205
sides, its supposition here is wholly irregular and unjustifi-
able.
sides, its supposition here is wholly irregular and unjustifi-
able.
Fichte - Nature of the Scholar
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? 25G
THE VOCATION OP MAN.
course of action resulting from it is virtue. The triumph of
the former not in harmony with the latter is vice; such a
triumph over the latter, and despite its opposition, is crime,
i The power which, on each individual occasion, proves
triumphant, triumphs of necessity; its superiority is deter-
mined by the whole connexion of the universe; and hence
by the same connexion is the vice or crime of each indivi-
dual irrevocably determined. Give to Nature, once more,
the course of a muscle, the turn of a hair, in any particular
individual, and, had she the power of universal thought and
could answer thee, she would be able to declare all the good
and evil deeds of his life from the beginning to the end of
it . But still virtue does not cease to be virtue, nor vice to
be vice. The virtuous man is a noble product of nature;
the vicious, an ignoble and contemptible one:--although
both are necessary results of the connected system of the
universe
.
Repentance is the consciousness of the continued effort of
humanity within me, even after it has been overcome, asso-
ciated with the disagreeable sense of having been subdued;
a disquieting but still precious pledge of our nobler nature.
From this consciousness of the fundamental impulse of our
nature, arises the sense which has been called 'conscience,'
and its greater or less degree of strictness and susceptibility,
down to the absolute want of it in many individuals. The
ignoble man is incapable of repentance, for in him humanity
has at no time sufficient strength to contend with the lower
impulses. Reward and punishment are the natural conse-
)quences of virtue and vice for the production of new virtue
and new vice. By frequent and important victories, our
peculiar power is extended and strengthened; by inaction
or frequent defeat, it becomes ever weaker and weaker. The
ideas of guilt and accountability have no meaning but in
external legislation. He only has incurred guilt, and must
render an account of his crime, who compels society to em-
ploy artificial external force in order to restrain in him the
activity of those impulses which are injurious to the general
welfare.
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? BOOK L DOUBT.
257
My inquiry is closed, and my desire of knowledge satis-
fied. I know what I am, and wherein the nature of my
species consists. I am a manifestation, determined by the whole system of the universe, of a power of Nature which is determined by itself. To understand thoroughly my parti-
cular personal being in its deepest sources is impossible, for
I cannot penetrate into the innermost recesses of Nature.
But I am immediately conscious of this my personal existence. I know right well what I am at the present moment;
I can for the most part remember what I have been formerly;
and I shall learn what I shall be, when what is now future
shall become present experience.
I cannot indeed make use of this discovery in the regula-
tion of my actions, for I do not truly act at all, but Nature
acts in me; and to make myself anything else than that for
which Nature has intended me, is what I cannot even pro-
pose to myself, for I am not the author of my own being,
but Nature has made me myself, and all that I am. I may
repent, and rejoice, and form good resolutions;--although,
strictly speaking, I cannot even do this, for all these things
come to me of themselves, when it is appointed for them to
come;--but most certainly I cannot, by all my repentance,
and by all my resolutions, produce the smallest change in
that which I must once for all inevitably become. I stand
under the inexorable power of rigid Necessity:--should she
have destined me to become a fool and a profligate, a fool
and a profligate without doubt I shall become; should she
have destined me to be wise and good, wise and good I shall
doubtless be. There is neither blame nor merit to her nor
to me. She stands under her own laws, I under hers. I see
this, and feel that my tranquillity would be best ensured by
subjecting my wishes also to that Necessity to which my
being is wholly subject.
But, oh these opposing wishes! For why should J any long-
er hide from myself the sadness, the horror, the amazement
with which I was penetrated when I saw how my inquiry
La
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? 258
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
must end? I had solemnly promised myself that my in-
clinations should have no influence in the direction of my
thoughts; and I have not knowingly allowed them any such
influence. But may I not at last confess that this result con-
tradicts the profoundest aspirations, wishes, and wants of my
being. And, despite of the accuracy and the decisive strict-
ness of the proofs by which it seems to be supported, how
can I truly believe in a theory of my being which strikes at
the very root of that being, which so distinctly contradicts
all the purposes for which alone I live, and without which I
should loathe my existence 1
Why must my heart mourn at, and be lacerated by, that
which so perfectly satisfies my understanding? While
nothing in Nature contradicts itself, is man alone a contra-
diction? Or perhaps not man in general, but only me and
those who resemble me? Had I but been contented to re-
main amid the pleasant delusions that surrounded me, satis-
fied with the immediate consciousness of my existence, and
never raised those questions concerning its foundation, the
answer to which has caused me this misery! But if this
answer be true, then / must of necessity have raised these
questions: I indeed raised them not,--the thinking nature
within me raised them. I was destined to this misery, and
I weep in vain the lost innocence of soul which can never
return to me again.
But courage! Let all else be lost, so that this at least
remains! Merely for the sake of my wishes, did they lie
ever so deep or seem ever so sacred, I cannot renounce what
rests on incontrovertible evidence. But perhaps I may have
erred in my investigation;--perhaps I may have only par-
tially comprehended and imperfectly considered the grounds
upon which I had to proceed. I ought to retrace the in-
quiry again from the opposite end, in order that I may at
least possess a correct starting point. What is it, then, that I
find so repugnant, so painful, in the decision to which I have
come? What is it, which I desired to find in its place?
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
259
* Let me before 'all things make clear to myself what are
these inclinations to which I appeal.
That I should be destined to be wise and good, or foolish
and profligate, without power to change this destiny in
aught,--in the former case having no merit, and in the lat-
ter incurring no guilt,--this it was that filled me with
amazement and horror. The reference of my being, and of
all the determinations of my being, to a cause lying out of
myself,--the manifestations of which were again determined
by other causes out of itself,--this it was from which I so
violently recoiled. That freedom which was not my own,
but that of a foreign power without me, and even in that,
only a limited half-freedom,--this it was which did not
satisfy me. I myself,--that of which I am conscious as my own being and person, but which in this system appears
as only the manifestation of a higher existence,--this /' I"
would be independent,--would be something, not by an-
other or through another, but of myself,--and, as such,
would be the final root of all my own determinations. ! The
rank which in this system is assumed by an original power
of Nature I would myself assume; with this difference, that
the modes of my manifestations shall not be determined by
any foreign power. I desire to possess an inward and pecu-
liar power of manifestation, infinitely manifold like those
powers of Nature; and this power shall manifest itself in
the particular way in which it does manifest itself, for no
other reason than because it does so manifest itself; not, like
these powers of Nature, because it is placed under such or
such outward conditions.
