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Chapter 11

The Limits Of Human Freedom

650. We have seen that the subjective faculties have an order amongst themselves, and that the highest of them, freedom, enables us to determine our volitions. At the same time, we saw that in human operations it is not always the supreme faculty that moves the others, all of which can move independently (cf. 646). This twofold operation of the different subjective faculties inferior to freedom provides the explanation for the limits of freedom itself. It is clear that every time a faculty inferior to freedom moves of its own accord, its action is not free, but withdrawn from the ambit of freedom.

651. We must therefore examine the laws according to which human operations are withdrawn from the influence of freedom. It is these laws that first put bounds to freedom itself.

We have seen that when considered in isolation every active power of the subject has two proper causes of movement. The life instinct, for instance, is moved by corporeal and material forces according to determined laws; the sensuous instinct receives its impulse from feelings; affective volitions are roused to act both by the spontaneity of the volitive, animal subject and by the intellective perception of what is good; evaluative volitions are aroused by a good known and approved. All these powers, therefore, when taken separately from one another, are capable of operating independently of the action that human freedom can exert upon them. Even if freedom were non-existent, each of them could act spontaneously in the human being.

652. The causes proper to each of these powers move the special power whose stimulus they are, provided the effect they cause naturally is not impeded by some other force, and in particular by the influence of some superior power, or of the supreme power itself. But how can the operation of freedom itself be impeded? This is the problem that now confronts us. Only by solving it will we be able to establish the laws which restrict human freedom within certain limits.

653. First, we recall that freedom, as we have described it, is composed of two acts, that is, it has two functions: 1. that of choosing between volitions, a function which consists in the first determining act proper to the will, according to which one volition is willed in preference to another; 2. that of the practical force, or executive force of choice, which consists in increasing the value and worth of the good determined by the will. These two functions have a very close connection which we shall examine later.

In the meantime it is clear from what we have said that human freedom can find obstacles impeding its operation in both these proper functions. The will can be impeded either 1. because the necessary conditions for choice between different volitions are lacking; or 2. because the practical force, which should augment the value of the good determined by the will, is incapable of enabling this good to prevail over other goods which simultaneously exercise their effect over the will. In a word, freedom is deficient in act either through lack of choice or lack of practical force. We must, therefore, consider the limits imposed on freedom from both these points of view.

654. As we have seen, even the power of choice needs to be aroused if it is to be drawn to act. This does not mean, however, that a sufficient reason has to determine the choice in one direction or another. To do so would be to destroy freedom. We merely say that some reason is needed to draw the soul towards choice in such a way that the choice itself modifies the development of the spontaneous operations of the will.

655. As I have noted, the human being would have no cause prompting action on the part of his faculty of free choice if present, physical good alone were offered him. In this case, the animal instinct, and the spontaneity of the will which shadows such an instinct, would be a sufficient, and indeed, excellent guide enabling him to reach out for the finest good when many of the same kind are presented to him.

But the inclination of the sensuous instinct is not sufficient for making a choice when animal good is connected with a totally different kind of good. Another need, incapable of being satisfied by animal instinct - which has no perception of it - arises within the human being. Take, for example, the case of probable future good, even physical good. We grasp this probability with our mind, not with our feeling. Only the mind enables us to calculate whether physical good is better served by some immediate sacrifice of present good for the sake of longer, more abundant enjoyment. In making this judgment, we blunt the immediate, limited impulses of feeling, and submit them to the true or false opinion we have formed about some good through the use of our intelligence, assisted by our imagination and all our other inferior powers. Nevertheless, although it is clear that instinct has been subjected to human will at this point, we still cannot say that we have exercised freedom of choice which lies, still unobserved, in the depths of human nature. The principle of action that has emerged, although a power superior to physical instinct, is not freedom.

It is true that we have made use of a special activity in the action we have described, but this is connected with an opinion about some good, an opinion in which we balance present and future good with the intention of gaining the best available subjective good. We avoid sacrificing a greater to a lesser good, which is in accord with the laws of human spontaneity. Human instinct taken in the broadest sense of the term - not animal instinct - has acted as our judge and guide. However we have not yet acted of our own accord, independently of our tendencies, but as their obedient servants: the spontaneity of the subject as a whole has simply been substituted for animal spontaneity.

I realise that we could have determined ourselves in some way when we carried out the different actions needed to form an intellectual judgment about future good. But we did not necessarily do so, and even if we wish to suppose that we did, we still have to offer some sufficient reason for this kind of determination. As we said, we cannot move ourselves to some entirely free choice unless we have some sufficient reason for doing so. And that is precisely what we are seeking now.

Our next step is to affirm that what we have said about calculating future, physical good relative to present good can be maintained equally about every other kind of subjective good, whether it is the means for attaining physical good, or for satisfying the passions and instincts proper to human nature through various types of good - such as good that we hope for, or good springing from vanity, and any similar good. All these, although specifically different, constitute only one basic kind of good, that is, what is good for the human subject. As long as subjective good alone is presented to us, we have no sufficient reason for any truly free choice in our actions, even though we are offered various species of good.

Why should we make some free choice when this opposes our natural tendencies? If we are surrounded by a great quantity of subjective good, we must surely prefer greater to lesser good. If, then, we cannot reach out for all the good present to us, and will undoubtedly take what is greater rather than what is less, we need only esteem the greater through reason and experience before taking hold of whatever accords with our evaluation. In all this we only obey the spontaneity of the will without an act of truly free choice.

656. In such an act, only the possible struggle between present good and greater future good may be likened to free action (provided that present, actual enjoyment attracts the will more intensely despite the reason's decision in favour of a future good less immediately attractive to feeling). Such a struggle would provide a stimulus for the human being, reasonable as he is, to use his autonomous power for the sake of reinforcing reason which, of itself, is cold and weak. It is undeniable that in such a case the practical force could be employed to some extent to fortify the desire of the human being, but there would be no obvious use of the free choice of which we have spoken. Giving way to the immediate desires of the sensuous instinct or deciding to reinforce the view taken by reason would be determined by circumstances according to the laws of spontaneity. Spontaneity would either succumb to the vehemence of instinct where the vehemence exceeds certain limits or, by drawing upon the practical force present in the depth of the spirit, suspend the effect of instinct by the degree of force in reason. On the other hand, the practical force is only an element of freedom when it goes hand in hand with choice between volitions.

