acted from duty and principles of honesty. The shopkeeper’s own interests required such conduct. In this case, we cannot suppose that the shopkeeper also had a direct liking for the customers. Such a liking would mean treating every customer equally out of love, so to speak. So the action came neither from duty nor from a direct desire to treat customers well, but merely from selfish motives.

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

On the other hand, we have a duty to preserve our lives, and everyone also naturally wants to live. Because of this desire, the often anxious care most people take to stay alive has no inherent moral worth. Their guiding principle has no moral significance. They preserve their lives as duty requires, certainly, but not because duty requires it. But suppose hardship and hopeless sorrow have taken away all enjoyment of life. Suppose the suffering person remains strong in spirit, angry at their fate rather than discouraged or dejected, and wishes for death. Yet suppose this person preserves their life without loving it, not from desire or fear, but from duty. Then their guiding principle has moral worth.

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

Helping others when we can is a duty. Besides, many people are naturally sympathetic. Without any motive of vanity or self-interest, they enjoy spreading joy around them. They take pleasure in others’ happiness insofar as they have brought that happiness about. But I maintain that such an action has no true moral worth, however right and admirable it may be. It stands on the same level as actions driven by other inclinations, such as the desire for honor. Suppose that desire happens to lead someone toward actions that benefit the public, accord with duty, and therefore deserve honor. Such actions deserve praise and encouragement, but not moral esteem. For the principle behind the action lacks moral significance: such actions must be done from duty, not inclination. Suppose this generous person’s mind were clouded by personal sorrow, extinguishing all sympathy for others’ circumstances. He still has the power to help people in distress. But their troubles do not move him because he is absorbed in his own. Now suppose he pulls himself out of this numb indifference. He helps others without any inclination to do so, simply from duty. Only then does his action have genuine moral worth. Consider a further case. Suppose nature has given a man little sympathy. Although he is an upright man, his temperament makes him cold and indifferent to others’ suffering. Perhaps he has a special gift for bearing his own suffering with patience and courage. Because of this, he assumes, or even demands, that others should show the same strength. Such a man would certainly not be among the worst people nature has produced. But suppose nature has not especially equipped him to help others out of kindness. Could he not still find within himself a source of far greater worth than a good-natured temperament could provide? Unquestionably. Precisely here we see the moral worth of character, incomparably the highest worth of all: he helps others not from inclination, but from duty.

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

Securing your own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly. For dissatisfaction with your situation, under the strain of many worries and unmet needs, could strongly tempt you to violate your duty. But even without considering duty, all people already have the strongest and deepest desire for happiness. This is because the idea of happiness brings all their desires together into a whole. Yet pursuing happiness often conflicts sharply with some desires. And no one can form a clear, certain idea of the total satisfaction of all desires that constitutes happiness. So it is no surprise that a single desire can often overcome such an uncertain idea. A single desire offers something definite, both in what it promises and in when it can be satisfied. Someone with gout, for example, may choose to enjoy what he likes and suffer whatever follows. By his calculation, at least on this occasion, he has not given up present enjoyment for a possibly mistaken expectation. That expectation is of happiness supposedly found in good health. But suppose that, even in this case, the general desire for happiness did not influence his will. Suppose also that, in his particular case, health was not a necessary part of his calculation. Even then, as in all other cases, this law remains: he should promote his happiness from duty, not from desire. Only then would his conduct gain true moral worth.

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

This is undoubtedly how we should also understand the passages of Scripture commanding us to love our neighbour, even our enemy. For love as a feeling cannot be commanded, but doing good out of duty can. This holds even when we feel no inclination to do good, or even a natural aversion we cannot overcome. Such love is practical, not emotional. It rests in the will, not in our sensory impulses, and in principles of action, not tender sympathy. Only this kind of love can be commanded.

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

The second proposition is this: An action done from duty gets its moral worth not from its intended purpose, but from the maxim guiding it. Its moral worth therefore does not depend on whether the action achieves its goal. It depends only on the principle guiding the will, regardless of any object of desire. As the preceding discussion makes clear, our purposes cannot give our actions any unconditional or moral worth. Nor can the effects of our actions, considered as goals and motives for the will. Where, then, can their worth lie, if not in the will’s relation to its expected effect? Their worth can lie only in the principle guiding the will, regardless of the goals the action can achieve. For the will stands at a crossroads between its a priori principle and its a posteriori motive. The a priori principle is formal, concerned with the form of willing. The a posteriori motive is material, concerned with what is desired. Since something must determine the will, the formal principle must determine it when an action is done from duty. In that case, every material principle has been excluded from determining the will.

