Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy [1 ed.] 1032291060, 9781032291062

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Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy

This book considers different forms of voluntarism developed from the thirteenth to eighteenth centuries. By crossing the conventional dividing line between the medieval and early modern periods, the volume draws important new insights on the historical development of voluntarism. Voluntarism places a special emphasis on the will when it comes to the analysis and explanation of fundamental philosophical questions and problems. Since the Middle Ages, voluntarist considerations and views played an important role in the development of different theories of action, ethics, metaethics, and metaphysics. The chapters in this volume are grouped according to three distinct kinds of voluntarism: psychological, ethical, and theological voluntarism. They address topics such as the threat of irrationality as the standard objection to voluntarism, incontinent actions and their explanation, the nature of the will as rational appetite, the relationship between intellect and will, the implications of conceptions of the will for political freedom, and the relations between divine freedom and the modal status of eternal truths. The chapters not only consider towering figures of the Middle Ages—Thomas Aquinas, Henry of Ghent, William of Ockham, Francisco de Vitoria—and early modern period—René Descartes, Thomas Hobbes, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Samuel Pufendorf—but also engage with less well-­known figures such as Peter John Olivi, John of Pouilly, Catharine Trotter Cockburn, and Christian August Crusius. Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy will appeal to scholars and advanced students working in medieval philosophy, early modern philosophy, the history of ethics, and philosophy of religion. Sonja Schierbaum is currently leader of the Emmy Noether research group “Practical Reasons Before Kant (1720–1780)” at the University of Würzburg. She is the author of Ockham’s Assumption of Mental Speech (2014) and has co-edited a volume on late-medieval conceptions of self-knowledge (with Dominik Perler, 2014). Jörn Müller is Professor of Ancient and Medieval Philosophy at the University of Würzburg. His research focuses on practical philosophy, anthropology, and philosophical psychology. His publications include monographs on Aristotle’s ethics, Albert the Great and Henry of Ghent, as well as on weakness of will from Socrates to Duns Scotus.

Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy Edited by Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller

First published 2024 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. ISBN: 978-1-032-29106-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-29108-6 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-30006-9 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069 Typeset in Sabon by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)

Contents

Acknowledgements viii List of Contributors ix Abbreviations xiii Introduction–Voluntarism: Central Philosophical Issues and Problems

1

SONJA SCHIERBAUM AND JÖRN MÜLLER

PART I

Psychological Voluntarism

25

1 Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism? A Medieval Case Study

27

DOMINIK PERLER

2 Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia: Radicalizing Views on Incontinence around 1277

46

JÖRN MÜLLER

3 Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on “Aristotle’s Prophecy about Incontinence”

67

TOBIAS HOFFMANN

4 Descartes and Leibniz on the Nature of the Will STEPHAN SCHMID

86

vi Contents

5 Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria

105

CHRISTOPHE GRELLARD

PART II

Ethical Voluntarism

123

6 The Blind Will Is No King: Henry of Ghent’s Voluntarism and the Act of Choice

125

MICHAEL SZLACHTA

7 Descartes’s Conception of Freedom: Between Voluntarism and Intellectualism

143

ARIANE CÄCILIE SCHNECK

8 Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium 161 THOMAS PINK

9 Freedom of the Will and the Passions in Pufendorf’s Action Theory

180

HEIKKI HAARA

10 Heavenly “Freedom” in Fourteenth-Century Voluntarism 199 ERIC W. HAGEDORN

PART III

Theological Voluntarism

217

11 From Moral to Modal Voluntarism: Descartes on the Status of Eternal Truths

219

SEBASTIAN BENDER

12 Grounding the Principle of Plenitude, or Why Leibniz Rehabilitated Divine Will URSULA RENZ AND SARAH TROPPER

235

Contents  vii

13 Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism 251 RUTH BOEKER

14 Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation: An Alternative to Theological Voluntarism? 271 SONJA SCHIERBAUM

Index 290

Acknowledgements

This book is the outcome of an online conference on medieval and early modern varieties of voluntarism held in July 2021, in which almost all of the contributors to this volume participated. The original plan had been for an in-­person conference at the University of Würzburg in July 2020, which of course was delayed because of the pandemic; but we decided to hold the conference online the next summer in order not to postpone it for too long. We are grateful to the participants for supporting this change to an online format. We would also like to thank the contributors for their excellent work and their patience, without which it would not have been possible for this volume to take its present form. The volume could not have been realized without the assistance, expertise, and support of further people. We warmly thank our copy editor, Ian Drummond, for his rigour and precision, which greatly contributed to the quality of the present volume. The patience and perseverance of Andrew Weckenmann from Routledge was also central. The book project could not have been realized without the support and generous funding of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (project no. 417 359 636).

