A History of Western Philosophy

by Bertrand Russell

  In regard to time this difficulty is even greater, because of the intrusion of causality. I perceive the lightning before I perceive the thunder; a thing-in-itself A caused my perception of lightning, and another thing-in-itself B caused my perception of thunder, but A was not earlier than B, since time exists only in the relations of percepts. Why, then, do the two timeless things A and B produce effects at different times? This must be wholly arbitrary if Kant is right, and there must be no relation betwen A and B corresponding to the fact that the percept caused by A is earlier than that caused by B.

  The second metaphysical argument maintains that it is possible to imagine nothing in space, but impossible to imagine no space. It seems to me that no serious argument can be based upon what we can or cannot imagine; but I should emphatically deny that we can imagine space with nothing in it. You can imagine looking at the sky on a dark cloudy night, but then you yourself are in space, and you imagine the clouds that you cannot see. Kant’s space is absolute, like Newton’s, and not merely a system of relations. But I do not see how absolute empty space can be imagined.

  The third metaphysical argument says: “Space is not a discursive, or, as is said, general concept of the relations of things in general, but a pure intuition. For, in the first place, we can only imagine [sich vorstellen] one single space, and if we speak of ‘spaces’ we mean only parts of one and the same unique space. And these parts cannot precede the whole as its parts … but can only be thought as in it. It [space] is essentially unique, the manifold in it rests solely on limitations.” From this it is concluded that space is an a priori intuition.

  The gist of this argument is the denial of plurality in space itself. What we call “spaces” are neither instances of a general concept “a space,” nor parts of an aggregate. I do not know quite what, according to Kant, their logical status is, but in any case they are logically subsequent to space. To those who take, as practically all moderns do, a relational view of space, this argument becomes incapable of being stated, since neither “space” nor “spaces” can survive as a substantive.

  The fourth metaphysical argument is chiefly concerned to prove that space is an intuition, not a concept. Its premiss is “space is imagined [or presented, vorgestellt] as an infinite given magnitude.” This is the view of a person living in a flat country, like that of Königsberg; I do not see how an inhabitant of an Alpine valley could adopt it. It is difficult to see how anything infinite can be “given.” I should have thought it obvious that the part of space that is given is that which is peopled by objects of perception, and that for other parts we have only a feeling of possibility of motion. And if so vulgar an argument may be intruded, modern astronomers maintain that space is in fact not infinite, but goes round and round, like the surface of the globe.

  The transcendental (or epistemological) argument, which is best stated in the Prolegomena, is more definite than the metaphysical arguments, and is also more definitely refutable. “Geometry,” as we now know, is a name covering two different studies. On the one hand, there is pure geometry, which deduces consequences from axioms, without inquiring whether the axioms are “true”; this contains nothing that does not follow from logic, and is not “synthetic,” and has no need of figures such as are used in geometrical text-books. On the other hand, there is geometry as a branch of physics, as it appears, for example, in the general theory of relativity; this is an empirical science, in which the axioms are inferred from measurements, and are found to differ from Euclid’s. Thus of the two kinds of geometry one is a priori but not synthetic, while the other is synthetic but not a priori. This disposes of the transcendental argument.

  Let us now try to consider the questions raised by Kant as regards space in a more general way. If we adopt the view, which is taken for granted in physics, that our percepts have external causes which are (in some sense) material, we are led to the conclusion that all the actual qualities in percepts are different from those in their unperceived causes, but that there is a certain structural similarity between the system of percepts and the system of their causes. There is, for example, a correlation between colours (as perceived) and wavelengths (as inferred by physicists). Similarly there must be a correlation between space as an ingredient in percepts and space as an ingredient in the system of unperceived causes of percepts. All this rests upon the maxim “same cause, same effect,” with its obverse, “different effects, different causes.” Thus, e.g., when a visual percept A appears to the left of a visual percept B, we shall suppose that there is some corresponding relation between the cause of A and the cause of B.

  We have, on this view, two spaces, one subjective and one objective, one known in experience and the other merely inferred. But there is no difference in this respect between space and other aspects of perception, such as colours and sounds. All alike, in their subjective forms, are known empirically; all alike, in their objective forms, are inferred by means of a maxim as to causation. There is no reason whatever for regarding our knowledge of space as in any way different from our knowledge of colour and sound and smell.

  With regard to time, the matter is different, since, if we adhere to the belief in unperceived causes of percepts, the objective time must be identical with the subjective time. If not, we get into the difficulties already considered in connection with lightning and thunder. Or take such a case as the following: You hear a man speak, you answer him, and he hears you. His speaking, and his hearing of your reply, are both, so far as you are concerned, in the unperceived world; and in that world the former precedes the latter. Moreover his speaking precedes your hearing in the objective world of physics; your hearing precedes your reply in the subjective world of percepts; and your reply precedes his hearing in the objective world of physics. It is clear that the relation “precedes” must be the same in all these propositions. While, therefore, there is an important sense in which perceptual space is subjective, there is no sense in which perceptual time is subjective.