What then, according to my wish, shall be the especial
seat and centre_of this peculiar inward power 1 Evidently
not my body, for that I willingly allow to pass for a mani-
festation of the powers of Nature,--at least so far as its con-
stitution is concerned, if not with regard to its farther de-
terminations; not my sensuous inclinations, for these I re-
gard as a relation of those powers to my consciousness.
Hence it jnnsthgj-iy thought, and wilL I would exercise
my voluntary power freely, for the accomplishment of aims
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? 200
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
which I shall have freely adopted; and this will, as its ulti- *mate ground which can be determined by no higher, shall
move and mould, first my own body, and through it the
surrounding world. My active powers shall be under the
control of my will alone, and shall be set in motion by
nothing else than by it. Thus it shall be. There shall be
a Supreme Good in the spiritual world; I shall have the
power to seek this with freedom until I find it, to acknow-
ledge it as such when found, and it shall be my fault if I do
not find it. This Supreme Good I shall will to know, mere-
ly because I will it; and if I will anything else instead of
it, the fault shall be mine. My actions shall be the result of
this will, and without it there shall absolutely no action of
mine ensue, since there shall be no other power over my
actions but this wilL Then shall my powers, determined by,
and subject to the dominion of, my will, invade the external
world. I will be the lord of Nature, and she shall be my ser-
vant. I will influence her according to the measure of my
capacity, but she shall have no influence on ma
This, then, is the substance of my wishes and aspirations.
But the system, which has satisfied my understanding, has
wholly repudiated these. According to the one, I am wholly
independent of Nature and of any law which I do not impose
upon myself; according to the other, I am but a strictly de-
termined link in the chain of Nature. Whether such a free-
dom as I have desired be at all conceivable, and, if so, whe-
ther there be not grounds which, on complete and thorough
investigation, may compel me to accept it as a reality and
to ascribe it to myself, and whereby the result of my former
conclusions might thus be refuted;--this is now the question.
To be free, in the sense stated, means that I myself will
make myself whatever I am to be. I must then,--and this
is what is most surprising, and, at first sight, absurd in the
idea,--I must already be, in a certain sense, that which I
shall become, in order to be able to become so; I must pos-
sess a two-fold being, of which the first shall contain the
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
2G1
fundamental determining principle of the second. If I inter-
rogate my immediate self-consciousness on this matter, I
find the following. I have the knowledge of various possible
courses of action, from amongst which, as it appears to me,
I may choose which I please. I run through the whole cir-
cle, enlarge it, examine the various courses, compare one
with another, and consider. I at length decide upon one, de-
termine my will in accordance with it, and this resolution of
my will is followed by a corresponding action. Here then,
certainly, I am beforehand, in the mere conception of a pur-
pose, what subsequently, by means of this conception I am
in will and in action, jl&m beforehand as a thinking, what
I am afterwards as an active, beingX I create myself:--my
being by my thought, my thougbfby thought itself. One
can conceive the determinate state of a manifestation of a
mere power of Nature, of a plant for instance, as preceded
by an indeterminate state, in which, if left to itself, it might
have assumed any one of an infinite variety of possible de-
terminations. These manifold possibilities are certainly pos-
sibilities within it, contained in its original constitution, but
they are not possibilities for it, because it is incapable of such
an idea, and cannot choose or of itself put an end to this
state of indecision: there must be external grounds by which
it may be determined to some one of those various possibili-
ties to which it is unable to determine itself. This determina-
tion can have no previous existence within it, for it is capable
of but one mode of determination, that which it has actually
assumed. Hence it was, thatft formerly felt myself com- \pelled to maintain that the manifestation of every power must
receive its final determination from without. Doubtless I
then thought only of such powers as are incapable of con-
sciousness, and manifest themselves merely in the outward
world. To them that assertion may be applied without the
slightest limitation;--but to intelligences the grounds of it
are not applicable, and it was, therefore, rash to extend it to
them.
Freedom, such as I have laid claim to, is conceivable only of intelligences; but to them, undoubtedly, it belongs. Un-
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? 2G2
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
der this supposition, man, as well as nature, is perfectly
comprehensible. My body, and my capacity of operating in
the world of sense, are, as in the former system, manifes-
tations of certain limited powers of Nature; and my natural
inclinations are the relations of these manifestations to my
I consciousness/) The mere knowledge of what exists indepen-
dently of me arises under this supposition of freedom, pre-
cisely as in the former system; and up to this point, both
agree. But according the former,--and here begins the
opposition between these systems,--according to the former,
my capacity of physical activity remains under the domin-
ion of Nature, and is constantly set in motion by the same
power which produced it, and thought has here nothing
whatever to do but to look on; according to the latter, this
capacity, once brought into existence, falls under the domin-
ion of a power superior to Nature and wholly independent
,/;>o? her laws,--the power of determinate purpose and of will.
SThought is no longer the mere faculty of observation;--it is
the source of action itself. In the one case, my state of in-
decision is put an end to by forces, external and invisible to
me, which limit my activity as well as my immediate con-
sciousness of it--that is, my will--to one point, just as the
indeterminate activity of the plant is limited;--in the other,
it is I myself, independent, and free from the influence of all
outward forces, who put an end to my state of indecision,
and determine my own course, according to the knowledge I
have freely attained of what is best.
Which of these two opinions shall I adopt? Am I free
and independent ? --or am I nothing in myself, and merely
the manifestation of a foreign power? It is clear to mc that
neither of the two doctrines is sufficiently supported. For
the first, there is no other recommendation than its mere
conceivableness; for the latter, I extend a principle, which is
perfectly true in its own place, beyond its proper and natural
application. If intelligence is merely the manifestation of a
power of Nature, then I do quite right to extend this prin-
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
2(53
ciple to it; but, whether it is so or not, is the very question
at issue; and this question I must solve by deduction from
other premises, not by a one-sided answer assumed at the
very commencement of the inquiry, from which I again de-
duce that only which I myself have previously placed in it.
In short, it would seem that neither of the two opinions can
be established by argument.