Contributors

Sebastian Bender is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the Georg August University of Göttingen. His research focuses on early modern philosophy (especially rationalism). He also has strong interests in metaphysics (especially the topics of modality, causation, and persistence). He currently works on a project on early modern theories of causation as well as on several papers dealing with early modern philosophy (authors include Spinoza, Conway, Leibniz, Berkeley, Hume, and Kant). He has published in journals such as Philosophers’ Imprint, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie, Ergo, and Hume Studies. Ruth Boeker is Assistant Professor in Philosophy at University College Dublin. Her research focuses on early modern philosophy and lies at the intersection between metaphysics, philosophy of mind, and ethics. She has worked extensively on John Locke’s account of persons and personal identity. Her other work has focused on Catharine Trotter Cockburn, the Third Earl of Shaftesbury, David Hume, and Scottish Enlightenment philosophy. She is the author of Locke on Persons and Personal Identity (2021) and Catharine Trotter Cockburn (2023). She has, moreover, published several articles in journals such as History of Philosophy Quarterly, Hume Studies, International Journal of Philosophical Studies, Journal of the History of Philosophy, Locke Studies, Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, and Philosophy Compass. Christophe Grellard is Professor at the École Pratique des Hautes Études (EPHE, PSL) in Paris, in the Department of Religious Studies, and a fellow of the Laboratoire d’Études sur les monothéismes (CNRS). His chair is entitled “Medieval Systems of Thoughts and Beliefs.” He specializes in the anthropology of faith, nominalism and theology, and the history of scepticism in the Middle Ages. He is the author of La possibilità dell’errore: pensare la tolleranza nel Medioevo (2020), De la certitude volontaire: debats nominalistes sur la foi à la fin du Moyen Âge (2014), and numerous articles in journals such as Vivarium, Freiburger

x Contributors Zeitschrift für Philosophie und Theologie, and Recherches de théologie et philosophie médiévales. Heikki Haara is a University Lecturer in Political History in the Faculty of Social Sciences at the University of Helsinki. His research interests have principally been early modern moral and political thought. He has published articles in academic journals such as the Journal of the History of Ideas, Political Theory, British Journal for the History of Philosophy and Journal of Scottish Philosophy. He is the author of Pufendorf’s Theory of Sociability: Passions, Habits and Social Order (2018), and the co-­editor of Rights at Margins: Historical, Philosophical and Legal Perspectives (2020) and Passions, Politics and the Limits of Society (2020). He is also co-­editor-­in-­chief of the book series Helsinki Yearbook of Intellectual History. Eric W. Hagedorn is Associate Professor of Philosophy at St. Norbert College (USA). His research is concentrated in the fields of philosophy of mind, language, and logic (especially that of the later medieval period). His dissertation was written on William of Ockham and the role his theory of mental language plays in his broader logical and ontological views. He has published work on Thomas Aquinas’s philosophy of mind and personal identity, and is working on bringing some largely forgotten medieval approaches to the mind to bear on open questions in contemporary philosophy of mind. He is the author of William of Ockham: Questions on Virtue, Moral Goodness, and the Will (2020), which includes translations and a scholarly introduction. He has published articles in journals such as Oxford Studies of Medieval Philosophy and Proceedings of the of the American Catholic Philosophical Association. Tobias Hoffmann is Professor of Medieval Philosophy at Sorbonne Université. His research interests encompass ethics, moral psychology, and metaphysics, especially in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. His recent work focuses on theories of free will. He is the author of Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy (2021), and he has edited several volumes such as A Companion to Angels in Medieval Philosophy (2012). He has also published numerous articles in journals such as Vivarium, Philosophers’ Imprint, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie, and History of Philosophy Quarterly. Dominik Perler is Professor of Theoretical Philosophy and History of Philosophy at the Humboldt University of Berlin and Co-­Director of the Centre for Advanced Studies in the Humanities “Human Abilities”. In 2006 he was awarded the Gottfried-­Wilhelm-­Leibniz-­Preis. His research focuses on medieval and early modern philosophy, mostly in the areas

Contributors  xi of philosophy of mind, epistemology, and ontology. He is the author of numerous articles and several books, the most recent of which are: Eine Person sein. Philosophische Debattten im Spätmittelalter (2021) and Feelings Transformed. Philosophical Theories of the Emotions, 1270– 1670 (2018). Thomas Pink is Professor of Philosophy at King’s College in London. His main interests are in ethics, philosophy of mind and action, philosophy of law, and in medieval and early modern philosophy. He has published an edition of Francisco Suárez’s moral and political works, and is editing The Questions Concerning Liberty, Necessity and Chance for the Clarendon Edition of the works of Thomas Hobbes. He is the author of Self-­Determination: The Ethics of Action, Vol. 1. He has published widely in journals including Philosophical Explorations, Organon, Quaestio, Thomist, and Inquiry, and in edited volumes such as the Oxford Handbook of Medieval Philosophy (2012) and The Cambridge Companion to Natural Law Jurisprudence (2017). Ursula Renz is Professor for the History of Philosophy at the Department of Philosophy, University of Graz, as well as Head of the Section History of Philosophy and Director of the Alexius Meinong-­Institute. Her research focus lies on early modern philosophy, especially epistemology, metaphysics, philosophy of mind and moral psychology as well as philosophy of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. She has also published on the history of analytic philosophy and on systematic questions of theoretical philosophy, in journals including European Journal of Philosophy, Kant-­Studien, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie, British Journal of the History of Philosophy, and Synthese. Her systematic interests touch upon conceptions of self-­ knowledge, identity, emotions, and the relation of descriptive and revisionary metaphysics. She has received several awards, among them the Journal of the History of Philosophy Book Prize 2011, a Humboldt fellowship for senior researchers, and a shortlisting of her book Was denn bitte ist kulturelle Identität for the Tractatus-­Essay-­Prize in 2019. Stephan Schmid is Professor for the History of Philosophy at the University of Hamburg and Co-­Director of the Maimonides Centre for Advanced Studies (MCAS). He is interested in Late Medieval and early modern philosophy, where he focuses mainly on metaphysical questions (about causality and modality), epistemological questions (scepticism), and questions concerning the philosophy of mind (theories of intentionality and mental faculties). He has edited the volume Philosophy of Mind in the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Routledge, 2018) and co-­ edited several other volumes and special issues, such as “Final Causes

