The truth I have here laid down, that Compassion is the sole non-egoistic stimulus, and therefore the only really moral one, is a strange, indeed almost incomprehensible paradox. I shall hope, therefore, to render it less extraordinary to the reader, if I show that it is confirmed by experience, and by the universal testimony of human sentiment.
(1) For this purpose I shall, in the first place, state an imaginary case, which in the present investigation may serve as an experimentum crucis[1] (a crucial test). But not to make the matter too easy, I shall take no instance of loving-kindness, but rather a breach of lawful right, and that of the worse kind. Let us suppose two young people, Caius and Titus, to be passionately in love, each with a different girl, and that both are completely thwarted by two other men who are preferred because of certain external circumstances. They have both resolved to put their rivals out of the way, and are perfectly secure from every chance of detection, even from all suspicion. But when they come to actually prepare for the murder, each of them, after an inward struggle, draws back. They are now to give us a truthful and clear account of the reasons why they abandoned their project. As for Caius, I leave it entirely to the reader to choose what motive he likes. It may be that religions grounds checked him; for instance, the thought of the Divine Will, of future retribution, of the judgment to come, etc. Or perhaps he may say: "I reflected that the principle I was going to apply in this case would not be adapted to provide a rule universally valid for all possible rational beings; because I should have treated my rival only as a means, and not at the same time as an end." Or, following Fichte, he may deliver himself as follows: "Every human life is a means towards realising the moral law; consequently, I cannot, without being indifferent to this realisation, destroy a being ordained to do his part in effecting it."—(Sittenlehre, p. 373.) (This scruple, be it observed in passing, he might well overcome by the hope of soon producing a new instrument of the moral law, when once in possession of his beloved.) Or, again, he may speak after the fashion of Wollaston: "I considered that such an action would be the expression of a false tenet." Or like Hutcheson: "The Moral Sense, whose perceptions, equally with those of every other sense, admit of no final explanation, forbade me to commit such a deed." Or like Adam Smith: "I foresaw that my act would awaken no sympathy with me in the minds of the spectators." Or his language may be borrowed from Christian Wolff: "I recognised that I should thereby advance neither the work of making myself perfect, nor the same process in any one else." Or from Spinoza: "Homini nihil utilius homine: ergo hominem interimere nolui." (To man nothing is more useful than man: therefore I was unwilling to destroy a man.) In short, he may say what one pleases. But Titus, whose explanation is supplied by myself, will speak as follows: "When I came to make arrangements for the work, and so, for the moment, had to occupy myself not with my own passion, but with my rival; then for the first time I saw clearly what was going to happen to him. But simultaneously I was seized with compassion and pity; sorrow for him laid hold upon me, and overmastered me: I could not strike the blow." Now I ask every honest and unprejudiced reader: Which of these two is the better man? To which would he prefer to entrust his own destiny? Which is restrained by the purer motive? Consequently, where does the basis of morality lie?
(2) There is nothing that revolts our moral sense so much as cruelty. Every other offence we can pardon, but not cruelty. The reason is found in the fact that cruelty is the exact opposite of Compassion. When we hear of intensely cruel conduct, as, for instance, the act, which has just been recorded in the papers, of a mother, who murdered her little son of five years, by pouring boiling oil into his throat, and her younger child, by burying it alive; or what was recently reported from Algiers: how a casual dispute between a Spaniard and an Algerine ended in a fight; and how the latter, having vanquished the other, tore out the whole of his lower jaw bone, and carried it off as a trophy, leaving his adversary still alive;—when we hear of cruelty like this, we are seized with horror, and exclaim: "How is it possible to do such a thing?" Now, let me ask what this question signifies. Does it mean: "How is it possible to fear so little the punishments of the future life?" It is difficult to admit this interpretation. Then perhaps it intends to say: "How is it possible to act according to a principle which is so absolutely unfitted to become a general law for all rational beings?" Certainly not. Or, once more: "How is it possible to neglect so utterly one's own perfection as well as that of another?"' This is equally unimaginable. The sense of the question is assuredly nothing but this: "How is it possible to be so utterly bereft of compassion?" The conclusion is that when an action is characterised by an extraordinary absence of compassion, it bears the certain stamp of the deepest depravity and loathsomeness. Hence Compassion is the true moral incentive.