It is possible, therefore, that in the whole sphere of subjective good surrounding and affecting the human being no sufficient reason is to be found capable of arousing an act of pure, free choice. If we had to live in this sphere, all our actions would be regulated by the laws of spontaneous will. The truly free force, which is really determinative in our volitions, would never be aroused or stimulated in us.

657. But this is not the case when we leave the circle of subjective good to enter that of objective good. Immediately we find ourselves engaged with two worlds, and forced to choose between them. We can no longer trust ourselves to our instinct or spontaneity because instinct, whether it is proper to one special power alone or embraces human instinct (which as a universal instinct reaches out to every kind of good that exists for human nature), never exceeds the limit of subjective good. Only within this sphere of good can it validly determine choice. But we are dealing now with a far superior kind of determination. On one side lies human nature; on the other the absolute world of beings. We have to choose between two objects: ourselves and the world intuited by our intelligence.

In this choice, spontaneity properly speaking is all on one side, that is, on our side; on the other side lie ideas in their eternity and divine light - or rather all real beings seen in these ideas. If we prefer ourselves, we necessarily and sacrilegiously violate, abuse and attempt to destroy what is infinite; if we prefer what is infinite, we immerse ourselves in a sea of self-forgetfulness where we experience a kind of annihilation.

The two sides of the deliberation are totally different, without analogy or proportion between them; they cannot be compared. Spontaneity is wholly on one side; authority, obligation, law, on the other. If they differed in degree, a spontaneous choice could be made between them. But lack of any degree of difference is reinforced by total absence of likeness or affinity. It is impossible for them to share any common tendency.

If the absolute order were considered from the point of view of the delight it causes in the subject contemplating its incomparable beauty, that order would no longer be itself. It would become pleasure, not duty, and the choice of which we are speaking would lie between pleasure and pleasure, not between absolute duty and subjective satisfaction.
When these two orders of things, the subjective order and the absolute, present themselves to us for the first time, therefore, a sufficient reason is found for arousing within us and drawing into act our most noble power of free choice. This explains why writers hardly ever speak of human freedom except in reference to human moral action.

658. A 7th century Greek author observes with great acumen that in the human being freedom is contemporaneous with the development of virtue and vice. `Freedom of soul never shows itself except in the presence of an impulse to vice or to virtue. If contrary things did not invade the spirit, where would free choice be?'(278) In the end, only virtue and vice are contraries; everything else can be subsumed, as we said, under a single kind. And this explains why the age at which a person begins to act freely is normally called `the age of discretion between good and evil', a phrase which proves that this opinion is already common amongst Christians.(279)

659. What has been said about the necessity of a sufficient reason for arousing the act of freedom also shows the need for at least two objects about which the free choice may be made. Nevertheless, this new condition for the actuation of freedom is different from the first which explains how the subject decides upon the act of free choice, and how the stimulus arousing the spontaneity of the determining acts of will comes into being. The second condition is that which makes the choice itself possible.

The difference between the two conditions is factual as well as conceptual. It could happen, for example, that moral order, or duty, when revealed to a human being for the first time, coincides perfectly with subjective good. In this case, freedom would not be exercised through a choice between opposing alternatives; the human being would simultaneously adhere to what satisfied his tendencies and to what was upright. The two motives, subjective good and objective good, would amalgamate and conspire to arouse a single volition in the spirit. If the free act were to take place, therefore, 1. there must be two objects of choice; 2. and these two objects must contradict one another sufficiently to arouse a free choice.

660. It may be objected that two objects or volitions from which to choose can never be lacking; although opposite goods may not be present from which to make a choice (libertas contrarietatis), it is always possible either to posit or not to posit the act of will (libertas contradictionis). This objection, however, neglects to consider that alternatives, in order to be the object of choice, must also be thought of. It is true that one can either accept or reject a single known good, but it is not true that such a choice is always conceived by the intellect. An act of reflection is needed on the part of the subject if he is to deliberate about not willing some good presented to his intellect. In this reflection, the subject has to apprehend as good the act of not willing the good, and as evil the act of willing it - because the will never chooses anything except sub specie boni and never rejects anything except sub specie mali. I agree that the subject could deliberate about such a choice if, on reflection, he judged that it was not good to want an otherwise good object, but this is not the case under consideration. We are considering a period anterior to such reflection and intellectual judgment when only one of the alternatives, either good or evil, is present to the mind. Here, only the spontaneous, not the free will can intervene.

661. In the two cases we have indicated, freedom lacks the opportunity and the object for the use or trial of its powers. But there is a third case in which its activity is blocked because of the disproportion between its powers and an object which cannot be refused. Such an object is the infinite good, when it is experienced fully. This explains why those who have come to apprehend the vision of God in heaven lose all exercise of freedom between good and evil. According to Catholic teaching, they are fixed immovably in good. But this infinite good does not merely overcome every possible practical force in the human being. It radically impedes choice itself by annihilating, with its own weight, any contrary force. In fact, a free choice requires the presence to the spirit of two kinds of opposing good (cf. 659, 660). But if one of the alternatives is infinite good, it cannot be true to say that two opposing types of good are present to the spirit. Infinite good gathers all good to itself, and the loss of infinite good is an amalgam of all evil. When infinite good is known intimately, as it will be when perceived and experienced by a human being, no element, aspect or even appearance of good stands outside it And when the intellect no longer offers two kinds of good to the will, but one alone, the will can no longer err about good, nor be deceived by false good.

For the same reason, this state or condition leaves no possibility of two volitions about which to deliberate. The number of possible volitions are only as many as the possible kinds or aspects of good proposed by the intellect. But in our case, only one direction can be taken because only one good attracts the will.
In addition, because this good is infinite, it must draw the will with a certain infinite attraction, which is often more than sufficient to determine the will irresistibly and instantaneously. Freedom of choice at such a moment receives no stimulus enabling it to suspend its volition, and has no time or space in which to deliberate anything to the contrary.

