First Supplement
CONCERNING THE GUARANTEE OF PERPETUAL PEACE
ON THE GUARANTEE OF LASTING PEACE
This guarantee is given by no less a power than the great artist nature (natura dædala rerum) in whose mechanical course is clearly exhibited a predetermined design to make harmony spring from human discord, even against the will of man. Now this design, although called Fate when looked upon as the compelling force of a cause, the laws of whose operation are unknown to us, is, when considered as the purpose manifested in the course of nature, called Providence, as the deep-lying wisdom of a Higher Cause, directing itself towards the ultimate practical end of the human race and predetermining the course of things with a view to its realisation. This Providence we do not, it is true, perceive in the cunning contrivances [Kunstanstalten] of nature; nor can we even conclude from the fact of their existence that it is there; but, as in every relation between the form of things and their final cause, we can, and must, supply the thought of a Higher Wisdom, in order that we may be able to form an idea of the possible existence of these products after the analogy of human works of art [Kunsthandlungen]. The representation to ourselves of the relation and agreement of these formations of nature to the moral purpose for which they were made and which reason directly prescribes to us, is an Idea, it is true, which is in theory superfluous; but in practice it is dogmatic, and its objective reality is well established. Thus we see, for example, with regard to the ideal [Pflichtbegriff] of perpetual peace, that it is our duty to make use of the mechanism of nature for the realisation of that end. Moreover, in a case like this where we are interested merely in the theory and not in the religious question, the use of the word “nature” is more appropriate than that of “providence”, in view of the limitations of human reason, which, in considering the relation of effects to their causes, must keep within the limits of possible experience. And the term “nature” is also less presumptuous than the other. To speak of a Providence knowable by us would be boldly to put on the wings of Icarus in order to draw near to the mystery of its unfathomable purpose.
This guarantee comes from no less a power than nature, the great artist (natura dædala rerum). Nature’s mechanical workings clearly reveal a predetermined plan to bring harmony out of human conflict, even against human will. This plan is called Fate when viewed as the compelling force of a cause whose laws are unknown to us. But when viewed as a purpose revealed in nature’s course, the plan is called Providence. Providence is the deep wisdom of a Higher Cause, directed toward humanity’s ultimate practical goal. It determines the course of events in advance to achieve that goal. Admittedly, we do not perceive this Providence in nature’s ingenious arrangements [Kunstanstalten]. Nor can we infer that Providence exists simply because these arrangements exist. But we can, and must, supply the idea of a Higher Wisdom. We must do so whenever we consider how the form of things relates to their ultimate purpose. Only then can we conceive how these natural products could exist, by analogy with human works of art [Kunsthandlungen]. Reason directly prescribes a moral purpose to us. We picture these natural formations as related to, and consistent with, the moral purpose for which they were made. This picture is an Idea that is, admittedly, unnecessary in theory. In practice, however, the Idea has definite authority, and its objective reality is firmly established. Thus, for example, consider the ideal of perpetual peace as a duty [Pflichtbegriff]. We see that we must use nature’s mechanisms to achieve that goal. Moreover, here we are concerned only with theory, not with religion. Given the limits of human reason, “nature” is therefore a more appropriate word than “providence”. When considering how effects relate to their causes, human reason must stay within the limits of possible experience. The term “nature” is also less presumptuous. To speak of a Providence we could know would be boldly to put on the wings of Icarus. We would be trying to approach the mystery of its unfathomable purpose.
Human beings, as creatures with senses, belong to nature’s mechanical system. Underlying this system’s existence, a certain form appears. We can understand this form only by imagining a purpose in the physical world, conceived beforehand by the universe’s Author. We generally call God’s advance ordering of nature Divine Providence. When providence appears in the universe’s origin, we call it the founder of the world (providentia conditrix; semel jussit, semper parent. Augustine). When providence maintains nature’s course through universal laws suited to preconceived purposes, we call it ruling providence (providentia gubernatrix). These are laws of purpose [i.e. teleological laws]. We call it guiding providence (providentia directrix) when it serves special purposes in the world. We could not foresee these purposes and can only suspect them from the results. Finally, when we regard particular events as divine purposes, we speak not of providence but of dispensation (directio extraordinaria). Yet “dispensation” really suggests miracles, even though the events are not called miracles. Trying to fathom dispensation as such is therefore foolish human presumption. A single event cannot justify concluding that a special principle of efficient causes is at work. Nor can it justify concluding that the event is itself a purpose. The event may instead be merely the natural [naturmechanische] consequence of a design entirely unknown to us. Such conclusions are absurd and presumptuous, however piously and humbly we express them.