The third proposition, which is a consequence of the two preceding, I would express thus: Duty is the necessity of acting from respect for the law. I may have inclination for an object as the effect of my proposed action, but I cannot have respect for it, just for this reason, that it is an effect and not an energy of will. Similarly I cannot have respect for inclination, whether my own or another's; I can at most, if my own, approve it; if another's, sometimes even love it; i.e., look on it as favourable to my own interest. It is only what is connected with my will as a principle, by no means as an effect- what does not subserve my inclination, but overpowers it, or at least in case of choice excludes it from its calculation- in other words, simply the law of itself, which can be an object of respect, and hence a command. Now an action done from duty must wholly exclude the influence of inclination and with it every object of the will, so that nothing remains which can determine the will except objectively the law, and subjectively pure respect for this practical law, and consequently the maxim¹ that I should follow this law even to the thwarting of all my inclinations.

The third proposition follows from the first two. I would state it this way: Duty is the necessity of acting out of respect for the law. I may desire an object as the result of an action I intend to take. But I cannot respect that object, precisely because it is a result, not an exercise of the will. Similarly, I cannot respect an inclination, whether my own or someone else’s. At most, I can approve of my own inclination. I can sometimes even love someone else’s inclination, meaning that I see it as favorable to my own interests. Only something connected with my will as a principle, never as a result, can deserve respect and therefore command me. Such a principle does not serve my inclination but overrides it. Or at least, when I must choose, the principle excludes my inclination from consideration. In other words, only the law itself can deserve respect and therefore command me. Now, an action done from duty must entirely exclude the influence of inclination and, with it, every object of the will. So nothing remains to determine the will except, objectively, the law and, subjectively, pure respect for this practical law. Consequently, the will must be guided by the maxim¹ that I should follow this law even against all my inclinations.

Thus the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect expected from it, nor in any principle of action which requires to borrow its motive from this expected effect. For all these effects- agreeableness of one's condition and even the promotion of the happiness of others- could have been also brought about by other causes, so that for this there would have been no need of the will of a rational being; whereas it is in this alone that the supreme and unconditional good can be found. The pre-eminent good which we call moral can therefore consist in nothing else than the conception of law in itself, which certainly is only possible in a rational being, in so far as this conception, and not the expected effect, determines the will. This is a good which is already present in the person who acts accordingly, and we have not to wait for it to appear first in the result.²

Thus, an action’s moral worth does not lie in its expected effect. Nor does it lie in any principle of action that draws its motive from that expected effect. For all these effects could also have been produced by other causes. These effects include making one’s own condition pleasant and even promoting the happiness of others. So producing these effects would not have required the will of a rational being. Yet only in such a will can the highest and unconditional good be found. The highest good we call moral can therefore consist only in the idea of law itself. Such an idea is certainly possible only in a rational being. It constitutes moral goodness insofar as the idea of law, rather than the expected effect, determines the will. This goodness is already present in the person who acts on that basis. We do not have to wait for it to appear in the result.²

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

But what kind of law must guide the will for that will to be called absolutely and unconditionally good? The idea of this law must guide the will without regard to the expected result. I have removed every motive the will could gain from the results of obeying any law. Nothing remains but that the will’s actions must conform to universal law in general. This conformity alone must serve as the will’s principle. In other words, I must act only on a maxim that I could also will to become a universal law. Here, a maxim is the principle on which I act. What guides the will is simply conformity to law in general, without assuming any particular law governing certain actions. This conformity must guide the will if duty is not to be an empty illusion and an imaginary idea. Ordinary human reason agrees completely with this principle in its practical judgments and always has this principle in view. Consider this question, for example: When I am in trouble, may I make a promise I intend not to keep? I readily distinguish two meanings of this question: Is making a false promise prudent, or is it right? Making a false promise may undoubtedly often be prudent. Still, I clearly see that escaping my present difficulty through this trick is not enough. I must carefully consider whether the lie may later cause far greater trouble than the trouble I now escape. Despite all my supposed cleverness, I cannot easily predict the consequences. Once lost, my credibility may be far more valuable than whatever harm I now seek to avoid. So I should consider whether following a universal maxim would be more prudent. I would then make a habit of promising nothing unless I intended to keep my promise. But I soon see that this maxim would still rest only on fear of the consequences. Being truthful from duty is entirely different from being truthful out of fear of harmful consequences. In the first case, the very idea of the action already contains a law for me. In the second, I must first look elsewhere for possible results that would affect me. Departing from the principle of duty is undoubtedly wrong. But departing from my maxim of prudence may often benefit me greatly, although following that maxim is certainly safer. The shortest and surest way to decide whether a lying promise agrees with duty is to ask myself: "Could I accept my maxim of escaping difficulty through a false promise as a universal law, for myself and others?" Could I say to myself, "Everyone may make a deceitful promise when facing a difficulty they cannot otherwise escape?" I then immediately see that, although I can will the lie, I cannot possibly will lying as a universal law. Under such a law, there would be no promises at all. Stating my intentions about my future actions would be useless, since those listening would not believe me. Or, if they believed me too readily, they would repay me with the same deceit. Thus, as soon as my maxim became a universal law, the maxim would necessarily destroy itself.