662. We must now consider the limits placed on the exercise of freedom by the practical force. As we said, this force is free choice, the executive faculty, and is very closely connected with choice itself. The first step, we might say, in the use of this force influences the choice itself in such a way that positing a faculty devoid of any degree of practical force on the one hand, but enabling us to determine ourselves freely on the other, is a simple contradiction. In fact, if we were to suppose that the faculty by which we determine one volition rather than another possessed no practical force, we would no longer be thinking of a real determining act of our will, but only of some inclination without any definitive outcome. It is impossible to determine oneself to will what one cannot will at all.(280)

663. Volition follows immediately upon the determining act. The practical force, which produces and informs, as it were, the volition itself, begins here. Volition pure and simple is normally called choice, the elicited act of will. It is followed by the stimulated act, and by the command.
The command is the movement of some power under pressure from the will. If I decide internally to move a foot, and actually move it, this movement is an act commanded by my will. If my foot is in chains so that I cannot move it, I can nevertheless will to move it. In this case (provided we do not take into account any effort to move the foot), the commanded act of will is lacking; only the determining act, which does not pass from the will to some other power, is present and terminates in the will whose proper act it is, and which alone it needs in order to run its course.

664. Here we have to consider that my freedom is not diminished if the acts with which I command my organs, for example, are impeded by external pressure or defective organs. Freedom is wholly interior, and has no natural communion with brute force, which can neither increase nor diminish its power.

665. The same could not be said if the commanded act were blocked not by a force external to the human being, but by rebellion on the part of the interior power which receives the command. Internal war breaks out: freedom begins to measure its strength against powers which by natural right are its subjects. In such a case the practical force is truly bound, and a limit is set to freedom.

St. Paul refers to this limitation of freedom when he says: `I can will what is right, but I cannot do it.'(281) A clear distinction can be seen in these words between the determining act and the practical force, or better between the first degree of practical force, that is, the choice or simple volition, and the second degree, that is, the command or volition influencing the inferior powers. The Apostle, speaking in the person of human beings inclined to evil, affirms that he does indeed will what is good, but feels at the same time that he lacks the power to do good. Consequently his will remains sterile: `For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.'(282) We must, therefore, consider this limitation of the practical force and show how the executive power of freedom is internally blocked in its exercise.

666. The limitation of the practical force depends upon two principal causes: 1. the ineffectiveness of the practical force itself; 2. the superabundant effectiveness of the powers which limit the practical force and block its natural activity and effectiveness. It is clear that the entire relationship of which we are speaking depends upon the relationship between the efficacy of the practical force and that of the powers limiting it. An increase in the efficacy of these powers and decrease in the efficacy of the practical force determine the limitation imposed on the practical force of human freedom.

667. But the degree of efficacy of the powers limiting the practical force, relative to the degree of efficacy of the practical force itself, does not depend solely upon the intrinsic condition of the practical force and the other powers. It also depends upon two principal external circumstances: 1. lack of skill in moving and ruling these powers on the part of the spirit (moving the lower powers is an art for the most part, and can be learnt only through experience); 2. the tardiness with which the practical force comes into action and its consequent late reaction to the unexpected speed of the powers in competition with it.

These two circumstances have to be considered very carefully in any factual calculation of the practical force of liberty present in a human being. In particular, maximum importance must be given to the second condition because the success of the practical force depends very frequently upon its readiness for action. Later, I shall speak more at length about this important point and develop it as it deserves.

668. Meanwhile, we have to list the powers that can come into conflict with the practical force and render its action ineffective. We shall view them in order, and consider how they place a limit to the activity of the practical force of human freedom. These powers are: 1. the animal instinct, together with its passions and habits; 2. the spiritual instinct, also accompanied by passions, memories, associations and habits; 3. the theoretical judgment; 4. the practical judgment; 5. the general, habitual volitions that have their place in the depths of the soul. Given certain circumstances, all these powers can subtract themselves from the command of freedom, or conquer its practical force. We have to see how this comes about, and with what limitations.

669. The first question arising from the relationship between animal instinct and freedom is concerned with the activity of animal instinct considered in itself. In order to discover the extent of this activity, we need to examine it in brute animals, where it is unaccompanied by any act of will. If we were to examine it in human beings, where it is associated with the will, we would often remain unsure whether certain effects appertained to instinct or to will. Matters pertaining to instinct in the human being are often predicated of the will. When we have ascertained the sphere of instinctive activity in brute animals, however, we will be able to conclude rightly that instinct can act similarly in human beings in so far as they possess an animal nature.

670. In brute animals, instinct produces all movements - walking, eating, etc. - and every act and function of animal life. A human being, therefore, in whom the will was entirely idle or listless, or simply a kind of onlooker, would not lack external activity. He would be able to walk, eat, and carry out all the acts and functions of animal life as a result of pure instinct, without any need of will.

671. On the other hand, if the will begins to act, instinct is neither destroyed, nor changed in its nature, nor diminished in intrinsic power. What kinds of relationship exist, therefore, between the instinct and the will, and between their different activities? These relationships can only be three in number: either 1. the will acts as a mere spectator and leaves the instinct to proceed on its own; or 2. it adds its own power and helps the instinct to act; or finally 3. it opposes the instinct by attempting to block or modify its action with its own commands.

672. In the first case, the will could remain inactive either because it approves what the instinct is doing, or because it is held captive and remains incapable of moving itself, granted the speed and vehemence with which the instinct acts. If it approves the act of instinct, the will is not altogether inactive; it consents to the action, although it does not positively influence it. If the will cannot intervene, there is indeed disharmony between will and instinct, but of such a kind that the instinct both prevents the will from opposing its own act, and silences, as it were, any opposition that might be forthcoming. We could indeed classify this last case amongst the third kind of relationship in which instinct and will are at war.

673. We said that the will could be overcome in its battle with instinct, but it could also conquer. The degree of difficulty it would experience in conquering depends upon the level of vigour present in the practical force.

674. A list of the different ways in which animal instinct could overcome the will in the human being would show that this occurs:

1. in the absence of will, when knowledge of any alternative is lacking, as for instance in the first movements of a baby;

2. when the will is present, but unable to act, as in sleep and sleep-walking, when the human being sometimes knows what he is doing, but is unable to judge his own activity or act according to such judgments;

3. when the practical force of the will is completely overcome and conquered by the pressure and swiftness of instinct. Something like this could happen in the case of rape, such as that mentioned by St. Augustine in The City of God. He affirms not only that the women in this case were without blame, but that their merit was in proportion to their distress. The opposition of their will, which absolved them from sin, did not block the effect of animal instinct.