xii Contributors and Teleological Explanations,” Vol. 14 of Logical Analysis and the History of Philosophy (with D. Perler); and Sceptical Paths: Essays on Scepticisms from Antiquity until the Early Modern Period and Beyond (2019). He has also published in journals including Ergo, Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung, and Logical Analysis and History of Philosophy. Ariane Cäcilie Schneck is Research Associate (“wissenschaftliche Mitarbeiterin”) at the Chair of History of Philosophy and Practical Philosophy at the University of Bielefeld. Her research focuses on Early modern philosophy (esp. Descartes and Elisabeth of Bohemia), the philosophy of mind (especially philosophy of the emotions), and ethics. She has published an article on Elisabeth of Bohemia in the British Journal for the History of Philosophy. Michael Szlachta is Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy at St. Francis Xavier University (Canada). His research is focused on the controversies concerning human freedom and the causal relationship between cognitive powers and the will in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. He is also interested in how the different conceptions of freedom held by philosophers and theologians in this period map onto the contemporary free will debate. He has published articles in History of Philosophy Quarterly, Oxford Studies in Medieval Philosophy, and Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie médiévales. Sarah Tropper is Assistant Professor in the Section History of Philosophy at the University of Graz. After her master’s degree in philosophy at the University of Graz, she earned her PhD at King’s College, London, with a thesis on Leibniz’s notion of simplicity. Before she joined the Department of Philosophy at Graz, she was a postdoc in a project on Spinoza. Her research focus lies on early modern rationalism and late medieval philosophy.

Abbreviations

Gottfried W. Leibniz, Philosophical Essays, ed. and trans. Roger Ariew and Dan Garber (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1989) AT Œuvres de Descartes, ed. Charles Adam and Paul Tannery, 12 vols. (Paris: Cerf, 1897–1910) CCSL Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina (Turnhout: Brepols, 1953–) CSM The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vols. 1–2, ed. and trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984) CSMK The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. 3, The Correspondence, ed. and trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991) FC Nouvelles lettres et opuscules inédits de Leibniz, ed. Foucher de Careil (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1859) Leonina Thomas Aquinas, Opera omnia iussu Leonis XIII P.M. edita, ed. Commissio Leonina (Rome: Commissio Leonina, 1882–; Paris: Cerf, 1982–) Ord. Ordinatio OTh William of Ockham, Opera Theologica, ed. Gedeon Gál et al., 10 vols. (St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1967–1986) PL Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, 221 vols. (Paris: Migne, 1878–1890) QQ. disp. Quaestiones disputatae Quodl. Quodlibet Rep. Reportatio ST Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae Vat. John Duns Scotus, Opera omnia, ed. Carolus Balić et al., 21 vols. (Vatican City: Typis polyglottis, 1950–2015) AG

Introduction Voluntarism: Central Philosophical Issues and Problems Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller

1 The Topic of Voluntarism and Its Philosophical Significance “Voluntarism” is an umbrella term used to designate a variety of approaches which attribute a special role to the will (voluntas in Latin) in the analysis and explanation of fundamental philosophical questions and problems.1 One area in which this comes to the fore is the question of actions and their ascription to agents. It is a basic voluntaristic intuition (though its appeal is not restricted to voluntarists) that in order for an agent’s acts to be properly imputable to the agent, it must be possible for one to act differently from how one judges one ought to act.2 At the heart of voluntarism lies the idea of freedom of indifference as the power to do otherwise, which is rooted in the mode of action of the will. That is to say, freedom of indifference presupposes not only freedom of action, but also freedom of decision or choice: the voluntarist idea of freedom of indifference entails the possibility of different decisions in the same circumstances, but in a way that does not undermine the rationality of choice.3 In this respect, voluntarism differs crucially from rationalism, or intellectualism, since rationalists like Leibniz and Wolff also defend freedom of action but deny freedom of decision. They argue that although the choice of an agent is psychologically determined by what the agent conceives to be best in a given situation, the action is not necessary but contingent and free, insofar as the alternatives are possible at least in a logical sense: the agent could have acted differently if he had decided otherwise.4 It should be emphasized that Leibniz and Wolff conceive of contingency in terms of a kind of necessity, namely, hypothetical necessity, such that free will is consistent with the psychological determinism underlying their theories of action. For an action to be contingent and hence free, it is sufficient that it be not “absolutely” (i.e., logically) necessary, though it can be hypothetically necessary.5 By contrast, the idea of freedom of indifference presupposes a strong modal conception of contingency that does not collapse into any form of necessity. Put in causal terms, the idea of a power to do otherwise implies the strong notion of a