Likewise, distinguishing universal from particular providence is false and contradictory when we consider providence materialiter, in relation to actual worldly objects. For example, we might say that providence preserves creation’s different species but leaves individuals to chance. Yet providence is called universal precisely because nothing can be thought excluded from its care. Probably, the distinction between two kinds of providence, considered formaliter or subjectively, concerned how its purposes are fulfilled. We thus have ordinary providence (e.g. nature’s yearly decline and return to life as the seasons change). We also have what we may call unusual or special providence. An example is timber carried by ocean currents to Arctic shores, where trees do not grow. Without this help, the inhabitants could not live. We can readily explain the physical and mechanical causes of these events. In this example, riverbanks in temperate countries are overgrown with trees. Some trees fall into the water and are carried along, probably by the Gulf Stream. But we must not overlook the teleological cause, which points to the providential care of a wisdom ruling above nature.
However, we must abandon a concept commonly used in philosophical schools: divine cooperation or concurrence (concursus) in the sensory world’s operations. First, this concept contradicts itself by joining things of different kinds (gryphes jungere equis). God is himself the entire cause of changes in the universe. Yet this concept makes God remedy shortcomings in his own advance providential ordering while the world runs its course. If that ordering needed such help, it would be defective. Consider saying that a physician cured a patient with God’s help, meaning that God was present as a supporting force. For causa solitaria non juvat. God created both the physician and the means of healing. If we trace the cure back to the supreme First Cause, we must attribute the result entirely to God. That First Cause lies beyond our theoretical understanding. Alternatively, we can attribute the result entirely to the physician. We do so when we explain the event through the chain of physical causes in nature’s order. Second, this view of divine cooperation destroys all fixed principles for judging an effect.
But from the standpoint of moral practice, which concerns only the transcendental side of things, divine concurrence is appropriate and even necessary. For example, we may have faith that God will make up for the shortcomings of our human justice. This faith depends on our feelings and intentions being sincere. God will do so through means beyond our understanding, and therefore we should not relax our efforts to do good. It naturally follows that no one should use this concursus to explain a good action merely as an event in time. Such an explanation would claim theoretical knowledge of what lies beyond sensory experience, and would therefore be absurd.
That is, which we cannot separate from the idea of a creative skill capable of producing them. [Tr.]
See the preface above, p. ix.
Before we determine the surety given by nature more exactly, we must first look at what ultimately makes this guarantee of peace necessary—the circumstances in which nature has carefully placed the actors in her great theatre. In the next place, we shall proceed to consider the manner in which she gives this surety.
Before defining nature’s guarantee more precisely, we must first examine what ultimately makes this guarantee of peace necessary. We must consider the circumstances in which nature has carefully placed the actors in her great theater. Then we will consider how nature provides this guarantee.
The provisions she has made are as follow: (1) she has taken care that men can live in all parts of the world; (2) she has scattered them by means of war in all directions, even into the most inhospitable regions, so that these too might be populated; (3) by this very means she has forced them to enter into relations more or less controlled by law. It is surely wonderful that, on the cold wastes round the Arctic Ocean, there is always to be found moss for the reindeer to scrape out from under the snow, the reindeer itself either serving as food or to draw the sledge of the Ostiak or Samoyedes. And salt deserts which would otherwise be left unutilised have the camel, which seems as if created for travelling in such lands. This evidence of design in things, however, is still more clear when we come to know that, besides the fur-clad animals of the shores of the Arctic Ocean, there are seals, walruses and whales whose flesh furnishes food and whose oil fire for the dwellers in these regions. But the providential care of nature excites our wonder above all, when we hear of the driftwood which is carried—whence no one knows—to these treeless shores: for without the aid of this material the natives could neither construct their craft, nor weapons, nor huts for shelter. Here too they have so much to do, making war against wild animals, that they live at peace with one another. But what drove them originally into these regions was probably nothing but war.