675. The way in which animal instinct entirely overcomes the practical force of the will can be examined more clearly in the case of persons suffering from rabies or delirium.
The unfortunate victims of rabies feel an irresistible instinct to bite those who approach them, even their nearest and dearest. Not only do they not want to do this, but they beg people to keep away. Nothing is more painful for them than awareness of this urge to bite people and rage against them.

The same can be seen in attacks of delirium which often take place without any mental disorder or irrationality. Dr. Pinel describes the case of one of his patients in the hospital at Bicêtre:
Before his committal, the patient suffered an attack of delirium at home. He told his wife, whom he loved dearly; she scarcely had time to flee and avoid a violent death before the attack overcame him. At Bicêtre there were other attacks of the same kind against the Superintendent whose compassionate care and gentleness the patient praised unceasingly.(283)

Instinct cannot be overcome by the will when it takes these forms, and I believe that in this respect it can be as savagely diseased in as many ways as there are animal passions that lose all restraint and normal harmony. In all these cases, however (provided we take no account of the cause of the excess of instinct which could depend upon some preceding, freely willed defect), the will, which is not the originator of the excessive act of instinct, plays the part of a weak and desolate, or strong and unwillng spectator. In every case, the will is an embattled, oppressed victim.
The vehemence of instincts in sufferers from rabies, delirium and mental disorder has its source in some diseased principle.

676. The instinct is sometimes disordered and diseased from birth. Cases have been known of people manifesting irrepressible instincts proper to dogs, cats, sheep and other animals. There is no doubt that the material composition of their bodies bore a likeness or analogy with that found in these animals. This would have modified their life instinct, and given it the characteristics we have mentioned. A few examples will help to show how the animal instinct can, within certain limits, overcome the practical force of the will.

1st. The canine instinct. In his secret memoirs of the reigns of Louis XIV and Louis XV, Du Clois describes the affliction of Henri Jules de Bourbon, son of the great Condé, who sometimes experienced an irresistible urge to act like a dog. On these occasions he would start to bark with all his might. Once, he was taken by a fit of this kind while in audience with Louis XIV. The king's presence enabled him to control the force of this instinct to some extent, but not to suppress it altogether. He had to go to the window and lean out while making a great effort to prevent the barking noise, although he still went through all the canine actions connected with barking. It is clear that he employed the whole force of his will in the matter without its being able to help him overcome such strange impulses of instinct.

2nd. The feline instinct. I remember reading a memorandum of Dr. Ruggeri, professor of the medical faculty of the University of Padua, in which he notes the case of a young woman who exhibited instincts very similar to those of cats (animals which she detested). When she married, it was found that a considerable part of her body was covered with cat-like skin which she had managed to keep secret. The marriage was annulled.

3rd. The ovine instinct. Doctor Pinel observed the presence of ovine instinct in a mentally handicapped girl. He described it as follows:

She was a patient at the Salpêtrière hospital for two and a half months. During this period, she showed particular repugnance for meat, but, like a sheep, willingly consumed vegetable substances - potatoes, salads, bread, and especially a local bread baked in her village and brought by her mother. She drank only water, and in her own way showed great gratitude for the attention she received from the nurse, although she was able to express her thanks only by muttering the words "baby", "auntie". Her lack of other words depended, I think, on a simple absence of ideas (her tongue moved normally). She also had a habit of moving her head up and down, and resting it against the stomach of the nurse as a sign of gratitude. Something similar occurred in her little quarrels with children of her own age whom she tried to butt. When she was in the grip of blind instinct like an animal, she had no control over her outbursts of anger; her excesses took place for the slightest reasons, or for none at all, and even led to convulsions. We were never able to make her sit down, or rest, or prepare her meals, and she slept with her body curled up on the ground like a sheep. Her back, limbs and shoulders were covered with a kind of flexible, dark hair about an inch and a half or two inches long, and fine like wool. It was a very distressing sight.(284)

Animal instinct, therefore, receives from birth a special impress which carries with it an inclination towards some peculiar activity, and a particular kind of arousal.

677. But instinct is equally moved and excited by stimulation from principles which, as we have said, may be disordered as a result of contracted passions and habits. For instance, I could name a person of noble birth who developed a habit of interjecting something like `coro-de-coro-coro' after every three words of conversation. It was very unpleasant to hear, but he was never able to correct it despite the ridicule it caused him in society. Another person, still living, has a habit of chirruping loudly like a bird whenever he is with others. The movements of his lips and mouth are so frequent and marked that people who do not know him are immediately put off. But each of us will have had occasion to observe a great variety of similar strange, habitual defects.

678. We have already hinted at a common cause of all the instinctive movements that become too strong for the will, that is: `the extreme mobility of the nerve endings whose tiny movements cause the spontaneity of the life and sensuous instincts to produce greater movements which terminate in the strange facts we have examined'. This extreme mobility needs only the slightest stimulus to be brought into play. Sometimes the stimulus comes from the life instinct, sometimes from the sensuous instinct (especially in cases of acquired habits). The imagination, for example, which forms part of the sensuous instinct, is always being aroused and continually receives present sensations intermingled with those of the past; ideas, too, often reflect the content of our imagination and phantasy.

679. We may sum up by saying that instinct can withdraw itself from the command of the will, or overcome its force: 1. as a result of some special inbred condition; 2. through some diseased condition acquired after birth; 3. through an inclination resulting from contracted habits; 4. through heightening of animal passions; 5. finally, as a result of various combinations of these causes.

680. However, two very different cases have to be distinguished with great accuracy when we are dealing with the victory of animal instinct over the practical force of the will.
The instinct can conquer despite the will's continual opposition. In this case, the will posits the act of choice, the simple volition, despite the instinct, which overcomes and defeats only the command. The will, lacking the power to prevail and succeed in its determination, is weakened, but not completely misled.

681. But the instinct can also incline the will itself if reason does not intervene quickly enough. Again, if the will is already inclined to evil, instinct can not only block its operation over the other powers, but even mislead it by persuading it to posit an act of choice in its favour. In this case, the will is entirely overcome: its volition is weakened and rendered impotent relative to the other powers; and the will itself conspires with instinct against its own freedom.