As little can this matter be determined by immediate
consciousness, jl can never become conscious either of the
external powers, by which, in the system of universal neces-
sity, I am determined; nor of my own power, by which, on
the system of freedom, I determine myself. Thus whichso-
ever of the two opinions I may accept, I still accept it, not
upon evidence, but merely by arbitrary choice.
The system of freedom satisfies my heart; the opposite
system destroys and annihilates it. To stand, cold and un-
moved, amid the current of events, a passive mirror of fugi-
tive and passing phenomena,--this existence is insupportable
to me; I scorn and detest it. I will love;--I will lose my-
self in sympathy;--I will know the joy and the grief of life.
I myself am the highest object of this sympathy; and the
only mode in which I can satisfy its requirements is by my
actions. I will do all for the best;--1 will rejoice when I
have done right, I will grieve when I have done wrong; and
even this sorrow shall be sweet to me, for it is a chord of
sympathy,--a pledge of future amendment. In love only
there is life;--without it is death and annihilation.
But coldly and insolently does the opposite system ad-
vance, and turn this love into a mockery. If I listen to it,
I am not, and I cannot act. The object of my most inti-
mate attachment is a phantom of the brain,--a gross and
palpable delusion. Not I, but a foreign and to me wholly
unknown power, acts in me; and it is a matter of indiffer-
ence to me how this power unfolds itself. I stand abashed,
with my warm affections and my virtuous will, and blush
for what I know to be best and purest in my nature, for the
sake of which alone I would exist, as for a ridiculous folly.
What is holiest in me is given over as a prey to scorn.
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? 2G4
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
Doubtless it was the love of this love, an interest in this
interest, that impelled me, unconsciously, before I entered
upon the inquiry which has thus perplexed and distracted
me, to regard myself, without farther question, as free and
independent; doubtless it was this interest which has led
me to carry out, even to conviction, an opinion which has
nothing in its favour but it>>-4atolligibility, apd the impossi-
bility_pf proving its opposite; it was this interest which has
hitherto restrained me from seeking any farther explanation
of myself and my capacities.
The opposite system, barren and heartless indeed, but ex-
haustless in its explanations, will explain even this desire
for freedom, and this aversion to the contrary doctrine. It
explains everything which I can cite from my own con-
sciousness against it, and as often as I say 'thus and thus is
the case,' it replies with the same cool complacency, "I say so
too; and I tell you besides why it must necessarily be so. "
"When thou speakest of thy heart, thy love, thy interest in
this and that," thus will it answer all my complaints, "thou
standest merely at the point of immediate self-consciousness
of thine own being, and this thou hast confessed already in
asserting that thou thyself art the object of thy highest in-
terest . Now it is already well known, and we have proved it
above, that this thou for whom thou art so deeply interested,
in so far as it is not the mere activity of thy individual in-
ward nature, is at least an impulse of it;--every such im-
pulse, as surely as it exists, returns on itself and impels itself
to activity;--and we can thus understand how this impulse
must manifest itself in consciousness, as love for, and inter-
est in, free individual activity. Couldst thou exchange this
narrow point of view in self-consciousness for the higher po-
sition in which thou mayest grasp the universe, which in-
deed thou hast promised thyself to take, then it would be-
come clear to thee that what thou hast named thy love is
not thy love, but a foreign love,--the interest which the ori-
ginal power of Nature manifesting itself in thee takes in
maintaining its own peculiar existence. Do not then appeal
again to thy love; for even if that could prove anything be-
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
205
sides, its supposition here is wholly irregular and unjustifi-
able. Thou lovest not thyself, for, strictly speaking, thou art
not; it is Nature in thee which concerns herself for her own
preservation. Thou hast admitted without dispute, that al-
though in the plant there exists a peculiar impulse to grow
and develope itself, the specific activity of this impulse yet
depends upon forces lying beyond itself. Bestow conscious-
ness upon the plant,--and it will regard this instinct of
growth with interest and love. Convince it by reasoning
that this instinct is unable of itself to accomplish anything
whatever, but that the measure of its manifestation is al-
ways determined by something out of itself,--and it will
speak precisely as thou hast spoken; it will behave in a
manner that may be pardoned in a plant, but which by no
means beseems thee, who art a higher product of Nature,
and capable of comprehending the universe. "
What can I answer to this representation? Should I ven-
ture to place myself at its point of view, upon this boasted
position from whence I may embrace the universe in my
comprehension, doubtless I must blush and be silent. This,
therefore, is the question,--whether I shall at once assume
this position, or confine myself to the range of immediate
self-consciousness; whether love shall be made subject to
knowledge, or knowledge to love. The latter stands in bad
esteem among intelligent people;--the former renders me
indescribably miserable, by extinguishing my own personal
being within me. I cannot do the latter without appearing
inconsiderate and foolish in my own estimation;--I cannot
do the former without deliberately annihilating my own ex-
istence. /
I cainot remain in this state of indecision; on the solu-
tion of this question depends my whole peace and dignity.
As impossible is it for me decide; I have absolutely no
ground of decision in favour of the one opinion or the other.
Intolerable state of uncertainty and irresolution! Through
the best and most courageous resolution of my life, I have
been reduced to this! What power can deliver me from it?
--what power can deliver me from myself?
Ma
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? 2G(J
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
BOOK II.
KNOWLEDGE.
Chagrin and anguish stung me to the heart. I cursed the
returning day which called me back to an existence whose
truth and significance were now involved in doubt. I awoke
in the night from unquiet dreams. I sought anxiously for
a ray of light that might lead me out of these mazes of un-
certainty. I sought, but became only more deeply entangled
in the labyrinth.
Once at the hour of midnight, a wondrous shape appeared
before me, and addressed me:--
"Poor mortal," I heard it say, "thou heapest error upon
error, and fanciest thyself wise. Thou tremblest before the
phantoms which thou hast thyself toiled to create. Dare to
become truly wise. I bring thee no new revelation. What
I can teach thee thou already knowest, and thou hast but to
recall it to thy remembrance. I cannot deceive thee; for
thou, thyself, wilt acknowledge me to be in the right; and
shouldst thou still be deceived, thou wilt be deceived by
thyself. Take courage;--listen to me, and answer my ques-
tions. "
I took courage. "He appeals to my own understanding.