She has made the following provisions: (1) she has ensured that people can live in all parts of the world. (2) Through war, she has scattered them in all directions, even into the most inhospitable regions, so those regions too could be populated. (3) Through war itself, she has forced them into relationships governed more or less by law. It is surely remarkable that reindeer can always find moss to scrape from beneath the snow around the Arctic Ocean. The reindeer themselves provide food or pull the sledges of the Ostiak or Samoyedes. And salt deserts, which would otherwise go unused, have the camel, seemingly created for travel in such lands. This evidence of design in nature becomes still clearer when we consider the animals along the Arctic Ocean's shores. Besides animals with thick fur, there are seals, walruses, and whales. Their flesh provides food, and their oil provides fuel for the people living in these regions. But nature's care in providing for people inspires the greatest wonder when we hear about the driftwood reaching these treeless shores. No one knows where the wood comes from. Without it, the local people could build neither boats, weapons, nor huts for shelter. Here, too, they are so busy fighting wild animals that they live at peace with one another. But probably nothing other than war drove them into these regions in the first place.
Of animals, used by us as instruments of war, the horse was the first which man learned to tame and domesticate during the period of the peopling of the earth; the elephant belongs to the later period of the luxury of states already established. In the same way, the art of cultivating certain grasses called cereals—no longer known to us in their original form—and also the multiplication and improvement, by transplanting and grafting, of the original kinds of fruit—in Europe, probably only two species, the crab-apple and wild pear—could only originate under the conditions accompanying established states where the rights of property are assured. That is to say it would be after man, hitherto existing in lawless liberty, had advanced beyond the occupations of a hunter, a fisherman or a shepherd to the life of a tiller of the soil, when salt and iron were discovered,—to become, perhaps, the first articles of commerce between different peoples,—and were sought far and near. In this way the peoples would be at first brought into peaceful relation with one another, and so come to an understanding and the enjoyment of friendly intercourse, even with their most distant neighbours.
Of the animals we use in war, the horse was the first humans learned to tame and domesticate. This happened while humans were spreading across the earth. The elephant belongs to a later period, when established states had become luxurious. Similarly, cultivating certain grasses called cereals could only begin in established states where property rights were secure. We no longer know these grasses in their original form. The same conditions were needed to increase and improve the original kinds of fruit through transplanting and grafting. In Europe, these probably included only two species, the crab-apple and wild pear. In other words, these developments could begin only after humans had moved beyond their lawless freedom. They had to move from hunting, fishing, or herding to farming the soil. Salt and iron were discovered at this stage. Perhaps salt and iron became the first goods traded between different peoples, who sought them far and wide. Trade would thus first bring peoples into peaceful relations with one another. They would then reach an understanding and enjoy friendly contact even with their most distant neighbours.
Of all ways of making a living, hunting is undoubtedly the least compatible with a civilized society. This is because families living by hunting must isolate themselves from their neighbors. The families soon grow apart and spread out across widely scattered forests. Before long, the families become hostile toward one another, since each needs a large area to obtain food and clothing.
Now while nature provided that men could live on all parts of the earth, she also at the same time despotically willed that they should live everywhere on it, although against their own inclination and even although this imperative did not presuppose an idea of duty which would compel obedience to nature with the force of a moral law. But, to attain this end, she has chosen war. So we see certain peoples, widely separated, whose common descent is made evident by affinity in their languages. Thus, for instance, we find the Samoyedes on the Arctic Ocean, and again a people speaking a similar language on the Altai Mts., 200 miles [Meilen] off, between whom has pressed in a mounted tribe, warlike in character and of Mongolian origin, which has driven one branch of the race far from the other, into the most inhospitable regions where their own inclination would certainly not have carried them. In the same way, through the intrusion of the Gothic and Sarmatian tribes, the Finns in the most northerly regions of Europe, whom we call Laplanders, have been separated by as great a distance from the Hungarians, with whose language their own is allied. And what but war can have brought the Esquimos to the north of America, a race quite distinct from those of that country and probably European adventurers of prehistoric times? And war too, nature’s method of populating the earth, must have driven the Pescherais in South America as far as Patagonia. War itself, however, is in need of no special stimulating cause, but seems engrafted in human nature, and is even regarded as something noble in itself to which man is inspired by the love of glory apart from motives of self-interest. Hence, among the savages of America as well as those of Europe in the age of chivalry, martial courage is looked upon as of great value itself, not merely when a war is going on, as is reasonable enough, but in order that there should be war: and thus war is often entered upon merely to exhibit this quality. So that an intrinsic dignity is held to attach to war in itself, and even philosophers eulogise it as an ennobling, refining influence on humanity, unmindful of the Greek proverb, “War is evil, in so far as it makes more bad people than it takes away.”