The instinct succeeds in extracting from the will a volition opposed to the moral law; the will, through its act, places itself in an immoral state. We shall have to speak more fully about this when we see how not only the instinct, but even the judgment can in certain cases withdraw itself from the force of the will. As we have seen, an act of choice on the part of the will, or volition, is always based upon some judgment, that is, some practical judgent.(285)

682. However, we must continue here with our examination of the first kind of power of instinct over the will, that is, when the instinct acts without perverting the practical judgment. We cannot be content with establishing the fact that animal instinct sometimes conquers the will directly, and that the will in its weakness and quasi-paralysis permits instinct to act in its place. We have to describe the struggle between the two powers, and take careful note of what occurs. But because the conflict between the will and human instinct follows a similar pattern to that between the will and animal instinct (the laws of combat, the efforts made by the two sides, and the outcome of the struggle bear a close resemblance in both cases), we shall be able to describe together the accidental features of the two conflicts after saying a few words about the way in which the human instinct rises against the practical force of the will.

683. Under the name human instinct we have included the tendency towards one's own aggrandisement, towards society, honour, knowledge, fellow-feeling, love and other effects of the same instinct. All of these naturally incline the will from the beginning, and are occasionally in collision with it when it wishes to maintain the absolute, objective order of the law which is unknown to human instinct - just as it is unknown to every other instinct - and as such remains outside its sphere.

684. Human instinct exists at a higher level than mere animal instinct. Nevertheless it draws its operative material in great part from animality itself. Love, for example, has its material element in the physical attraction of the sexes; fellow-feeling depends to a great extent on the material provided by the imagination; friendship is often allied with love which colours friendship, giving life and vivacity to mere remembrances and images; the companionship proper to society depends upon the common likeness in human nature and upon its complementary needs. All these things come to us through the senses. The same is true of honour, which is nourished by the sound of human voices (fame is often depicted blowing a trumpet), and of the other subjective, human inclinations which, taken together, form what we have called human instinct. Animality, however, provides nothing more than matter. The form of human instinct is posited by reason, which works in wonderful ways on the matter furnished by the senses, transforming, amplifying, spiritualising and divinising it. Human instinct, which is unlimited because intelligence is unlimited, is therefore essentially different from merely animal instinct.

685. Consequently, human instinct cannot work under the same guise as animal instinct whose operation is totally blind. Human instinct, essentially a rational appetite, never acts without some light from reason. While animal instinct can and sometimes does withdraw its acts through brute force from the influence of the will and even of the reason, the human instinct cannot operate independently of judgment springing from reason (286)

686. But what provides the occasion for the struggle in which human instinct, as we have called it, engages with and sometimes overcomes the human will?

We have already described the two ways in which animal instinct acts in opposition to the will, that is, either by operating independently of the practical judgment of the will, or by toppling it. These ways are not open, however, to the human instinct which acts only on the will and whose inclinations cannot be actuated without the consent of the will, nor rendered effective without some determining volition and consequently without the judgment upon which, as we said, every volition is founded. The human instinct, therefore, does not struggle properly speaking with the will, but with the freedom of the will. Human instinct seeks to corrupt the will and to incline its spontaneity against the law; freedom opposes this, and battle commences.

We intend to consider this struggle shortly when we speak about the flexibility of the faculty of judgment and ask if there can exist within us any irresistibly false judgment (cf. 681, 682). For the moment, however, we wish to examine human instinct simply as a power reinforcing animal instinct which is unbelievably assisted, modified and sharpened by the unceasing activity of human instinct.

We shall first see how this animal instinct, reinforced by human instinct, struggles with and often overcomes the will.

687. We are dealing here with a comparative weakness of the will relative to the forces of instinct. The weakness increases as the instinctive forces grow on the one hand, and the forces of the will decrease on the other. We must, therefore, consider weakness of will from the point of view of instinct and from that of will. What stimulates and invigorates instinct, and what weakens and lessens will?

It is clear that the instinct's power to overcome and conquer the will depends upon the vigour and speed with which it acts.

688. Relative to the practical force of the will, we need to consider the two functions of this force which we have already described, that is, the function of choice or determining acts and the function of acts of command, which are intended to move the powers naturally subject to the will. As we know, the will exercises one kind of force in simple volition, and another in communicating movement to the other powers. As a result, we have to deal with a double weakness: that found in the simple volition, and that found in the command moving the other powers.

We have to examine all these causes briefly (those dependent upon the instinct and those dependent upon the will) which prevent the will from reacting sufficiently against the urges and harassments of instinct. But we do this taking into account human beings as they come into existence and develop. We shall see that human instinct is undoubtedly disturbed from the very beginning.

689. Christianity is not alone in teaching unhesitatingly that human beings contract imperfection and moral disorder by nature. Unbiased observation of infants and their development shows a clear imbalance between the dignity of their moral calling, with its irresistible command, and the force of will available for responding to this calling.
The most ancient traditions, all the beliefs asserted by the peoples, the symbols and the myths, proclaim with a single voice the hidden, fatal, moral disability of human nature.

Pagan philosophy, sacred teachings and popular beliefs have always agreed on this point. Cebete, in his famous description, shows humanity emerging to life and contemporaneously brought face to face with dazzling attractions and errors. The souls destined to enter bodies are first well dosed with this poison. Plato has no hesitation in declaring: `Humanity conceals in the depths of its heart a deadly disease which, springing from mankind's ancient, unexpiated faults, torments and crushes human beings.'(287) Radically opposing schools of thought had no difficulty in accepting such an evident fact. Aniceride of Cyprus taught, with Plato, that `mankind has to accustom itself to all that is good in order to overcome the vicious affection diffused and inserted within humanity'.(288) Similar assertions are very frequent in the pagan writers who flourished before Christ. It is not surprising, therefore, if this truth is even more clearly maintained by the philosophers who came after him, and in particular by Seneca(289) and Plutarch. One example from Plutarch will be sufficient to illustrate the point: `From the moment of our birth, a fatal dose of evil is diffused through all that we are and all that we do. Human seed bears its own mortality within, and in great part causes this misery of ours by giving rise to evil inclinations, disease, anxiety and other fatal disasters that burden mankind.'(290)

But there is no need, in fact, to depend on the authority of others when our daily experience provides clear proof of our state, and forces us, despite our unwillingness, to see that an unfaithful instinct captivates our heart from the beginning, involving it in evil.