I will make the venture. He cannot force his own thoughts
into my mind; the conclusion to which I shall come must
be thought out by myself; the conviction which I shall ac-
cept must be of my own creating. Speak, wonderful Spirit! "
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? BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE.
267
I exclaimed, "whatever thou art! Speak, and I will listen.
Question me, and I will answer. "
The Spirit. Thou believest that these objects here, and
those there, are actually present before thee and out of thy-
self?
I. Certainly I do.
Spirit. And how dost thou know that they are actually
present?
I. I see them; I would feel them were I to stretch forth
my hand; I can hear the sounds they produce; they reveal
themselves to me through all my senses.
Spirit. Indeed! Thou wilt perhaps by and by retract
the assertion that thou seest, feelest, and hearest these ob-
jects. For the present I will speak as thou dost, as if thou
didst really, by means of thy sight, touch, and hearing, per-
ceive the real existence of objects. But observe, it is only
by means of thy sight, touch, and other external senses. Or
is it not so? Dost thou perceive otherwise than through
thy senses? and has an object any existence for thee, other-
wise than as thou seest it, hearest it, &c. ?
I. By no means.
Spirit. Sensible objects, therefore, exist for thee, only in
consequence of a particular determination of thy external senses: thy knowledge of them is but a result of thy know-
ledge of this determination of thy sight, touch, &c. Thy
declaration--' there are objects out of myself,' depends upon
this other--' I see, hear, feel, and so forth'?
I. This is my meaning.
Spirit. And how dost thou know then that thou seest,
hearest, feelest?
I. I do not understand thee. Thy questions appear
strange to me.
Spirit. I will make them more intelligible. Dost thou
see thy sight, and feel thy touch, or hast thou yet a higher
sense, through which thou perceivest thy external senses
and their determinations?
I. By no means. I know immediately that I see and
feel, and what I see and feel; I know this while it is, and
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? 208
the vocation of man.
simply because it is, without the intervention of any other
sense. It was on this account that thy question seemed
strange to me, because it appeared to throw doubt on this
immediate consciousness.
Spirit. That was not my intention: I desired only to in-
duce thee to make this immediate consciousness clear to
thyself. So thou hast an immediate consciousness of thy
sight and touch?
I Yea.
Spirit. Of thy sight and touch, I said. Thou art, there-
fore, the subject seeing, feeling, &c. ; and when thou art con-
scious of the seeing, feeling, &c. , thou art conscious of a
particular determination or modification of thyself.
I. Unquestionably.
Spirit. Thou hast a consciousness of thy seeing, feeling,
&c. , and thereby thou perceivest the object. Couldst thou
not perceive it without this consciousness? Canst thou not
recognise an object by sight or hearing, without knowing
that thou seest or hearest?
I. By no means.
Spirit. The immediate consciousness of thyself, and of thy
own determinations, is therefore the imperative condition
of all other consciousness; and thou knowest a thing, only in
so far as thou knowest that thou knowest it: no element can enter into the latter cognition which is not contained in
the former. Thou canst not know anything without know-
ing that thou knowest it?
I. I think so.
Spirit. Therefore thou knowest of the existence of objects
only by means of seeing, feeling them, &c. ; and thou know-
est that thou seest and feelest, only by means of an imme-
diate consciousness of this knowledge. What thou dost not
perceive immediately, thou dost not perceive at all.
/. I see that it is so.
Spirit. In all perception, thou perceivest in the first place
only thyself and thine own condition; whatever is not con-
tained in this perception, is not perceived at all?
I. Thou repeatest what I have already admitted.
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? BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE.
2G0
Spirit. I would not weary of repeating it in all its appli-
cations, if I thought that thou hadst not thoroughly com-
prehended it, and indelibly impressed it on thy mind.
Canst thou say, I am conscious of external objects.
I. By no means, if I speak accurately; for the sight and
touch by which I grasp these objects are not consciousness
itself, but only that of which I am first and most immedi-
ately conscious. Strictly speaking, I can only say, that I am
conscious of my seeing and touching of these objects.
Spirit. Do not forget, then, what thou hast now clearly
understood. In all perception thou perceivest only thine own
condition.
I shall, however, continue to speak thy language, since it
is most familiar to thee. Thou hast said that thou canst see,
hear, and feel objects. How then,--that is, with what pro-
perties or attributes,--dost thou see or feel them?
I. I see that object red, this blue; when I touch them, I
find this smooth, that rough--this cold, that warm.
Spirit. Thou knowest then what red, blue, smooth, rough,
cold, and warm, really signify.
/. Undoubtedly I do.
Spirit. Wilt thou not describe it to me then?
I. It cannot be described. Look! Turn thine eye to-
wards that object:--what thou becomest conscious of
through thy sight, I call red. Touch the surface of this
other object:--what thou feelest, I call smooth. In this
way I have arrived at this knowledge, and there is no other
way by which it can be acquired
.
Spirit. But can we not, at least from some of these qua-
lities known by immediate sensation, deduce a knowledge
of others differing from them? If, for instance, any one
had seen red, green, yellow, but never a blue colour; had
tasted sour, sweet, salt, but never bitter,--would he not, by
mere reflection and comparison, be able to discover what
is meant by blue or bitter, without having ever seen or
tasted anything of the kind?
I. Certainly not. What is matter of sensation can only
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? 270
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
be felt, it is not discoverable by thought; it is no deduction,
but a direct and immediate perception.
Spirit. Strange! Thou boastest of a knowledge respect-
ing which thou art unable to tell how thou hast attained it.
For see, thou maintainest that thou canst see one quality in
an object, feel another, hear a third; thou must, therefore,
be able to distinguish sight from touch, and both from hear-
ing?
I. Without doubt.
Spirit. Thou maintainest further, that thou seest this ob-
ject red, that blue; and feelest this smooth, that rough.
Thou must therefore be able to distinguish red from blue,
smooth from rough 1
I Without doubt.
Spirit. And thou maintainest that thou hast not discov-
ered this difference by means of reflection and comparison
of these sensations in thyself. But perhaps thou hast learnt,
by comparing the red or blue colours, the smooth or rough
surfaces of objects out of thyself, what thou shouldst feel in
thyself as red or blue, smooth or rough?
I. This is impossible; for my perception of objects pro-
ceeds from my perception of my own internal condition, and
is determined by it, but not the contrary. I,first distinguish
objects by distinguishing my own states of being.