Now nature made it possible for human beings to live in every part of the earth. At the same time, she dictated that they should live everywhere, even against their own wishes. Yet this command did not imply any duty to obey nature with the force of a moral law. To achieve this end, nature chose war. Thus we find certain peoples living far apart whose related languages reveal their common ancestry. For example, the Samoyedes live along the Arctic Ocean. A people speaking a similar language also lives in the Altai Mts., 200 miles [Meilen] away. A warlike mounted tribe of Mongolian origin has forced its way between these peoples. This tribe drove one branch far from the other, into the most inhospitable regions. The displaced people would certainly never have gone there by choice. Similarly, the intrusion of the Gothic and Sarmatian tribes separated the Finns of northernmost Europe from the Hungarians. These Finns, whom we call Laplanders, live just as far from the Hungarians, whose language is related to theirs. And what but war could have brought the Esquimos to northern America? They are a people quite distinct from the others in that country, and probably European adventurers from prehistoric times. War, nature’s method of populating the earth, must also have driven the Pescherais in South America as far as Patagonia. War itself, however, needs no special cause to stir it up, but seems rooted in human nature. War is even considered noble in itself, inspiring people through the love of glory, apart from self-interest. Thus, among the peoples called savages in America, as among Europeans in the age of chivalry, military courage is valued for itself. Such courage is valued not merely during war, when valuing it is reasonable enough, but so that war should occur. Wars are therefore often started simply to display this courage. War itself is thus thought to possess an inherent dignity. Even philosophers praise war as an influence that ennobles and refines humanity. They forget the Greek proverb, “War is evil, in so far as it makes more bad people than it takes away.”
About 1,000 English miles.
One might ask: “If nature intends these Arctic shores to remain inhabited, what will happen if driftwood stops reaching their inhabitants? For we should expect the supply to stop sooner or later. We may believe that, as civilization advances, people in temperate zones will make better use of wood along their rivers. They will not let the wood fall into the water and be swept away.” My answer is that people living along the River Obi, the Yenisei, and the Lena will supply wood through trade. In exchange, they will take animal products from the seas along the Arctic shores, where such products are so abundant. But this trade depends on nature first bringing peace among these peoples.
See Enc. Brit. (9th ed.), article “Indians”, which mentions “Fuegians, the Pescherais” of some writers. [Tr.]
So much, then, of what nature does for her own ends with regard to the human race as members of the animal world. Now comes the question which touches the essential points in this design of a perpetual peace:—“What does nature do in this respect with reference to the end which man’s own reason sets before him as a duty? and consequently what does she do to further the realisation of his moral purpose? How does she guarantee that what man, by the laws of freedom, ought to do and yet fails to do, he will do, without any infringement of his freedom by the compulsion of nature and that, moreover, this shall be done in accordance with the three forms of public right—constitutional or political law, international law and cosmopolitan law?” When I say of nature that she wills that this or that should take place, I do not mean that she imposes upon us the duty to do it—for only the free, unrestrained, practical reason can do that—but that she does it herself, whether we will or not. “Fata volentem ducunt, nolentem trahunt.”
So much, then, for what nature does for her own purposes with humans as members of the animal world. Now we come to the central question in this plan for perpetual peace: “What does nature do to advance the goal that human reason sets as a duty? And so, what does she do to help humans achieve their moral purpose? Under the laws of freedom, humans ought to act in certain ways, yet fail to do so. How does nature guarantee that they will act as they ought, without her compulsion violating their freedom? And how does she ensure that their actions follow the three forms of public right? These are constitutional or political law, international law, and cosmopolitan law?” When I say that nature wills something to happen, I do not mean that she makes it our duty. Only free, unrestricted practical reason can impose a duty. Rather, I mean that nature brings about the result herself, whether we want it or not. “Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling.”