690. Pleasurable sensations and natural instincts are in no way balanced by the power of reason. Their vivacity and blind impetus deceive humanity from the start by promising more than they can possibly provide, and human beings, in their credulity, light- heartedly abandon themselves to the government of instinct in a vain hope for happiness. Desires spring up, urging us to enjoy more than we are able, while we ourselves demand from the senses which have deceived us more than they can ever give. But we still go on believing, and immerse ourselves more deeply in sensuality. Longings are provoked and irritated, and assert their influence (through our imagination rather than in reality) to such an effect that the whole human body can be destroyed. Savages, people undoubtedly in contact with nature, drink themselves to death, for example.

Such excess may not show itself early in life, although gluttony, especially for certain foods, can be seen in quite young children. Nevertheless, careful observation shows that sensations are extremely lively from first infancy, and totally subject the human being. An infinite need of ever new sensations is produced, together with a morbid, but always unresolved desire to satisfy oneself through them. The rule of the animal over the intelligent part of human beings is consistently strengthened and finally manifests its own imbalance, blindness, irresponsibility and inclination to self-destruction. It is only too clear that in this situation the will, subject to immense pressure, is bound to go astray through a false judgment about the value of sensations furnished with such excessive and deceitful vivacity.

691. We also need to consider the rapidity of the movements of feeling and instinct compared with the slowness of our rational reactions.

There are, of course, moments of tranquillity in human existence when our intelligence shines in our hearts like the sun on a calm day. Such moments, however are brief and infrequent. Their place is soon taken by confusion and interior disquiet. Only the person who has never experienced the agony of passion, the vehemence of contempt, the onset of grief, the cold touch of fear, the ecstasy of beauty, bursts of joy, the anger of love, practical expressions of compassion and the joy of hope can deny that the human will is often under the influence of immense pressure against which it has no defence and no place of refuge. But no one lives without taking counsel from these perfidious friends and finding, in brief moments of activity, that their momentary advice has shut the door against every other counsel and transformed itself into active deliberation.

There is no doubt that we shall have to render an account if we are the authors of such a state and place ourselves in this miserable condition. But here we are dealing only with a fact, and asserting that both the vehemence and rapid response of the affections, passions and sensations sometimes take the will by surprise and eliminate the time needed for it to deny its consent. Dante saw, perhaps better than anyone else, how love, delicate and sublime, could be at odds with the intellect and torment the heart. He describes such a situation with immense tenderness and lays the blame on the sudden awakening of passion, which leaves no time for defence against error. He goes on to speak about virtue, which he had adopted and taken as his safeguard against such love:

692. Pressure, therefore, and rapidity(291) are two characteristics of instinctive activity in animals and in humans, and as such are inherent to the nature of instinctive action. This pressure and rapidity of movement increases through habit. But what causes the increase?

693. In examining the growth of pressure and impetus, it will help if we distinguish the passive faculties, which are those of our feelings, from the active faculties. There is no doubt that the latter increase in vigour through moderate exercise while the former seem to diminish. In the case of an epidemic or spread of contagious disease, for example, we often see a number of doctors working with equal zeal for the sick in their care. In the younger ones, feelings of compassion (which, as feeling, is passive) are perhaps more marked; in their senior companions, courage, activity and constancy are found at a higher level, although there seems to be a drop in compassion and feeling for the patients. The more experienced doctors have perhaps lost something of their feeling, although their active care of patients has grown. The feelings moving them to care for the sick have lessened in intensity, it would seem, but increased in practicality.(292)

694. In the case of passive faculties, it is a fact that the corporeal fibres weaken under the continued action of stimuli, and become less capable of producing sensations, which require movement and hence some kind of passage, not a constant, balanced state. If, however, the stimulated action is not too prolonged, and the fibres are given the opportunity of returning to their natural, primitive state, we have to go on to distinguish between painful sensations, which instinct tends to avoid, and pleasurable sensations, which it tends to enjoy.

As instinct grows in strength, pleasurable sensations become stronger and more vivid; troublesome sensations, on the other hand, seem to diminish in their degree of pain when instinct weakens. This would explain why pleasure gains uncontrollable mastery in persons enslaved by their senses, while pain seems to diminish in people who suffer habitually and for prolonged periods.

695. The reason explaining the increase of vivacity in pleasurable sensations as a result of use of the faculties of feeling is to be found in the soul's collaboration in the production of sensations, not in the material organisation of the fibres. The same applies in the case of diminution of pain. If such change were to depend on the organisation of the fibres, pleasant and unpleasant sensations would follow a constant law of growth and diminution. But the activity of the soul, which we have called the sensuous instinct, consists totally in seconding pleasant and avoiding painful sensations. Because activity on the part of the soul is required for the production of feeling, the soul itself learns from experience to posit a greater degree of activity in producing pleasurable feelings, and to withhold as much activity as possible in contributing to painful feelings (cf. 367-369).

The very definition of sensuous activity explains, therefore, the diminution of vivacity in painful feelings and the growth of intensity in pleasurable feelings. As we know, the sensuous instinct is simply `the natural movement of the soul towards what is pleasant, and the withdrawal of the soul from what is troublesome'. Even the lessening of the degree of habitual pain indicates an increase, not a decrease, in the power of the sensuous instinct. Precisely because this power has increased, the soul is able to flee, at least partially, from pain. If, therefore, the instinct grows in power through exercise, we have here an explanation for the increase in the active powers. Instinct is precisely the soul's activity.

696. This is true relative to the degree of vehemence in the instinct. But how and why does the degree of rapidity in instinctive activity increase through exercise?

We need to note with great attention that the active faculties are normally found in different stages of potential. I mean that the active faculty initially given by nature possesses a very different potential from that found in the faculty when it undertakes some particular act which can be posited only as a result of the faculty's passing through a series of grades or states until it reaches the act (`second act', as we call it). But the faculty could come to a halt and be found in a state or mode of being at any of the levels of activity which may exist between mere potency and mere act. It is clear, therefore, that the more the potency is activated, that is, the nearer its state to that of act, the more readily and easily it can posit the act. The passage from such a state to the act itself is shorter because the faculty is already to some extent habitually activated towards the completed act. The use or exercise of the potency draws it more and more from its potentiality, furnishing it with ever greater activity as it approximates to perfect act.