? 25G
THE VOCATION OP MAN.
course of action resulting from it is virtue. The triumph of
the former not in harmony with the latter is vice; such a
triumph over the latter, and despite its opposition, is crime,
i The power which, on each individual occasion, proves
triumphant, triumphs of necessity; its superiority is deter-
mined by the whole connexion of the universe; and hence
by the same connexion is the vice or crime of each indivi-
dual irrevocably determined. Give to Nature, once more,
the course of a muscle, the turn of a hair, in any particular
individual, and, had she the power of universal thought and
could answer thee, she would be able to declare all the good
and evil deeds of his life from the beginning to the end of
it . But still virtue does not cease to be virtue, nor vice to
be vice. The virtuous man is a noble product of nature;
the vicious, an ignoble and contemptible one:--although
both are necessary results of the connected system of the
universe
.
Repentance is the consciousness of the continued effort of
humanity within me, even after it has been overcome, asso-
ciated with the disagreeable sense of having been subdued;
a disquieting but still precious pledge of our nobler nature.
From this consciousness of the fundamental impulse of our
nature, arises the sense which has been called 'conscience,'
and its greater or less degree of strictness and susceptibility,
down to the absolute want of it in many individuals. The
ignoble man is incapable of repentance, for in him humanity
has at no time sufficient strength to contend with the lower
impulses. Reward and punishment are the natural conse-
)quences of virtue and vice for the production of new virtue
and new vice. By frequent and important victories, our
peculiar power is extended and strengthened; by inaction
or frequent defeat, it becomes ever weaker and weaker. The
ideas of guilt and accountability have no meaning but in
external legislation. He only has incurred guilt, and must
render an account of his crime, who compels society to em-
ploy artificial external force in order to restrain in him the
activity of those impulses which are injurious to the general
welfare.
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? BOOK L DOUBT.
257
My inquiry is closed, and my desire of knowledge satis-
fied. I know what I am, and wherein the nature of my
species consists. I am a manifestation, determined by the whole system of the universe, of a power of Nature which is determined by itself. To understand thoroughly my parti-
cular personal being in its deepest sources is impossible, for
I cannot penetrate into the innermost recesses of Nature.
But I am immediately conscious of this my personal existence. I know right well what I am at the present moment;
I can for the most part remember what I have been formerly;
and I shall learn what I shall be, when what is now future
shall become present experience.
I cannot indeed make use of this discovery in the regula-
tion of my actions, for I do not truly act at all, but Nature
acts in me; and to make myself anything else than that for
which Nature has intended me, is what I cannot even pro-
pose to myself, for I am not the author of my own being,
but Nature has made me myself, and all that I am. I may
repent, and rejoice, and form good resolutions;--although,
strictly speaking, I cannot even do this, for all these things
come to me of themselves, when it is appointed for them to
come;--but most certainly I cannot, by all my repentance,
and by all my resolutions, produce the smallest change in
that which I must once for all inevitably become. I stand
under the inexorable power of rigid Necessity:--should she
have destined me to become a fool and a profligate, a fool
and a profligate without doubt I shall become; should she
have destined me to be wise and good, wise and good I shall
doubtless be. There is neither blame nor merit to her nor
to me. She stands under her own laws, I under hers. I see
this, and feel that my tranquillity would be best ensured by
subjecting my wishes also to that Necessity to which my
being is wholly subject.
But, oh these opposing wishes! For why should J any long-
er hide from myself the sadness, the horror, the amazement
with which I was penetrated when I saw how my inquiry
La
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? 258
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
must end? I had solemnly promised myself that my in-
clinations should have no influence in the direction of my
thoughts; and I have not knowingly allowed them any such
influence. But may I not at last confess that this result con-
tradicts the profoundest aspirations, wishes, and wants of my
being. And, despite of the accuracy and the decisive strict-
ness of the proofs by which it seems to be supported, how
can I truly believe in a theory of my being which strikes at
the very root of that being, which so distinctly contradicts
all the purposes for which alone I live, and without which I
should loathe my existence 1
Why must my heart mourn at, and be lacerated by, that
which so perfectly satisfies my understanding? While
nothing in Nature contradicts itself, is man alone a contra-
diction? Or perhaps not man in general, but only me and
those who resemble me? Had I but been contented to re-
main amid the pleasant delusions that surrounded me, satis-
fied with the immediate consciousness of my existence, and
never raised those questions concerning its foundation, the
answer to which has caused me this misery! But if this
answer be true, then / must of necessity have raised these
questions: I indeed raised them not,--the thinking nature
within me raised them. I was destined to this misery, and
I weep in vain the lost innocence of soul which can never
return to me again.
But courage! Let all else be lost, so that this at least
remains! Merely for the sake of my wishes, did they lie
ever so deep or seem ever so sacred, I cannot renounce what
rests on incontrovertible evidence. But perhaps I may have
erred in my investigation;--perhaps I may have only par-
tially comprehended and imperfectly considered the grounds
upon which I had to proceed. I ought to retrace the in-
quiry again from the opposite end, in order that I may at
least possess a correct starting point. What is it, then, that I
find so repugnant, so painful, in the decision to which I have
come? What is it, which I desired to find in its place?
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
259
* Let me before 'all things make clear to myself what are
these inclinations to which I appeal.
That I should be destined to be wise and good, or foolish
and profligate, without power to change this destiny in
aught,--in the former case having no merit, and in the lat-
ter incurring no guilt,--this it was that filled me with
amazement and horror. The reference of my being, and of
all the determinations of my being, to a cause lying out of
myself,--the manifestations of which were again determined
by other causes out of itself,--this it was from which I so
violently recoiled. That freedom which was not my own,
but that of a foreign power without me, and even in that,
only a limited half-freedom,--this it was which did not
satisfy me. I myself,--that of which I am conscious as my own being and person, but which in this system appears
as only the manifestation of a higher existence,--this /' I"
would be independent,--would be something, not by an-
other or through another, but of myself,--and, as such,
would be the final root of all my own determinations. ! The
rank which in this system is assumed by an original power
of Nature I would myself assume; with this difference, that
the modes of my manifestations shall not be determined by
any foreign power. I desire to possess an inward and pecu-
liar power of manifestation, infinitely manifold like those
powers of Nature; and this power shall manifest itself in
the particular way in which it does manifest itself, for no
other reason than because it does so manifest itself; not, like
these powers of Nature, because it is placed under such or
such outward conditions.