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

I therefore need no deep insight to know what I must do for my will to be morally good. I lack experience of the world and cannot prepare for everything that might happen. I ask myself only this: Can I also will that my maxim, my principle of action, become a universal law? If not, I must reject that maxim. This is not because following it would disadvantage me or even others. Rather, the maxim cannot serve as a principle in a possible system of universal laws. And reason compels me to respect such laws immediately. I do not yet understand what this respect is based on (the philosopher may investigate that question). But I at least understand that this respect recognizes a worth far greater than anything recommended by inclination. Duty consists in the necessity of acting purely out of respect for the practical law. Every other motive must give way to duty, because duty is the condition for a will being good in itself. And the worth of such a will is above everything.

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

So, without leaving the moral knowledge of ordinary human reason, we have reached its guiding principle. Ordinary people do not, of course, think of this principle in such an abstract and universal form. Yet they always have it before them and use it as the standard for their decisions. We could easily show how, with this compass, people can distinguish good from bad in every case they encounter. They can tell what agrees with duty and what conflicts with it. We need only follow Socrates and direct their attention to the principle they already use, without teaching them anything new. So we do not need science or philosophy to know how to be honest and good, or even wise and virtuous. Indeed, we might have expected this beforehand. Everyone must know what they are bound to do. So we might have expected such knowledge to be within everyone's reach, even the most ordinary person's. We cannot help admiring how much better ordinary human understanding performs in practical judgment than in theoretical judgment. In theoretical matters, ordinary reason runs into trouble if it ventures beyond the laws of experience and sensory perception. It falls into sheer impossibilities of thought and contradictions, or at least into confusion, uncertainty, obscurity, and instability. But in practical matters, ordinary understanding shows its strength precisely when it excludes all sensory motives from practical laws. Its judgment then becomes remarkably subtle. This happens whether people are quibbling with their own conscience or with other claims about what should count as right. It also happens when they honestly seek to assess the worth of actions for their own instruction. In this last case, they may have as much hope of judging correctly as any philosopher can claim. Indeed, they are almost more certain to do so. For the philosopher can have no other principle. Yet the philosopher may easily confuse their judgment with many irrelevant considerations and thus stray from the right path. Would it not, then, be wiser in moral matters to rest content with the judgment of ordinary reason? Or should we, at most, call on philosophy only to make the system of morality more complete and understandable? Philosophy could also make its rules easier to use, especially in debate. But should we avoid letting philosophy draw ordinary understanding away from its fortunate simplicity? And should we avoid using philosophy to lead ordinary understanding onto a new path of inquiry and instruction?

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

Innocence is indeed a wonderful thing. Yet sadly, innocence struggles to sustain itself and is easily led astray. For this reason, even wisdom needs systematic knowledge, although wisdom consists more in conduct than in knowledge. Wisdom needs this knowledge not to learn from it, but to ensure that its principles gain acceptance and endure. Reason presents all the commands of duty to us as deserving great respect. But we feel a powerful force opposing these commands in our needs and inclinations. We call the complete satisfaction of these needs and inclinations happiness. Now reason issues its commands without compromise and without promising our inclinations anything. Reason seems to disregard and look down on the demands of our needs and inclinations. Yet these demands are so forceful and, at the same time, so plausible that no command can suppress them. This conflict gives rise to a natural dialectic: a tendency to argue against these strict laws of duty. We question their validity, or at least their purity and strictness. And, if possible, we try to make these laws fit our wishes and inclinations more closely. In other words, we try to corrupt these laws at their very source and completely destroy their worth. Even ordinary practical reason cannot ultimately call such corruption good.

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

Thus ordinary human reason is forced beyond its own sphere and into practical philosophy. Reason takes this step not to satisfy any need for speculation. Such a need never arises as long as reason is content to remain simply sound reason. Rather, reason takes this step on practical grounds, to gain knowledge and clear guidance about the source of its principle. Reason also needs to determine that principle correctly, against maxims based on needs and inclinations. In this way, reason may escape the confusion of conflicting claims. Reason must also avoid the risk of losing all genuine moral principles through the ambiguity into which it easily falls. Thus, as practical reason develops, a dialectic, or conflict within reason, gradually arises without being noticed. This dialectic forces practical reason to seek help from philosophy, just as reason does in its theoretical use. In both cases, therefore, reason will find peace only through a thorough critical examination of reason itself.