This explanation needs to be added to what has been said about the soul's increased activity towards what it finds pleasurable in pleasing sensations, and away from the pain of displeasing sensations. This, too, stimulates and excites the impetus of instinct towards action.

697. We now have to see how the will may or may not be capable of holding its own against the vivacity, urgency and speed of instinct. We have already said that of its nature the will is extremely flexible and yielding, and that in children it gives way for a long time to instinct, which it serves as a humble companion obeying an overbearing master. Unarmed as it is, it cannot do otherwise. Reason, which forges weapons for the will, is cold of its nature and slow to operate. Its qualities are very different from those of instinct.

698. We must also note that the weapons provided for the will by reason, although intended to assist the will's moral rule and government of instinct, cannot be prepared and fashioned as soon as reason begins to act. Reason must first prepare itself for action. It can operate only when it has set up its own workshop, as it were, and made the tools it needs.

As we saw, perceptions and the specific ideas of things are the first realities associated with reason. The moral principle with which the will must rule the instincts begins to shine in the soul only when reason, having perceived intelligent beings, starts to reflect that they should be honoured as they deserve whatever the cost to instinct. Instinct, blind as it is, pays no attention to the harm it causes anything or anyone provided it succeeds in satisfying itself. Reason, however, begins to notice the deviations of instinct as soon as the norm governing what is just and upright shines before the human mind - even though the norm is not yet present in its abstract form. At this moment a rule appears which prescribes that all should receive their due according to the absolute, eternal order of beings. Reason then reproves the will for its softness, recalling it from the mistaken path to which it had strayed. Reason also tells the will to understand its own dignity and rebel against the caprices of instinct, which it must learn to command and govern.

From this moment the will has a new power enabling it to become the source of human actions. Everything done within the reign of the will now depends upon the will's desire and consent, which must be directed solely towards justice and virtue.

The will, however, which has already taken several hurried steps in the direction of its own pleasurable satisfactions, has to be made capable of preferring the path of justice and virtue. This can occur only when it realises that the pursuit of moral uprightness is a greater good than all the attractions of subjective good. And here we are face to face with a serious difficulty. On one hand, we experience real, lively action from the good that we feel; on the other, stands a simple rule, a cold law, a kind of compass showing us the way without helping us to follow it. Reason never ceases to affirm, however, that this supremely worthy norm can never be changed or overcome. The norm commands, and goes on commanding with equal force whether it is obeyed or not. For those who disobey, its command stands as a condemnation.

The sublime, noble nature of this law is the immobile point used by the will for its leverage. From this point the will draws strength to overcome and disregard all sensible good, despite the immediate, real action exerted by this good. In other words, the will is capable of enhancing the law's authority in its own regard and rendering this authority more powerful than the attraction of things opposed to the law. The will can ensure that following the law becomes a greater good for it than anything the will could attain by breaking the law. In this way, the will increases the power that good has over it. This capacity for perceiving one of the things present to the will as a good superior to all other good forms the principal force underpinning the efficacy of freedom.

699. Summing up, we may say that the operation with which the will consents to rest in one good rather than another is the result of two elements: 1. the natural action on the will by the known, supposed, experienced good (here the will is passive); 2. the consent of the will without which the activity of the will remains suspended (here the will is active).

Moreover, this consent is either spontaneous or free. It is spontaneous if it does not resist what naturally attracts the will, and if it yields to a single felt impression or to the strongest when several impressions are experienced. It is free if it stands up to disordered attraction and uses the mastery described in Scripture: `Lust shall be under you, and you shall have dominion over it.'

700. Such dominion can only be employed if the will perceives and experiences sufficient light of truth to reach the practical persuasion that this light is worth more than all possible subjective good. In order to attain this persuasion, however, and through it disembellish the lively stimulus and felt attraction of contrary objects, the will needs time (it is understood that we are now speaking of the will's natural forces); it cannot carry through its persuasion instantly. Normally, prolonged meditation and exercise are needed to appreciate - at least at a certain level of efficacy - the extraordinary beauty of virtue. In general, we can say that attention to, meditation on, and contemplation of the value of things is the normal means used by the natural will to reinforce the perception of their worth, and to render such worth more immediate and operative. The action received by human beings from the good they know is not in proportion to this good in itself, but to the good as apprehended, considered and experienced by us. In a word, its value depends on the way it exists in our feeling, in our spirit, in our understanding and in our persuasion.

But, as we said, carrying out these acts requires time; here below our will acts only in time. Consequently it first needs sufficient virtue to withhold its consent for a moment from the importunate, feelable object stimulating and pressurising it. Only then can the will arm itself with the weapons forged through intense concentration, wise and careful meditation and loving, peaceful contemplation. Before beginning any deliberation about choosing between a more stimulating or a more authoritative object, the will must ask itself: `Should I consent immediately, or should wait and think about what I am doing?' But it is precisely this which sometimes escapes the will. The question implies a mind at peace in moments when it is often distraught and goaded to action.

701. Unfortunately it can and does happen that the stimulus acts with overwhelming force and urgency; it first disturbs and then attracts all the soul's attention. In such a case, the stimulus becomes infinitely powerful relative to the law, which begins to be heard less distinctly, and finally fades completely as attention is removed from it. Opposition on the part of the law is swept away as though non-existent, and the will, apparently incited and moved by a single stimulus, reacts spontaneously as other resistance ceases. Suspension of assent is eliminated at such moments; the will is a prey to determination.

The fact that I am describing can be seen easily enough in the first movements of what are commonly called `irresistible passions'. During the brief moment in which they take place, their power over the will is sufficient to eliminate the time needed for reflection and suspension of judgment, while the unreflecting will, taken off guard by the sharpness of the stimulus, follows the passions with spontaneous movement as they attract the soul's energy and prevent further thought. On the one hand, all the soul's energy is built up in a single direction; on the other hand, if the soul's total energy is built up by degrees and devoted exhaustively in one direction, any contrary stimulus is soon annihilated and the will gives its irreparable assent.(293)

702. But we have to examine more carefully this defect of weakness in the will, as we have called it, and uncover its intimate nature. We said that in free actions choice precedes all that the will does, and we called this executive force of free choice the practical force. The heart and the energy proper to freedom are found in this practical force which ecclesiastical writers have always distinguished from simple choice. It may be helpful, therefore, if we use some of their statements as witness to the admirable harmony between the conclusions we have reached through meditation on human nature and the teaching found in the most respected traditions.