1. Even if a people were not compelled through internal discord to submit to the restraint of public laws, war would bring this about, working from without. For, according to the contrivance of nature which we have mentioned, every people finds another tribe in its neighbourhood, pressing upon it in such a manner that it is compelled to form itself internally into a state to be able to defend itself as a power should. Now the republican constitution is the only one which is perfectly adapted to the rights of man, but it is also the most difficult to establish and still more to maintain. So generally is this recognised that people often say the members of a republican state would require to be angels, because men, with their self-seeking propensities, are not fit for a constitution of so sublime a form. But now nature comes to the aid of the universal, reason-derived will which, much as we honour it, is in practice powerless. And this she does, by means of these very self-seeking propensities, so that it only depends—and so much lies within the power of man—on a good organisation of the state for their forces to be so pitted against one another, that the one may check the destructive activity of the other or neutralise its effect. And hence, from the standpoint of reason, the result will be the same as if both forces did not exist, and each individual is compelled to be, if not a morally good man, yet at least a good citizen. The problem of the formation of the state, hard as it may sound, is not insoluble, even for a race of devils, granted that they have intelligence. It may be put thus:—“Given a multitude of rational beings who, in a body, require general laws for their own preservation, but each of whom, as an individual, is secretly inclined to exempt himself from this restraint: how are we to order their affairs and how establish for them a constitution such that, although their private dispositions may be really antagonistic, they may yet so act as a check upon one another, that, in their public relations, the effect is the same as if they had no such evil sentiments.” Such a problem must be capable of solution. For it deals, not with the moral reformation of mankind, but only with the mechanism of nature; and the problem is to learn how this mechanism of nature can be applied to men, in order so to regulate the antagonism of conflicting interests in a people that they may even compel one another to submit to compulsory laws and thus necessarily bring about the state of peace in which laws have force. We can see, in states actually existing, although very imperfectly organised, that, in externals, they already approximate very nearly to what the Idea of right prescribes, although the principle of morality is certainly not the cause. A good political constitution, however, is not to be expected as a result of progress in morality; but rather, conversely, the good moral condition of a nation is to be looked for, as one of the first fruits of such a constitution. Hence the mechanism of nature, working through the self-seeking propensities of man (which of course counteract one another in their external effects), may be used by reason as a means of making way for the realisation of her own purpose, the empire of right, and, as far as is in the power of the state, to promote and secure in this way internal as well as external peace. We may say, then, that it is the irresistible will of nature that right shall at last get the supremacy. What one here fails to do will be accomplished in the long run, although perhaps with much inconvenience to us. As Bouterwek says, “If you bend the reed too much it breaks: he who would do too much does nothing.”
1. Even if internal conflict did not force a people to accept the limits of public laws, war would. War would impose those limits from outside. For, under nature’s arrangement mentioned earlier, every people finds another tribe nearby, putting pressure on it. This pressure forces each people to organize itself internally as a state, so it can defend itself as a power should. Now a republican constitution is the only constitution perfectly suited to human rights. But it is also the hardest to establish and harder still to maintain. This difficulty is so widely recognized that people often say the citizens of a republic would need to be angels, because human beings, with their selfish tendencies, are unfit for such a lofty form of government. But nature now comes to the aid of the universal will derived from reason. Much as we honor this will, it is powerless in practice. Nature helps through those very selfish tendencies. All that is needed is a well-organized state, and creating one lies within human power. Such a state can set these selfish forces against one another. One force can then check another’s destructive activity or cancel its effects. From reason’s standpoint, the result will therefore be the same as if neither force existed. Each individual is compelled to be, if not a morally good person, at least a good citizen. The problem of forming a state, however difficult it may sound, can be solved even for a race of devils, provided they are intelligent. The problem can be stated as follows: “Suppose a group of rational beings collectively needs general laws for its own survival. Yet each individual is secretly inclined to exempt himself from these limits. How should we organize their affairs, and what constitution should we establish for them? Although their private attitudes may actually be hostile, they must still keep one another in check. In their public relations, the result must be the same as if they had no such evil attitudes.” This problem must have a solution. For the problem concerns not humanity’s moral reform, but only nature’s workings. We must learn how to apply these workings to human beings, so as to regulate a people’s conflicting interests. Through these conflicts, people may even force one another to submit to enforceable laws. They would thus necessarily establish a state of peace in which laws have authority. We can see this already in existing states, although their organization is very imperfect. In their outward conduct, these states already come very close to what the ideal of right requires. Yet moral principles are certainly not the cause. We should not, however, expect a good political constitution to result from moral progress. Rather, we should expect a nation’s good moral character to be among the first fruits of such a constitution. Nature works through human selfishness, whose outward effects of course counteract one another. Reason can therefore use nature’s workings to prepare the way for its own goal, the rule of right. In this way, reason can promote and secure both internal and external peace, as far as state power allows. We may say, then, that nature irresistibly wills that right should ultimately prevail. Whatever fails to happen here will be accomplished in the long run, though perhaps with much inconvenience to us. As Bouterwek says, “If you bend the reed too much it breaks: whoever tries to do too much does nothing.”
Rousseau uses these words when discussing democracy. (Cont. Soc., III. Ch. 4.) “If there were a nation of Gods, they might be governed by a democracy: but so perfect a government will not agree with men.”