What then, according to my wish, shall be the especial
seat and centre_of this peculiar inward power 1 Evidently
not my body, for that I willingly allow to pass for a mani-
festation of the powers of Nature,--at least so far as its con-
stitution is concerned, if not with regard to its farther de-
terminations; not my sensuous inclinations, for these I re-
gard as a relation of those powers to my consciousness.
Hence it jnnsthgj-iy thought, and wilL I would exercise
my voluntary power freely, for the accomplishment of aims
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? 200
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
which I shall have freely adopted; and this will, as its ulti- *mate ground which can be determined by no higher, shall
move and mould, first my own body, and through it the
surrounding world. My active powers shall be under the
control of my will alone, and shall be set in motion by
nothing else than by it. Thus it shall be. There shall be
a Supreme Good in the spiritual world; I shall have the
power to seek this with freedom until I find it, to acknow-
ledge it as such when found, and it shall be my fault if I do
not find it. This Supreme Good I shall will to know, mere-
ly because I will it; and if I will anything else instead of
it, the fault shall be mine. My actions shall be the result of
this will, and without it there shall absolutely no action of
mine ensue, since there shall be no other power over my
actions but this wilL Then shall my powers, determined by,
and subject to the dominion of, my will, invade the external
world. I will be the lord of Nature, and she shall be my ser-
vant. I will influence her according to the measure of my
capacity, but she shall have no influence on ma
This, then, is the substance of my wishes and aspirations.
But the system, which has satisfied my understanding, has
wholly repudiated these. According to the one, I am wholly
independent of Nature and of any law which I do not impose
upon myself; according to the other, I am but a strictly de-
termined link in the chain of Nature. Whether such a free-
dom as I have desired be at all conceivable, and, if so, whe-
ther there be not grounds which, on complete and thorough
investigation, may compel me to accept it as a reality and
to ascribe it to myself, and whereby the result of my former
conclusions might thus be refuted;--this is now the question.
To be free, in the sense stated, means that I myself will
make myself whatever I am to be. I must then,--and this
is what is most surprising, and, at first sight, absurd in the
idea,--I must already be, in a certain sense, that which I
shall become, in order to be able to become so; I must pos-
sess a two-fold being, of which the first shall contain the
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
2G1
fundamental determining principle of the second. If I inter-
rogate my immediate self-consciousness on this matter, I
find the following. I have the knowledge of various possible
courses of action, from amongst which, as it appears to me,
I may choose which I please. I run through the whole cir-
cle, enlarge it, examine the various courses, compare one
with another, and consider. I at length decide upon one, de-
termine my will in accordance with it, and this resolution of
my will is followed by a corresponding action. Here then,
certainly, I am beforehand, in the mere conception of a pur-
pose, what subsequently, by means of this conception I am
in will and in action, jl&m beforehand as a thinking, what
I am afterwards as an active, beingX I create myself:--my
being by my thought, my thougbfby thought itself. One
can conceive the determinate state of a manifestation of a
mere power of Nature, of a plant for instance, as preceded
by an indeterminate state, in which, if left to itself, it might
have assumed any one of an infinite variety of possible de-
terminations. These manifold possibilities are certainly pos-
sibilities within it, contained in its original constitution, but
they are not possibilities for it, because it is incapable of such
an idea, and cannot choose or of itself put an end to this
state of indecision: there must be external grounds by which
it may be determined to some one of those various possibili-
ties to which it is unable to determine itself. This determina-
tion can have no previous existence within it, for it is capable
of but one mode of determination, that which it has actually
assumed. Hence it was, thatft formerly felt myself com- \pelled to maintain that the manifestation of every power must
receive its final determination from without. Doubtless I
then thought only of such powers as are incapable of con-
sciousness, and manifest themselves merely in the outward
world. To them that assertion may be applied without the
slightest limitation;--but to intelligences the grounds of it
are not applicable, and it was, therefore, rash to extend it to
them.
Freedom, such as I have laid claim to, is conceivable only of intelligences; but to them, undoubtedly, it belongs. Un-
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? 2G2
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
der this supposition, man, as well as nature, is perfectly
comprehensible. My body, and my capacity of operating in
the world of sense, are, as in the former system, manifes-
tations of certain limited powers of Nature; and my natural
inclinations are the relations of these manifestations to my
I consciousness/) The mere knowledge of what exists indepen-
dently of me arises under this supposition of freedom, pre-
cisely as in the former system; and up to this point, both
agree. But according the former,--and here begins the
opposition between these systems,--according to the former,
my capacity of physical activity remains under the domin-
ion of Nature, and is constantly set in motion by the same
power which produced it, and thought has here nothing
whatever to do but to look on; according to the latter, this
capacity, once brought into existence, falls under the domin-
ion of a power superior to Nature and wholly independent
,/;>o? her laws,--the power of determinate purpose and of will.
SThought is no longer the mere faculty of observation;--it is
the source of action itself. In the one case, my state of in-
decision is put an end to by forces, external and invisible to
me, which limit my activity as well as my immediate con-
sciousness of it--that is, my will--to one point, just as the
indeterminate activity of the plant is limited;--in the other,
it is I myself, independent, and free from the influence of all
outward forces, who put an end to my state of indecision,
and determine my own course, according to the knowledge I
have freely attained of what is best.
Which of these two opinions shall I adopt? Am I free
and independent ? --or am I nothing in myself, and merely
the manifestation of a foreign power? It is clear to mc that
neither of the two doctrines is sufficiently supported. For
the first, there is no other recommendation than its mere
conceivableness; for the latter, I extend a principle, which is
perfectly true in its own place, beyond its proper and natural
application. If intelligence is merely the manifestation of a
power of Nature, then I do quite right to extend this prin-
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
2(53
ciple to it; but, whether it is so or not, is the very question
at issue; and this question I must solve by deduction from
other premises, not by a one-sided answer assumed at the
very commencement of the inquiry, from which I again de-
duce that only which I myself have previously placed in it.
In short, it would seem that neither of the two opinions can
be established by argument.