The 6th General Council, held at Constantinople, considers that the integrity of human freedom is to be found in this energy.(294) Isidore of Seville, in distinguishing between simple choice and the energy proper to freedom, says expressly that when the human race fell through original sin `it lost the energy of its free will, but not its power of choice'.(295) Consequently, the weakness we must analyse pertains to the practical force, although there is a close connection between this practical force and choice itself.(296)

703. We also said that the practical force is first used in the simple volition, that is, in the act of choice, and then in the act of command, that is, in the power exercised by the volition over the inferior faculties. We need to consider weakness of the will, therefore, both in simple volition and in the command which the volition exercises over the other powers. This weakness plays a great part in the disobedience shown to the will by the other powers although we cannot deny that, independently of this defect, the dominion of the will is limited by the poor disposition of these powers in their recalcitrant subjection to the will, whose yoke they do not easily bear. Hence difficulty in doing good, which St. Augustine describes as a wound contracted by human nature through original sin, depends equally on the weakness of our volition and on the insubordination of the other powers as they go their own ways.

Notes

(278) Anastasius of Sinai, in his odhgou, or Guide.

(279) `Having come to the age of discretion, the human being, by means of his free will, can make use of good and evil just as he pleases '. St. Catherine of Siena, Tratt., 1, ch. 14.

(280) The very strict connection between the determining act and volition caused these two acts to be taken as one in the sense that the second must follow on the first, although even here a verbal distinction was still made between them. For example: `DETERMINING the will is not an entity distinct from the will and its ACT' (Gregory of Rimini, a noted 14th century theologian, in II Sent., dist. 34, 35, q. 1, art. 3). In this quotation, the determining act is not an entity distinct from will and volition, but even speaking about them in this way shows that they were at least considered as mentally distinct.

(281) Rom 7: [18]. St Bernard explains this as follows: `Without the support of its faculty', (that is, without its practical force) `the will is prostrate' (Serm. 88, In Cant.).

(282) Ibid. [7: 19].

(283) Philippe Pinel, Trattato medico-filosofico sopra l'alienazione mentale, Sez. 3.

(284) Op. cit..

(285) Cf. PE, 182-192, and Storia comparativa de' Sistemi intorno al principio della Morale, c. 1, and c. 8, art. 3, §3-5.

(286) The distinction between the two instincts is expressed very clearly in the Bible. St. John, for example, speaks of a will of the flesh and of a human will. These two wills can only signify the will in so far as it obeys what we have called animal instinct, and in so far as it obeys what we have called human instinct.

(287) Laws, 9.

(288) Diog. Laerz, bk. 3.

(289) Cf. De Clementia, bk 1.

(290) De Consol. ad Apoll. It comes as no surprise that this truth, asserted six thousand years ago and repeated ever since, causes certain people weariness and irritation. The desire to appear original prompted one writer to begin a work with the words: `Human beings are born good; society corrupts them.' But how, if we are good, can we form a corrupt society always and everywhere (in the last analysis, society is simply the union of many human beings)? Rousseau, in avoiding the problem of the origin of human corruption, had to face that of the origin of corruption in society. He neither loosened nor cut the knot; he simply transposed it.

(291) I do not mean that the will of itself acts less quickly than instinct. Rather, it is held back by the deliberation which precedes volition whenever several motives for acting, each one capable of moving the will, are present. If no deliberation or choice, but only spontaneous movement is needed, the will is as swift to act as the instinct.

(292) Nevertheless, it is not unreasonable to ask whether benevolent feelings in older doctors are indeed less strong than in their younger colleagues. We could be misled here by another law that we have observed, which dominates the whole theory of capacity for feeling: `Partial and superficial feelings are more accentuated and more apt to draw the attention of persons experiencing them than the same feelings developed at a more universal level, because such growth in feelings makes them less amenable to reflection although more efficacious in moving instinctively into action.' For example, when we eat we are governed in our choice of food more by the hidden indications of our rather general and less obvious alimentary feeling, as we have called it, than by the restricted sense of taste which is usually the sole object of our observation and thought. I think that the feeling of humanity which governs concerned action for our neighbour becomes more general and more profound as such action grows and, as a result, becomes less lively but more efficacious.

(293) We have to pay great attention to the development of this act of will, which sometimes passes through three different stages. There is first a necessary stage constituted by the natural inclination towards all the good or particular elements which the will can choose. At the second stage of choice, the will is moving towards free choice. Then in the third stage, the will is no longer inclined or in a state of deliberation, but actually determined in one way or another. From this point onwards, it is no longer free. The passage to the final stage always arises as `all the stimuli or good things competing with the conquering stimulus gradually lessen their activity on the will' in such a way that the action of this prevailing stimulus becomes sufficiently strong and dominating to render other things of little or no value compared with it. If we now ask whether the absolute prevalence of the single stimulus and the corresponding diminution of other stimuli comes about freely or through necessity, we find that it sometimes take place in one way, sometimes in another. Very often freedom prevails, but it cannot be denied that there are cases (of dementia, for example) when an impulse of animal instinct proves so strong and unexpected that it necessarily pressurises the will, leaving its judgment and activity open to the most extraordinary errors and eccentricities.

(294) `The integrity of human substance is constituted by the essential will through which the ENERGY of free will is impressed in us.' 3rd Council of Constantinople, 680 A.D., in the opening sermon before the Emperor Constantine.

(295) `After our fall from the good present in nature through seduction by the serpent, we also lost the ENERGY OF FREE WILL, but not however CHOICE' (De Doctr. et Fide, 20). Rabanus Maurus, the celebrated archbishop of Magonza, quoted the words of Isidore two centuries later in his great work, `On the Universe', where he says: `After Adam fell through Eve by the seduction of the serpent, he lost what was good in nature together with his ENERGY OF FREE WILL, but not however CHOICE' (bk. 4, c. 10).

(296) Normally, we choose not to do an action when we feel that lack of practical force prevents us from carrying it out.