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-1

2  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller contingent cause. At least since the later Middle Ages, voluntarists have usually been committed to strong metaphysical assumptions about the will, which in the final analysis is conceived of as a contingent cause in the guise of a self-­moving power in control of its own acts.6 The connection between the core idea of freedom of indifference and a strong modal conception of contingency underlying the use of this power explains the wide range of the areas in which voluntaristic approaches have been applied, such as theory of action, ethics, metaethics, and metaphysics. This connection also gives a certain family resemblance and unity to the wide variety of views that are usually considered voluntarist. The close connection between the will and the modal concept of contingency becomes even clearer if one considers the fact that, at least since the Middle Ages, God has been conceived of as an agent with the powers of intellect and will. It is not just that if the divine agent is to will something freely, there must be a strong conception of contingency in place; the same applies to human agents and their freedom of indifference.7 What is special about the divine agent, in contrast to the human agent, is that the way the divine intellect and will are characterized has implications for both the modal space and the modal makeup of the actual world.8 In a weak sense, contingency is a feature of the actual world because the divine will’s act of creating the world is contingent: the world is contingent because it is created contingently.9 In a stronger sense, contingency is a feature of the actual world insofar as it includes human freedom of indifference as a contingent cause. In both senses, contingency as a feature of the world is grounded in the conception of the divine powers. Contingency in the first sense follows immediately from the (free) use of the divine power of will, whereas contingency in the second is entailed by the requirement that creation be ­consistent with God’s powers. The voluntarist idea is that this consistency requires human freedom of indifference as a feature of the actual world. As noted earlier, the voluntarist intuition is that moral responsibility and imputation presuppose freedom of indifference. God’s power of will is also important for voluntarists in a metaethical respect, insofar as the moral goodness or badness of entities such as actions is determined by their relation to the divine will. This metaethical conception is commonly called theological voluntarism.10 Very roughly, the idea is that divine will is crucial to explaining the obligatory character of actions, while the content of obligations (i.e., which actions are obligatory) is also determined in relation to the divine intellect insofar as moral truths are located in God’s intellect.11 The idea that God’s intellect is the domain of logic and modalities in general (i.e., everything that is possible or necessary) comes into full bloom in the early modern period with Leibniz. We would therefore like to suggest that two factors are crucial to voluntarism. The first is the conception of the will as a self-­determining power.

Introduction  3 Note that the conception of the will as a free power is typically connected with a highly positive evaluation or appreciation of the will. Also, the will is usually identified as the “locus” of the (acting) self and as the seat of our personality. This strong appreciation of the will rules out a similarly strong, positive evaluation of the intellect according to the voluntarist.12 Equally important, and closely connected with the strong conception of the will as a free power, is the second factor, a strong modal concept of contingency. Given that these two features are, in our view, jointly constitutive of voluntarism, it is not surprising that in medieval philosophy, the dividing line between voluntarism and other positions (most notably, intellectualism) is somewhat unclear. There are many views that include only one of these features. This is why the crucial – but not uncontroversial – conceptual distinction between voluntarism and intellectualism captures only some important dividing lines between different authors and schools of thought, especially in medieval and early modern philosophy.13 Speaking generally, however, positions are classified as either voluntarist or intellectualist according to whether they take the intellect or the will to be more “in charge” and in control of one’s choices and actions.14 If the intellect is taken to be more important, then the position can be called intellectualist; if the will is taken to be the main power that is ultimately in control of choice and action, then the position can be classified as voluntarist. Against this backdrop, it is easy to understand why it has been suggested that we should distinguish among different kinds of voluntarism: a psychological voluntarism, an ethical one, and a theological one.15 This classification is made according to differences in focus among different theories, but in our view, it becomes even more plausible in light of the two characteristics of voluntarism and their connection.16 In psychological voluntarism, there is a focus on the volitional and affective aspects of human nature. This psychological voluntarism is crucial, for instance, in theory of action and philosophical psychology. It also touches upon central philosophical problems such as how incontinent (i.e., weak-­willed) actions are possible.17 In ethical voluntarism, there is a focus on the will’s indeterminacy as a presupposition of moral responsibility, which has serious consequences for the understanding of moral normativity and the virtues, which are then conceptualized as “virtues of the will.”18 Lastly, theological voluntarism is central to the metaethical question of the grounding of morality, insofar as God’s will is considered crucial to determining the moral status of at least some classes of entities, such as states of affairs or actions. This form of voluntarism emphasizes that divine omnipotence is the freedom to will anything that is consistent with the principle of non-­contradiction. These forms of voluntarism were developed in full-­ fledged form in the thirteenth century,19 though medieval voluntarism can be traced back to the twelfth century.20 Due to the close connection between