(3) The ethical basis, or the original moral stimulus, which I have disclosed, is the only one that can be justly said to have a real and extended sphere of effective influence. No one will surely venture to maintain as much of all the other moral principles that philosophers have set up; for these are composed of abstract, sometimes even of hair-splitting propositions, with no foundation other than an artificial combination of ideas; such that their application to actual conduct would often incline to the comic. A good action, inspired solely by Kant's Moral Principle, would be at bottom the work of philosophic pedantry; or else would lead the doer into self-deception, through his reason interpreting conduct, which had other, perhaps nobler, incentives, as the product of the Categorical Imperative, and of the conception of Duty, which, as we have seen, rests on nothing. But not only is it true that the philosophic moral principles, purely theoretical as they are, have seldom any operative power; of those established by religion, and expressly framed for practical purposes, it is equally difficult to predicate any marked efficiency. The chief evidence of this lies in the fact that in spite of the great religious differences in the world, the amount of morality, or rather of immorality, shows no corresponding variation, but in essentials is pretty much the same everywhere. Only it is important not to confound rudeness and refinement with morality and immorality. The religion of Hellas had an exceedingly small moral tendency,—it hardly went further than respect for oaths. No dogma was taught, and no system of Ethics publicly preached; nevertheless, all things considered, it does not appear that the Greeks were morally inferior to the men of the Christian era. The morality of Christianity is of a much higher kind than that of any other religion which previously appeared in Europe. But if any one should believe for this reason that European morals have improved proportionally, and that now at any rate they surpass what obtains elsewhere, it would not be difficult to demonstrate that among the Mohammedans, Gnebres, Hindus, and Buddhists, there is at least as much honesty, fidelity, toleration, gentleness, beneficence, nobleness, and self-denial as among Christian peoples. Indeed, the scale will be found rather to turn unfavourably for Christendom, when we put into the balance the long list of inhuman cruelties which have constantly been perpetrated within its limits and often in its name. We need only recall for a moment the numerous religious wars; the crusades that nothing can justify; the extirpation of a large part of the American aborigines, and the peopling of that continent by negroes, brought over from Africa, without the shadow of a right, torn from their families, their country, their hemisphere, and, as slaves, condemned for life to forced labour;[2] the tireless persecution of heretics; the unspeakable atrocities of the Inquisition, that cried aloud to heaven; the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; the execution of 18,000 persons in the Netherlands by the Duke of Alva; and these are but a few facts among many. Speaking generally, however, if we compare with the performances of its followers the excellent morality which Christianity, and, more or less, every creed preaches, and then try to imagine how far theory would become practice, if crime were not impeded by the secular arm of the state; nay more, what would probably happen, if, for only one day all laws should be suspended; we shall be obliged to confess that the effect of the various religions on Morals is in fact very small. This is of course due to weakness of faith. Theoretically, and so long as it is only a question of piety in the abstract, every one supposes his belief to be firm enough. Only the searching touch-stone of all our convictions is—what we do. When the moment for acting arrives, and our faith has to be tested by great self-denial and heavy sacrifices, then its feebleness becomes evident. If a man is seriously planning some evil, he has already broken the bounds of true and pure morality. Thenceforward the chief restraint that checks him is invariably the dread of justice and the police. Should he be so hopeful of escaping detection as to cast such fears aside, the next barrier that meets him is regard for his honour. If this second rampart be crossed, there is very little likelihood, after both these powerful hindrances are withdrawn, that any religious dogma will appeal to him strongly enough to keep him back from the deed. For if he be not frightened by near and immediate dangers, he will hardly be curbed by terrors which are distant, and rest merely on belief. Moreover, there is a positive objection that may be brought against all good conduct proceeding solely from religions conviction; it is not purged of self-interest, but done out of regard for reward and punishment, and hence can have no purely moral value. This view we find very clearly expressed in a letter of the celebrated Grand-Duke of Weimar, Karl August. He writes: "Baron Weyhers was himself of opinion that he, who is good through religion, and not by natural inclination, must be a bad fellow at heart. In vino veritas."[3] —(Letters to J. H. Merck; No. 229.) But now let us turn to the moral incentive which I have disclosed. Who ventures for a moment to deny that it displays a marked and truly wonderful influence at all times, among all peoples, in all circumstances of life; even when constitutional law is suspended, and the horrors of revolutions and wars fill the air; in small things and in great, every day and every hour? Who will refuse to admit that it is constantly preventing much wrong, and calling into existence many a good action, often quite unexpectedly, and where there is no hope of reward? Is there any one who will gainsay the fact that, where it and it alone has been operative, we all with deep respect and emotion unreservedly recognise the presence of genuine moral worth?
(4) Boundless compassion for all living beings is the surest and most certain guarantee of pure moral conduct, and needs no casuistry. Whoever is filled with it will assuredly injure no one, do harm to no one, encroach on no man's rights; he will rather have regard for every one, forgive every one, help every one as far as he can, and all his actions will bear the stamp of justice and loving-kindness. On the other hand, if we try to say: "This man is virtuous, but he is a stranger to Compassion"; or: "he is an unjust and malicious man, yet very compassionate;" the contradiction at once leaps to light. In former times the English plays used to finish with a petition for the King. The old Indian dramas close with these words: "May all living beings be delivered from pain." Tastes differ; but in my opinion there is no more beautiful prayer than this.