As little can this matter be determined by immediate
consciousness, jl can never become conscious either of the
external powers, by which, in the system of universal neces-
sity, I am determined; nor of my own power, by which, on
the system of freedom, I determine myself. Thus whichso-
ever of the two opinions I may accept, I still accept it, not
upon evidence, but merely by arbitrary choice.
The system of freedom satisfies my heart; the opposite
system destroys and annihilates it. To stand, cold and un-
moved, amid the current of events, a passive mirror of fugi-
tive and passing phenomena,--this existence is insupportable
to me; I scorn and detest it. I will love;--I will lose my-
self in sympathy;--I will know the joy and the grief of life.
I myself am the highest object of this sympathy; and the
only mode in which I can satisfy its requirements is by my
actions. I will do all for the best;--1 will rejoice when I
have done right, I will grieve when I have done wrong; and
even this sorrow shall be sweet to me, for it is a chord of
sympathy,--a pledge of future amendment. In love only
there is life;--without it is death and annihilation.
But coldly and insolently does the opposite system ad-
vance, and turn this love into a mockery. If I listen to it,
I am not, and I cannot act. The object of my most inti-
mate attachment is a phantom of the brain,--a gross and
palpable delusion. Not I, but a foreign and to me wholly
unknown power, acts in me; and it is a matter of indiffer-
ence to me how this power unfolds itself. I stand abashed,
with my warm affections and my virtuous will, and blush
for what I know to be best and purest in my nature, for the
sake of which alone I would exist, as for a ridiculous folly.
What is holiest in me is given over as a prey to scorn.
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? 2G4
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
Doubtless it was the love of this love, an interest in this
interest, that impelled me, unconsciously, before I entered
upon the inquiry which has thus perplexed and distracted
me, to regard myself, without farther question, as free and
independent; doubtless it was this interest which has led
me to carry out, even to conviction, an opinion which has
nothing in its favour but it>>-4atolligibility, apd the impossi-
bility_pf proving its opposite; it was this interest which has
hitherto restrained me from seeking any farther explanation
of myself and my capacities.
The opposite system, barren and heartless indeed, but ex-
haustless in its explanations, will explain even this desire
for freedom, and this aversion to the contrary doctrine. It
explains everything which I can cite from my own con-
sciousness against it, and as often as I say 'thus and thus is
the case,' it replies with the same cool complacency, "I say so
too; and I tell you besides why it must necessarily be so. "
"When thou speakest of thy heart, thy love, thy interest in
this and that," thus will it answer all my complaints, "thou
standest merely at the point of immediate self-consciousness
of thine own being, and this thou hast confessed already in
asserting that thou thyself art the object of thy highest in-
terest . Now it is already well known, and we have proved it
above, that this thou for whom thou art so deeply interested,
in so far as it is not the mere activity of thy individual in-
ward nature, is at least an impulse of it;--every such im-
pulse, as surely as it exists, returns on itself and impels itself
to activity;--and we can thus understand how this impulse
must manifest itself in consciousness, as love for, and inter-
est in, free individual activity. Couldst thou exchange this
narrow point of view in self-consciousness for the higher po-
sition in which thou mayest grasp the universe, which in-
deed thou hast promised thyself to take, then it would be-
come clear to thee that what thou hast named thy love is
not thy love, but a foreign love,--the interest which the ori-
ginal power of Nature manifesting itself in thee takes in
maintaining its own peculiar existence. Do not then appeal
again to thy love; for even if that could prove anything be-
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
205
sides, its supposition here is wholly irregular and unjustifi-
able. Thou lovest not thyself, for, strictly speaking, thou art
not; it is Nature in thee which concerns herself for her own
preservation. Thou hast admitted without dispute, that al-
though in the plant there exists a peculiar impulse to grow
and develope itself, the specific activity of this impulse yet
depends upon forces lying beyond itself. Bestow conscious-
ness upon the plant,--and it will regard this instinct of
growth with interest and love. Convince it by reasoning
that this instinct is unable of itself to accomplish anything
whatever, but that the measure of its manifestation is al-
ways determined by something out of itself,--and it will
speak precisely as thou hast spoken; it will behave in a
manner that may be pardoned in a plant, but which by no
means beseems thee, who art a higher product of Nature,
and capable of comprehending the universe. "
What can I answer to this representation? Should I ven-
ture to place myself at its point of view, upon this boasted
position from whence I may embrace the universe in my
comprehension, doubtless I must blush and be silent. This,
therefore, is the question,--whether I shall at once assume
this position, or confine myself to the range of immediate
self-consciousness; whether love shall be made subject to
knowledge, or knowledge to love. The latter stands in bad
esteem among intelligent people;--the former renders me
indescribably miserable, by extinguishing my own personal
being within me. I cannot do the latter without appearing
inconsiderate and foolish in my own estimation;--I cannot
do the former without deliberately annihilating my own ex-
istence. /
I cainot remain in this state of indecision; on the solu-
tion of this question depends my whole peace and dignity.
As impossible is it for me decide; I have absolutely no
ground of decision in favour of the one opinion or the other.
Intolerable state of uncertainty and irresolution! Through
the best and most courageous resolution of my life, I have
been reduced to this! What power can deliver me from it?
--what power can deliver me from myself?
Ma
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? 2G(J
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
BOOK II.
KNOWLEDGE.
Chagrin and anguish stung me to the heart. I cursed the
returning day which called me back to an existence whose
truth and significance were now involved in doubt. I awoke
in the night from unquiet dreams. I sought anxiously for
a ray of light that might lead me out of these mazes of un-
certainty. I sought, but became only more deeply entangled
in the labyrinth.
Once at the hour of midnight, a wondrous shape appeared
before me, and addressed me:--
"Poor mortal," I heard it say, "thou heapest error upon
error, and fanciest thyself wise. Thou tremblest before the
phantoms which thou hast thyself toiled to create. Dare to
become truly wise. I bring thee no new revelation. What
I can teach thee thou already knowest, and thou hast but to
recall it to thy remembrance. I cannot deceive thee; for
thou, thyself, wilt acknowledge me to be in the right; and
shouldst thou still be deceived, thou wilt be deceived by
thyself. Take courage;--listen to me, and answer my ques-
tions. "
I took courage. "He appeals to my own understanding.