4  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller the will and contingency, and the fact that God is conceived of as an agent, the divine powers are conceived of as both the modal space and the ground of morality. In contemporary scholarly investigations, there is a tendency to focus on just one kind of voluntarism.21 In the present volume, however, we intend not only to cover these three kinds of voluntarism, but also to make clear the extent to which they are connected to each other through the two general features of voluntarism that we have identified, as well as to what extent they might be logically independent of each other. The volume is therefore much broader in scope than other investigations of voluntarism, which are usually focused on specific aspects of its significance in various areas such as action theory, freedom, moral psychology (e.g., the concept of virtue), and the normative status of moral laws. This more encompassing perspective also applies to the historical scope of the investigation: the volume is designed to cover a period from the thirteenth century to the eighteenth, thus going against the grain of historical scholarship, which customarily stays within the limits of pre-­defined eras (e.g., antiquity, the Middle Ages, the early modern period) in treating a subject. We think that these conventional historical dividing lines can sometimes be an obstacle to new insights into the development of philosophical problems. In this way, not only will the development of voluntarism be outlined in a continuous way across the two periods in the history of philosophy, but we will also be able to better understand different voluntarist views through the reciprocal illumination of the two periods that this presentation offers. For since the treatment of issues in early modern philosophy is in many cases rooted in medieval discussions, their full philosophical scope becomes clear only when both periods are considered; as well, early modern philosophy developed categories and principles which can be applied to medieval texts in a non-­anachronistic way. We provide here an example to help demonstrate the benefits of this era-­ crossing approach. It could be argued that the opposition between medieval intellectualists and voluntarists is not as clear-­cut as it appeared in Leibniz’s time. Usually intellectualists are taken to be opponents of indeterminism, not least because they lack a strong concept of contingency, while voluntarists usually champion the idea. In the thirteenth century, however, this distinction seems blurred, because both intellectualists and voluntarists reject ethical determinism.22 The intellectualist explanation of human action depends on the idea that practical deliberation involves a certain kind of indeterminacy. Thus, at least some medieval intellectualists are not committed to the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR), which they did not formulate explicitly in the way it was by Leibniz, who gave the principle its name. This raises the question of whether adherence to the PSR constitutes a clear dividing line between voluntarists and intellectualists. One decisive

Introduction  5 factor in the lack of clarity could be the fact that God’s intellect was explicitly conceived of as the domain of logic and modalities only with Leibniz in the early modern period. Thus, the present volume aims to detect and make clear central historical and systematic developments and changes, such as the possible shift in commitment to the PSR by the voluntarists’ opponents. In our view, it is only through this era-­crossing approach that it is possible to explain why the distinction between indeterminism and determinism came in the early modern period to correspond entirely to the distinction between voluntarism and intellectualism. 2 Varieties of Voluntarism in Their Historical Development In the following, we will sketch the development of three varieties of voluntarism in medieval and early modern thinking, namely psychological, ethical, and theological (or metaphysical) voluntarism, which also serve to determine the main parts of the whole volume. The main purpose is not to provide an overview of the scholarly literature available on these topics, but to lay out the general framework in which the individual chapters of our volume are arranged. The contributions are outlined in a more substantive and detailed way than is typical in introductions to volumes such as this, so that the overall historical development is characterized in a more fine-­grained way and so that the links between the chapters emerge more clearly. 2.1 Psychological Voluntarism

The first four chapters are centred on issues which are crucial to the psychological variety of voluntarism. Theologians and philosophers in the late Middle Ages mostly relied on a model of the human soul according to which it either is divided into different parts (following Plato) or contains different faculties (in the wake of Aristotle’s De anima), ranging from the sensory powers to intellectual cognition and from brute appetites to higher-­ order reasoned volition. In general, this psychological picture involves both the attribution of certain powers and the activities enabled by them to the soul, and an analysis of how these powers interact. Both cognition and appetition are understood as involving a sequence of internal acts by different powers; thus, a question which naturally arises concerns the causal connections between these powers. In the case of human action, nearly all authors agree that the observable external act is preceded by multiple internal acts, and that these internal acts are produced by a complex interplay of intellect and will, for otherwise intentional human action could not be distinguished from mere animal behaviour. But when it comes