  The above arguments assume, as Kant does, that percepts are caused by “things in themselves,” or, as we should say, by events in the world of physics. This assumption, however, is by no means logically necessary. If it is abandoned, percepts cease to be in any important sense “subjective,” since there is nothing with which to contrast them.

  The “thing-in-itself” was an awkward element in Kant’s philosophy, and was abandoned by his immediate successors, who accordingly fell into something very like solipsism. Kant’s inconsistencies were such as to make it inevitable that philosophers who were influenced by him should develop rapidly either in the empirical or in the absolutist direction; it was, in fact, in the latter direction that German philosophy moved until after the death of Hegel.

  Kant’s immediate successor, Fichte (1762-1814), abandoned “things in themselves,” and carried subjectivism to a point which seems almost to involve a kind of insanity. He holds that the Ego is the only ultimate reality, and that it exists because it posits itself; the non-Ego, which has a subordinate reality, also exists only because the Ego posits it. Fichte is not important as a pure philosopher, but as the theoretical founder of German nationalism, by his Addresses to the German Nation ( 1807-8), which were intended to rouse the Germans to resistance to Napoleon after the battle of Jena. The Ego as a metaphysical concept easily became confused with the empirical Fichte; since the Ego was German, it followed that the Germans were superior to all other nations. “To have character and to be a German,” says Fichte, “undoubtedly mean the same thing.” On this basis he worked out a whole philosophy of nationalistic totalitarianism, which had great influence in Germany.

  His immediate successor Schelling (1775-1854) was more amiable, but not less subjective. He was closely associated with the German romantics; philosophically, though famous in his day, he is not important. The important development from Kant’s philosophy was that of Hegel.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Currents of Thought in the Nineteenth Century

 
THE intellectual life of the nineteenth century was more complex than that of any previous age. This was due to several causes. First: the area concerned was larger than ever before; America and Russia made important contributions, and Europe became more aware than formerly of Indian philosophies, both ancient and modern. Second: science, which had been a chief source of novelty since the seventeenth century, made new conquests, especially in geology, biology, and organic chemistry. Third: machine production profoundly altered the social structure, and gave men a new conception of their powers in relation to the physical environment. Fourth: a profound revolt, both philosophical and political, against traditional systems in thought, in politics, and in economics, gave rise to attacks upon many beliefs and institutions that had hitherto been regarded as unassailable. This revolt had two very different forms, one romantic, the other rationalistic. (I am using these words in a liberal sense.) The romantic revolt passes from Byron, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche to Mussolini and Hitler; the rationalistic revolt begins with the French philosophers of the Revolution, passes on, somewhat softened, to the philosophical radicals in England, then acquires a deeper form in Marx and issues in Soviet Russia.

  The intellectual predominance of Germany is a new factor, beginning with Kant. Leibniz, though a German, wrote almost always in Latin or French, and was very little influenced by Germany in his philosophy. German idealism after Kant, as well as later German philosophy, was, on the contrary, profoundly influenced by German history; much of what seems strange in German philosophical speculation reflects the state of mind of a vigorous nation deprived, by historical accidents, of its natural share of power. Germany had owed its international position to the Holy Roman Empire, but the Emperor had gradually lost control of his nominal subjects. The last powerful Emperor was Charles V, and he owed his power to his possessions in Spain and the Low Countries. The Reformation and the Thirty Years’ War destroyed what had been left of German unity, leaving a number of petty principalities which were at the mercy of France. In the eighteenth century only one German state, Prussia, had successfully resisted the French; that is why Frederick was called the Great. But Prussia itself had failed to stand against Napoleon, being utterly defeated in the battle of Jena. The resurrection of Prussia under Bismarck appeared as a revival of the heroic past of Alaric, Charlemagne, and Barbarossa. (To Germans, Charlemagne is a German, not a Frenchman.) Bismarck showed his sense of history when he said, “We will not go to Canossa.”

  Prussia, however, though politically predominant, was culturally less advanced than much of Western Germany; this explains why many eminent Germans, including Goethe, did not regret Napoleon’s success at Jena. Germany, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, presented an extraordinary cultural and economic diversity. In East Prussia serfdom still survived; the rural aristocracy were largely immersed in bucolic ignorance, and the labourers were completely without even the rudiments of education. Western Germany, on the other hand, had been in part subject to Rome in antiquity; it had been under French influence since the seventeenth century; it had been occupied by French revolutionary armies, and had acquired institutions as liberal as those of France. Some of the princes were intelligent, patrons of the arts and sciences, imitating Renaissance princes in their courts; the most notable example was Weimar, where the Grand Duke was Goethe’s patron. The princes were, naturally, for the most part opposed to German unity, since it would destroy their independence. They were therefore anti-patriotic, and so were many of the eminent men who depended on them, to whom Napoleon appeared the missionary of a higher culture than that of Germany.