(5) Also from separate matters of detail it may be inferred that the original stimulus of true morality is Compassion. For instance, to make a man lose a hundred thalers, by legal tricks involving no danger, is equally unjust, whether he be rich or poor; but in the latter case the rapping of conscience is much louder, the censure of disinterested witnesses more emphatic. Aristotle was well aware of this, and said: δεινότερον δέ εστι τὸν ἀτυχοῡντα, ἢ τον ετὐχοῡντα, ἀδικεῑν. (It is worse to injure a man in adversity than one who is prosperous.)—(Probl. xxix. 2.) If the man have wealth, self-reproach is proportionally faint, and grows still fainter, if it be the treasury that has been overreached; for state coffers can form no object of Compassion. It thus appears that the grounds for self-accusation as well as for the spectators' blame are not furnished directly by the infringement of the law, but chiefly by the suffering thereby brought upon others. The violation of right, by itself and as such, which is involved in cheating the exchequer, (to take the above instance,) will be disapproved by the conscience alike of actor and witness; but only because, and in so far as, the rule of respecting every right, which forms the sine qua non of all honourable conduct, is in consequence broken. The stricture passed will, in fact, be indirect and limited. If, however, it be a confidential employé in the service that commits the fraud, the case assumes quite another aspect; it then has all the specific attributes of, and belongs to, that class of actions described above, whose characteristic is a double injustice. The analysis here given explains why the worst charge which can ever be brought against rapacious extortioners and legal sharpers is, that they appropriate for themselves the goods of widows and orphans. The reason appears in the fact that the latter, more than others, owing to their helplessness, might be expected to excite Compassion in the most callous heart. Hence we conclude that the entire absence of this sense is sufficient to lower a man to the last degree of villainy.
(6) Compassion is the root no less of justice than of loving-kindness; but it is more clearly evidenced in the latter than in the former. We never receive proofs of genuine loving-kindness on the part of others, so long as we are in all respects prosperous. The happy man may, no doubt, often hear the words of good-will on his relations' and friends' lips; but the expression of that pure, disinterested, objective participation in the condition and lot of others, which loving-kindness begets, is reserved for him who is stricken with some sorrow or suffering, whatever it be. For the fortunate as such we do not feel sympathy; unless they have some other claim on us, they remain alien to our hearts: habeant sibi sua. (They may keep their own affairs, pleasures, etc., to themselves.) Nay, if a man has many advantages over others, he will easily become an object of envy, which is ready, should he once fall from his height of prosperity, to turn into malignant joy. Nevertheless this menace is, for the most part, not fulfilled; the Sophoclean γελῶσι δ' ἐχθροί (his enemies laugh) does not generally become an actual fact. As soon as the day of ruin comes to one of fortune's spoiled children, there usually takes place a great transformation in the minds of his acquaintances, which for us in this connection is very instructive. In the first place this change clearly reveals the real nature of the interest that the friends of his happiness took in him: diffugiunt cadis cum faece siccatis amici. (When the casks are drained to the dregs, one's friends run away.)[4] On the other hand, the exultation of those who envied his prosperity, the mocking laugh of malicious satisfaction, which he feared more than adversity itself, and the contemplation of which he could not face, are things usually spared him. Jealousy is appeased, and disappears with its cause; while Compassion which takes its place is the parent of loving-kindness. Those who were envious of, and hostile to, a man in the full tide of success, after his downfall, have not seldom become his friends, ready to protect, comfort, and help. Who has not, at least in a small way, himself experienced something of the sort? Where is the man, who, when overtaken by some calamity, of whatever nature, has not noticed with surprise how the persons that previously had displayed the greatest coldness, nay, ill-will towards him, then came forward with unfeigned sympathy? For misfortune is the condition of Compassion, and Compassion the source of loving-kindness. When our wrath is kindled against a person, nothing quenches it so quickly, even when it is righteous, as the words: "He is an unfortunate man." And the reason is obvious: Compassion is to anger as water to fire. Therefore, whoever would fain have nothing to repent of, let him listen to my advice. When he is inflamed with rage, and meditates doing some one a grievous injury, he should bring the thing vividly before his mind, as a fait accompli; he should clearly picture to himself this other fellow-being tormented with mental or bodily pain, or struggling with need and misery; so that he is forced to exclaim: "This is my work!" Such thoughts as these, if anything, will avail to moderate his wrath. For Compassion is the true antidote of anger; and by practising on oneself this artifice of the imagination, one awakes beforehand, while there is yet time,
la pitié, dont la voix,
Alors qu'on est vengé, fait entendre ses lois.[5]
—(Voltaire, Sémiramis, V. 6.)
And in general, the hatred we may cherish for others is overcome by nothing so easily as by our taking a point of view whence they can appeal to our Compassion. The reason indeed why parents, as a rule, specially love the sickly one of their children is because the sight of it perpetually stirs their Compassion.