6  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller to the form of causality which is involved in this interplay, there are enormous differences among the various late medieval accounts, especially with regard to the relationship between intellect and will. Is one of them subordinated to the other in a kind of “chain of command,” so that its activity is causally dependent on the activity of the other? And if so, which of them is ultimately in charge, intellect or will? Psychological voluntarism focuses on the idea that the will is the most “noble” power in the human soul; this superiority is often explained in terms of the will’s pre-­eminent causal contribution in the production of actions. Dominik Perler picks up the thread of such considerations in juxtaposing two models of the psychological interplay between intellect and will (Chapter 1). One model is exemplified by Siger of Brabant, who conceptualizes the production of the internal act as involving a chain of efficient causes. The intellect forms a judgement about what is best in the situation and hands it to the will, which executes it because of the efficient causality exerted by the judgement. Siger thus advocates a conditional determinism: if the intellect provides the judgement p, the will has to produce a corresponding volition. This does not include the idea that the intellect necessarily produces exactly this judgement, and therefore this analysis does not lead to an unrestricted determinism. Henry of Ghent rejects this analysis by turning the judgement of reason from a “cause on account of which something is the case” (causa propter quam) into a “cause without which something cannot be the case” (causa sine qua non), which is an occasional cause on which the will might act or not, since the ultimate decision rests with the will, which is causally indeterminate and moves itself. In invoking these different forms of causation, Henry does not fall prey to the standard objection against voluntarist account of actions, that they inevitably lead to irrational action. For human action is triggered by the will on the basis of occasional causes (and not randomly), and these causes are related to intellectual judgements about what is good; thus, the will still operates sub ratione boni, that is, “under the guise of the (cognized) good.” By this move, Henry wants to safeguard the idea of the will as an autonomous two-­way power which is able to reject any judgement of reason instead of acting on it without alternative. This also involves other causal relationships of the will with the intellect which can be explained in terms of efficient causality: the will can direct the intellect’s attention and even trigger the production of new judgements. Thus, the will is ultimately the king of the human soul, and the intellect acts as an adviser, or as a servant taking its orders from its master. But as Perler emphasizes, the significant point here is not simply the psychological hierarchy of the rational powers, but rather an indirect rejection of the Principle of Sufficient Reason (as later articulated by Leibniz). Basically, late medieval voluntarism involves the idea that the will is a free non-­natural cause, the activity of which cannot be fully explained by antecedent causes or

Introduction  7 reasons. The will itself must be regarded as the ultimate cause of action: in its ability to move itself, the will must provide the ultimate explanation of every rational action, for otherwise we end up in a kind of infinite regress of explanations.23 In order to make his case, Henry refers to two examples: the fall of the rebel angels, which cannot be explained rationally, and so the ultimate explanation for it is their own devious wills; and the phenomenon of weak-­ willed actions by human beings who intentionally go against their better judgement, although they could have done otherwise. In general, weak-­ willed action is a test case for models of human agency and intentional action, and this also holds for medieval discussions of voluntarist and intellectualist accounts. These controversies involve the validity of two basic principles which are deeply rooted in the intellectualism handed down in the Socratic-­Platonic tradition (and maintained by, e.g., Thomas Aquinas): Judgement-­Volition Conformity: Willing conforms to what reason judges as what is to be willed. Socratic Deficiency: Deficient willing presupposes deficient cognition.24 Intellectualists usually subscribe to both Judgement-­Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency, whereas voluntarists battle fiercely against them. One major battleground of these debates was the Aristotelian analysis in book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics of akrasia, that is, weak-­willed action. The next two chapters form a kind of companion piece, highlighting the controversies in the interpretation of Aristotelian akrasia in the opposing camps in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Jörn Müller focuses on the use by voluntarist authors in the second half of the thirteenth century of Aristotelian akrasia in their arguments for a will-­centred account of human action (Chapter 2). He diagnoses a development which seems to be connected with the famous condemnation of 1277, many of the articles of which have a voluntarist flavour. Before 1277, authors such as Walter of Bruges and Henry of Ghent tried to accommodate the Aristotelian analysis of akrasia in their own voluntaristic picture of human agency and used it to subvert intellectualist account of actions. Their main claim is that Aristotle would also accept another thesis: Augustinian deficiency thesis: Deficient cognition presupposes deficient willing.25 After 1277, however, voluntarists portray Aristotle no longer as a potential ally, but as an enemy of their cause who ultimately did not overturn Judgement-­Volition Conformity or Socratic Deficiency because he saw as the root of the problem an intellectual failing caused by an upsurge of recalcitrant passions. Consequently, authors like William de la Mare and