  Gradually, during the nineteenth century, the culture of Protestant Germany became increasingly Prussian. Frederick the Great, as a free-thinker and an admirer of French philosophy, had struggled to make Berlin a cultural centre; the Berlin Academy had as its perpetual President an eminent Frenchman, Maupertuis, who, however, unfortunately became the victim of Voltaire’s deadly ridicule. Frederick’s endeavours, like those of the other enlightened despots of the time, did not include economic or political reform; all that was really achieved was a claque of hired intellectuals. After his death, it was again in Western Germany that most of the men of culture were to be found.

  German philosophy was more connected with Prussia than were German literature and art. Kant was a subject of Frederick the Great; Fichte and Hegel were professors at Berlin. Kant was little influenced by Prussia; indeed he got into trouble with the Prussian Government for his liberal theology. But both Fichte and Hegel were philosophic mouthpieces of Prussia, and did much to prepare the way for the later identification of German patriotism with admiration for Prussia. Their work in this respect was carried on by the great German historians, particularly by Mommsen and Treitschke. Bismarck finally persuaded the German nation to accept unification under Prussia, and thus gave the victory to the less internationally minded elements in German culture.

  Throughout the whole period after the death of Hegel, most academic philosophy remained traditional, and therefore not very important. British empiricist philosophy was dominant in England until near the end of the century, and in France until a somewhat earlier time; then, gradually, Kant and Hegel conquered the universities of France and England, so far as their teachers of technical philosophy were concerned. The general educated public, however, was very little affected by this movement, which had few adherents among men of science. The writers who carried on the academic tradition—John Stuart Mill on the empiricist side, Lotze, Sigwart, Bradley, and Bosanquet on the side of German idealism—were none of them quite in the front rank among philosophers, that is to say, they were not the equals of the men whose systems they, on the whole, adopted. Academic philosophy has often before been out of touch with the most vigorous thought of the age, for instance, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when it was still mainly scholastic. Whenever this happens, the historian of philosophy is less concerned with the professors than with the unprofessional heretics.

  Most of the philosophers of the French Revolution combined science with beliefs associated with Rousseau. Helvétius and Condorcet may be regarded as typical in their combination of rationalism and enthusiasm.

  Helvétius (1715-1771) had the honour of having his book De l’ Esprit (1758) condemned by the Sorbonne and burnt by the hangman. Bentham read him in 1769 and immediately determined to devote his life to the principles of legislation, saying: “What Bacon was to the physical world, Helvétius was to the moral. The moral world has therefore had its Bacon, but its Newton is still to come.” James Mill took Helvétius as his guide in the education of his son John Stuart.

  Following Locke’s doctrine that the mind is a tabula rasa, Helvétius considered the differences between individuals entirely due to differences of education: in every individual, his talents and his virtues are the effect of his instruction. Genius, he maintains, is often due to chance: if Shakespeare had not been caught poaching, he would have been a wool merchant. His interest in legislation comes from the doctri that the principal instructors of adolescence are the forms of government and the consequent manners and customs. Men are born ignorant, not stupid; they are made stupid by education.

  In ethics, Helvétius was a utilitarian; he considered pleasure to be the good. In religion, he was a deist, and vehemently anti-clerical. In theory of knowledge, he adopted a simplified version of Locke: “Enlightened by Locke, we know that it is to the sense-organs we owe our ideas, and consequently our mind.” Physical sensibility, he says, is the sole cause of our actions, our thoughts, our passions, and our sociability. He strongly disagrees with Rousseau as to the value of knowledge, which he rates very highly.

  His doctrine is optimistic, since only a perfect education is needed to make men perfect. There is a suggestion that it would be easy to find a perfect education if the priests were got out of the way.

  Condorcet (1743-1794) has opinions similar to those of Helvétius, but more influenced by Rousseau. The rights of man, he says, are
all deduced from this one truth, that he is a sensitive being, capable of making reasonings and acquiring moral ideas, from which it follows that men can no longer be divided into rulers and subjects, liars and dupes. “These principles, for which the generous Sydney gave his life and to which Locke attached the authority of his name, were afterwards developed more precisely by Rousseau.” Locke, he says, first showed the limits of human knowledge. His “method soon became that of all philosophers, and it is by applying it to morals, politics, and economics, that they have succeeded in pursuing in these sciences a road almost as sure as that of the natural sciences.”

  Condorcet much admires the American Revolution. “Simple common sense taught the inhabitants of the British Colonies that Englishmen born on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean had precisely the same rights as those born on the meridian of Greenwich.” The United States Constitution, he says, is based on natural rights, and the American Revolution made the rights of man known to all Europe, from the Neva to the Guadalquivir. The principles of the French Revolution, however, are “purer, more precise, deeper than those that guided the Americans.” These words were written while he was in hiding from Robespierre; shortly afterwards, he was caught and imprisoned. He died in prison, but the manner of his death is uncertain.

  He was a believer in the equality of women. He was also the inventor of Malthus’s theory of population, which, however, had not for him the gloomy consequences that it had for Malthus, because he coupled it with the necessity of birth control. Malthus’s father was a disciple of Condorcet, and it was in this way that Malthus came to know of the theory.