I will make the venture. He cannot force his own thoughts
into my mind; the conclusion to which I shall come must
be thought out by myself; the conviction which I shall ac-
cept must be of my own creating. Speak, wonderful Spirit! "
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? BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE.
267
I exclaimed, "whatever thou art! Speak, and I will listen.
Question me, and I will answer. "
The Spirit. Thou believest that these objects here, and
those there, are actually present before thee and out of thy-
self?
I. Certainly I do.
Spirit. And how dost thou know that they are actually
present?
I. I see them; I would feel them were I to stretch forth
my hand; I can hear the sounds they produce; they reveal
themselves to me through all my senses.
Spirit. Indeed! Thou wilt perhaps by and by retract
the assertion that thou seest, feelest, and hearest these ob-
jects. For the present I will speak as thou dost, as if thou
didst really, by means of thy sight, touch, and hearing, per-
ceive the real existence of objects. But observe, it is only
by means of thy sight, touch, and other external senses. Or
is it not so? Dost thou perceive otherwise than through
thy senses? and has an object any existence for thee, other-
wise than as thou seest it, hearest it, &c. ?
I. By no means.
Spirit. Sensible objects, therefore, exist for thee, only in
consequence of a particular determination of thy external senses: thy knowledge of them is but a result of thy know-
ledge of this determination of thy sight, touch, &c. Thy
declaration--' there are objects out of myself,' depends upon
this other--' I see, hear, feel, and so forth'?
I. This is my meaning.
Spirit. And how dost thou know then that thou seest,
hearest, feelest?
I. I do not understand thee. Thy questions appear
strange to me.
Spirit. I will make them more intelligible. Dost thou
see thy sight, and feel thy touch, or hast thou yet a higher
sense, through which thou perceivest thy external senses
and their determinations?
I. By no means. I know immediately that I see and
feel, and what I see and feel; I know this while it is, and
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? 208
the vocation of man.
simply because it is, without the intervention of any other
sense. It was on this account that thy question seemed
strange to me, because it appeared to throw doubt on this
immediate consciousness.
Spirit. That was not my intention: I desired only to in-
duce thee to make this immediate consciousness clear to
thyself. So thou hast an immediate consciousness of thy
sight and touch?
I Yea.
Spirit. Of thy sight and touch, I said. Thou art, there-
fore, the subject seeing, feeling, &c. ; and when thou art con-
scious of the seeing, feeling, &c. , thou art conscious of a
particular determination or modification of thyself.
I. Unquestionably.
Spirit. Thou hast a consciousness of thy seeing, feeling,
&c. , and thereby thou perceivest the object. Couldst thou
not perceive it without this consciousness? Canst thou not
recognise an object by sight or hearing, without knowing
that thou seest or hearest?
I. By no means.
Spirit. The immediate consciousness of thyself, and of thy
own determinations, is therefore the imperative condition
of all other consciousness; and thou knowest a thing, only in
so far as thou knowest that thou knowest it: no element can enter into the latter cognition which is not contained in
the former. Thou canst not know anything without know-
ing that thou knowest it?
I. I think so.
Spirit. Therefore thou knowest of the existence of objects
only by means of seeing, feeling them, &c. ; and thou know-
est that thou seest and feelest, only by means of an imme-
diate consciousness of this knowledge. What thou dost not
perceive immediately, thou dost not perceive at all.
/. I see that it is so.
Spirit. In all perception, thou perceivest in the first place
only thyself and thine own condition; whatever is not con-
tained in this perception, is not perceived at all?
I. Thou repeatest what I have already admitted.
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? BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE.
2G0
Spirit. I would not weary of repeating it in all its appli-
cations, if I thought that thou hadst not thoroughly com-
prehended it, and indelibly impressed it on thy mind.
Canst thou say, I am conscious of external objects.
I. By no means, if I speak accurately; for the sight and
touch by which I grasp these objects are not consciousness
itself, but only that of which I am first and most immedi-
ately conscious. Strictly speaking, I can only say, that I am
conscious of my seeing and touching of these objects.
Spirit. Do not forget, then, what thou hast now clearly
understood. In all perception thou perceivest only thine own
condition.
I shall, however, continue to speak thy language, since it
is most familiar to thee. Thou hast said that thou canst see,
hear, and feel objects. How then,--that is, with what pro-
perties or attributes,--dost thou see or feel them?
I. I see that object red, this blue; when I touch them, I
find this smooth, that rough--this cold, that warm.
Spirit. Thou knowest then what red, blue, smooth, rough,
cold, and warm, really signify.
/. Undoubtedly I do.
Spirit. Wilt thou not describe it to me then?
I. It cannot be described. Look! Turn thine eye to-
wards that object:--what thou becomest conscious of
through thy sight, I call red. Touch the surface of this
other object:--what thou feelest, I call smooth. In this
way I have arrived at this knowledge, and there is no other
way by which it can be acquired
.
Spirit. But can we not, at least from some of these qua-
lities known by immediate sensation, deduce a knowledge
of others differing from them? If, for instance, any one
had seen red, green, yellow, but never a blue colour; had
tasted sour, sweet, salt, but never bitter,--would he not, by
mere reflection and comparison, be able to discover what
is meant by blue or bitter, without having ever seen or
tasted anything of the kind?
I. Certainly not. What is matter of sensation can only
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? 270
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
be felt, it is not discoverable by thought; it is no deduction,
but a direct and immediate perception.
Spirit. Strange! Thou boastest of a knowledge respect-
ing which thou art unable to tell how thou hast attained it.
For see, thou maintainest that thou canst see one quality in
an object, feel another, hear a third; thou must, therefore,
be able to distinguish sight from touch, and both from hear-
ing?
I. Without doubt.
Spirit. Thou maintainest further, that thou seest this ob-
ject red, that blue; and feelest this smooth, that rough.
Thou must therefore be able to distinguish red from blue,
smooth from rough 1
I Without doubt.
Spirit. And thou maintainest that thou hast not discov-
ered this difference by means of reflection and comparison
of these sensations in thyself. But perhaps thou hast learnt,
by comparing the red or blue colours, the smooth or rough
surfaces of objects out of thyself, what thou shouldst feel in
thyself as red or blue, smooth or rough?
I. This is impossible; for my perception of objects pro-
ceeds from my perception of my own internal condition, and
is determined by it, but not the contrary. I,first distinguish
objects by distinguishing my own states of being.