8  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller Peter John Olivi turn away from the Aristotelian model of weak-­willed action to more radical cases in which the agent acts against a present and conscious judgement that it is wrong to perform this action. The stock example is the fall of Adam and Eve in paradise, which, like the sin of the rebel angels, ultimately defies rational explanation and goes beyond the framework of Aristotelian akrasia in the direction of clear-­eyed wrongdoing. This radicalization in the voluntaristic view of weak-­willed actions is not just significant as a historical development; it also relates to a new understanding of two forms of practical judgements and to the importance of “affective knowledge,” which is backed by the will, in contrast to the purely speculative knowledge of the practical intellect. Finally, the voluntarists emphasize the externalist character of intellectual judgement to such an extent that the possibility of acting against it is no longer a serious problem in need of an explanation, since one is already provided by the causal power of the will.26 Thus, in “weak-­willed” action, the will is not weak at all in its action-­guiding capacity, but very strong indeed. While Müller highlights developments within the voluntarist camp, Tobias Hoffmann takes a closer look at how intellectualists reacted to the challenge (Chapter 3). An important but understudied figure in this context is John of Pouilly, who denies the idea of clear-­eyed incontinence so cherished by voluntarists after 1277. According to John of Pouilly, one cannot act contrary to one’s all-­things-­considered judgement about what it is best to do in a situation (as long as one maintains that judgement). Consequently, he provides a reading of Aristotelian akrasia which rules out any voluntarist reading and makes it rather a fundamental support for Judgement-­ Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency, of which he gives a deepened analysis. Furthermore, he tries to show that even figures of the Christian tradition such as Augustine, Anselm of Canterbury, and Bernard of Clairvaux, who are usually regarded as forerunners of the voluntarist tradition, provide examples of wrongdoing which can be reconstructed in Aristotelian fashion as practical syllogisms. John of Pouilly proves quite clever in turning reluctant actions into weak-­willed actions in order to make his case. While Henry of Ghent thought (at least in the wake of the condemnation of 1277) that one had to turn one’s back on what he calls “Aristotle’s prophecy about incontinence” and return to a Christian voluntarist understanding of evil action (rooted in the idea that a bad human will is the cause of all morally wrong actions), John portrays the Christian tradition itself as supporting an intellectualist understanding of human action. The two chapters by Müller and Hoffmann not only provide ample evidence (1) that weakness of will was a major bone of contention between the intellectualist and voluntarist understandings of human action, and (2) that considering psychological voluntarism against the backdrop of incontinence as a limit case makes it possible to bring out more clearly what is

Introduction  9 specific to psychological voluntarism. They also take a step towards a closer analysis of ethical voluntarism. By reflecting on the relationship between cognition and volition in human action, medieval authors also address fundamental questions of human responsibility. Lurking in the background is the question of the origin of evil action and human culpability. Does moral evil begin in the will or in the intellect? This question pertains to the issue of free choice (liberum arbitrium), which will be treated in greater detail in Part II of this volume, on ethical voluntarism. The debate on the exact relationship between the will and its causality in relation to reason (which, as seen earlier, was at the centre of late medieval discussions) continued well into the early modern period. A particular focus was the understanding of the nature of the will. In the concluding chapter of Part I on psychological voluntarism, Stephan Schmid highlights the differences among views on this topic by comparing those of Descartes and Leibniz (Chapter 4). Descartes conceives of the will as a faculty of the soul, thus partly following the medieval consensus, but he criticizes a reificationist conception of faculties which turns them into homunculus-­like inner agents. He offers instead an instrumentalist account, according to which the soul makes use of the faculties. In his account, the will is understood as the basic capacity by which the agent assents to or denies ideas perceived by the intellect. He is thus a representative of doxastic voluntarism, according to which our beliefs are ultimately caused by the will. As Schmid shows, this is the major point of divergence for Leibniz, who does not share the idea that our beliefs are up to us; according to him, they depend not on our will but on external objects and our mental representations of them. He also offers a sweeping critique of the whole idea of faculty psychology (which was aimed at Suárez but also applies to Descartes’s conception). Leibniz sees faculties not as indeterminate dispositions which can be used by the soul, but as collections of already determinate activities or endeavours. In other words, the will does not produce volitions in any causal sense, but is constituted by them; the will is simply the tendency to be motivated by what our intellect perceives to be good or bad. Against the background of this conception, Leibniz develops a picture of freedom and free agency that is completely different from Descartes’s and ultimately reductive: the free agent is viewed as a “spiritual automaton” which unfolds over time. As Schmid points out, this view also has some intriguing implications for the understanding of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind. The debate between Descartes and Leibniz about the nature of the will thus turns on how the ontological status of the psychological faculties and their modes of agency are understood. Once the medieval faculty psychology was massively transformed (Descartes) or even left behind (Leibniz), new conceptions of human freedom arose; this trend is analysed in greater detail in Part II on ethical voluntarism.

10  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller Another aspect of the psychology of faculties in which the complex interplay between intellect and will comes to the fore is the act of faith. There is a general consensus in theology that the assent of faith is not a purely cognitive activity, but that the will has a crucial role to play in it; however, it is a bone of contention at exactly what point the will intervenes. Similarly, the question of the intertwining of natural and supernatural elements in the act of faith is disputed. In Chapter 5, Christophe Grellard shows that in Francisco de Vitoria’s account, the necessary starting point for this act is reason, since it involves an initial opinion which is usually built on trust in a personal or institutional authority. An act of faith still comes about by a natural process, but this can be turned into a supernatural one by the will, free choice (liberum arbitrium), and pious affection – that is, the disposition of the will to love God – which ensure that mere opinion is transformed into firm and certain confidence from which all hesitation and doubt are removed. Vitoria thinks that the will perfects the intellect, which is the subject of the act of faith, by a movement that is ultimately due to the infusion of the theological virtues. He thus follows a middle path between an extreme voluntarism of faith, according to which the efficient cause of the act of faith is the will alone (as seen in William of Ockham), and a strict naturalism, according to which the production of belief is ultimately unfree (as advocated by Robert Holcot). Vitoria’s account of voluntarism is thus twofold, in that it involves fides in its two dimensions of credulitas (the moral virtue of fidelity) and confidentia (a supernatural form of trust). Ultimately, the act of faith rests on a free decision; thus, the moral culpability for refusing to believe lies clearly with the will. 2.2 Ethical Voluntarism