2. The idea of international law presupposes the separate existence of a number of neighbouring and independent states; and, although such a condition of things is in itself already a state of war, (if a federative union of these nations does not prevent the outbreak of hostilities) yet, according to the Idea of reason, this is better than that all the states should be merged into one under a power which has gained the ascendency over its neighbours and gradually become a universal monarchy. For the wider the sphere of their jurisdiction, the more laws lose in force; and soulless despotism, when it has choked the seeds of good, at last sinks into anarchy. Nevertheless it is the desire of every state, or of its ruler, to attain to a permanent condition of peace in this very way; that is to say, by subjecting the whole world as far as possible to its sway. But nature wills it otherwise. She employs two means to separate nations, and prevent them from intermixing: namely, the differences of language and of religion. These differences bring with them a tendency to mutual hatred, and furnish pretexts for waging war. But, none the less, with the growth of culture and the gradual advance of men to greater unanimity of principle, they lead to concord in a state of peace which, unlike the despotism we have spoken of, (the churchyard of freedom) does not arise from the weakening of all forces, but is brought into being and secured through the equilibrium of these forces in their most active rivalry.
2. The idea of international law assumes that several neighboring, independent states exist separately. Although this arrangement is itself already a state of war, a federation of these nations can prevent hostilities from breaking out. Yet reason holds that this arrangement is better than merging all states under one power. Such a power would have gained dominance over its neighbors and gradually become a universal monarchy. For the wider a government's authority extends, the less force its laws have. And soulless despotism, after choking the seeds of good, finally collapses into anarchy. Nevertheless, every state, or its ruler, wants to achieve lasting peace in precisely this way. Each seeks to bring as much of the world as possible under its control. But nature wills otherwise. She uses two means to separate nations and prevent them from mixing: differences in language and religion. These differences encourage mutual hatred and provide excuses for war. Nevertheless, as culture develops and people gradually reach greater agreement on principles, these differences lead to harmony in peace. Unlike the despotism described above (the graveyard of freedom), this peace does not arise from weakening all forces. Instead, this peace is created and secured by a balance among these forces in their most active rivalry.
See the note above, p. 69, especially the reference to Theory of Ethics. [Tr.]
Differences in religion! A strange expression, as if we were speaking of different kinds of morality. There may indeed be different historical forms of belief. These are the various means used over time to promote religion. But such forms are merely subjects of scholarly study and do not really belong to religion itself. Likewise, there are many religious books, including the Zendavesta, Veda, Koran etc. But there is only one religion, binding on all people at all times. Each book is merely a voice for religion shaped by circumstances. These books may differ according to time and place.
3. As nature wisely separates nations which the will of each state, sanctioned even by the principles of international law, would gladly unite under its own sway by stratagem or force; in the same way, on the other hand, she unites nations whom the principle of a cosmopolitan right would not have secured against violence and war. And this union she brings about through an appeal to their mutual interests. The commercial spirit cannot co-exist with war, and sooner or later it takes possession of every nation. For, of all the forces which lie at the command of a state, the power of money is probably the most reliable. Hence states find themselves compelled—not, it is true, exactly from motives of morality—to further the noble end of peace and to avert war, by means of mediation, wherever it threatens to break out, just as if they had made a permanent league for this purpose. For great alliances with a view to war can, from the nature of things, only very rarely occur, and still more seldom succeed.
3. Nature wisely keeps nations separate, though each state would gladly bring other nations under its rule through deception or force. Even the principles of international law permit such attempts. Yet nature also unites nations that the principle of a cosmopolitan right would not have protected against violence and war. Nature brings about this union by appealing to their shared interests. The spirit of commerce cannot coexist with war, and sooner or later it takes hold of every nation. For money is probably the most reliable of all the powers a state can command. States therefore find themselves compelled to promote the noble goal of peace, though not exactly for moral reasons. They also find themselves compelled to prevent war through mediation wherever war threatens to break out. They act just as if they had formed a permanent alliance for this purpose. For, by their very nature, great alliances formed to wage war can arise only very rarely, and succeed even less often.
In this way nature guarantees the coming of perpetual peace, through the natural course of human propensities: not indeed with sufficient certainty to enable us to prophesy the future of this ideal theoretically, but yet clearly enough for practical purposes. And thus this guarantee of nature makes it a duty that we should labour for this end, an end which is no mere chimera.
In this way, nature guarantees lasting peace through the natural course of human tendencies. This guarantee is not certain enough for us to predict, in theory, that this ideal will become reality. But it is clear enough for practical purposes. Nature’s guarantee therefore makes it our duty to work toward lasting peace, a goal that is no mere fantasy.