Ethical voluntarism, the topic of the next five chapters, is closely connected with the idea that the source of our freedom is not reason (i.e., the intellect) but the will. The basic issue here is the understanding of free choice (liberum arbitrium), which was a major bone of contention in scholastic discussions.27 The understanding of this concept is of primary importance when it comes to the moral dimension of human actions. Discussions of the causality of human actions and how they are free necessarily involve complicated questions about moral accountability for our actions. Thus, the debate between voluntarist and intellectualist theories of action in the Middle Ages is not only about reason or will as the causal locus of agency, but more specifically about them as possible sources of moral responsibility. This debate is usually embedded in the question of how free choice and human freedom are to be understood. Famously, Thomas Aquinas saw the will as only the (material) seat of freedom and the intellect as the (formal) cause of it, so that the “root of

Introduction  11 freedom” is firmly located in the intellect.28 As Michael Szlachta shows (Chapter 6), this intellectualist grounding of freedom was contested by voluntarists such as Henry of Ghent. Henry argues that the will can freely choose the lesser of two goods against the judgement of reason; but in line with the chapter by Dominik Perler, Szlachta proves that this claim does not amount to understanding free choice as an arbitrary act or event: Henry still maintains that we will “through choice” (per electionem), which necessarily involves more than a pure “ostensive” causality on the part of reason; rather, there is a significant causal influence (influx) from reason on the will in the act of choice. According to Szlachta’s reading, the voluntarism inherent in Henry’s notion of free choice is considerably more nuanced than is sometimes acknowledged, in at least two respects. First, despite Henry’s catchy metaphor that the will is the king who directs the intellect as a servant carrying the lamp in front of him, he does not portray the will as a “blind” force (as was later done by, for example, Arthur Schopenhauer, who took up the metaphor). The will itself must have cognitions so that it can be influenced by the intellect in eliciting its choices. Second, according to this analysis, choice is more of a kind of “joint venture” between intellect and will; there is no real “gap” between the will and practical intellect, contrary to what the polarizing distinction between voluntarist and intellectualist accounts of human freedom seems to presuppose. If we take the findings of Perler and Szlachta (and partially also Müller) together, Henry of Ghent, one of the leading protagonists of the voluntarist movement in the second half of the thirteenth century, appears in a new light. Indeed, when it comes to the central question of free choice, the line between intellectualists and voluntarists is not drawn as clearly as is sometimes suggested in earlier scholarly literature. That the strict distinction between intellectualist and voluntarist accounts of human freedom deserves more than a question mark is also highlighted by Ariane Schneck in her discussion of Descartes’s conception of freedom (Chapter 7). She takes her cue from the scholarly controversy about Descartes’s seemingly inconsistent conception of human freedom, as there seem to be textual grounds for ascribing to him a (libertarian) voluntarist conception of freedom of indifference, as well as a (compatibilist) rationalist conception, according to which freedom is a kind of intellectual self-­determination. According to the two-­aspect model that Schneck develops, these tensions can be alleviated or even resolved; for it is possible to reconcile the rationalist element of intellectual self-­determination and the voluntarist element of the will as a genuine two-­way power if they are read as pertaining to two different levels (conceptual or otherwise). The highest degree of freedom is reached when the will follows the judgement of reason informed by certain knowledge about good and bad.

12  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller Schneck provides novel insights into the question of why the will as a faculty is so important in Descartes’s understanding of freedom. Part of the background here is the fact that in actual situations requiring a practical moral decision, we are seldom in possession of entirely clear and distinct perceptions, which are of course the basis of certain knowledge for Descartes. In other words, moral matters usually involve a degree of uncertainty which cannot be resolved by the intellect on its own. On the basis of this idea, Schneck outlines the crucial role of the will in attaining certainty by considering two ethical issues in Descartes’s later writings (in particular, The Passions of the Soul): his understanding of “generosity” (or magnanimity) as a key virtue, and his account of “weak” and “strong” souls. In both areas, the will as the mental basis of mastering bodily affections is essential to Descartes’s idea that human freedom excludes both external and internal determinism. Bringing together the chapters by Stephan Schmid and Ariane Schneck, it may not be overstating the case to say that Descartes, who is usually labelled a rationalist (at least in epistemological matters) deserves closer scrutiny with regard to the voluntarist strains in his thought. He not only adheres to doxastic voluntarism and its consequences for free agency, but also views the will as a crucial factor in ethical matters pertaining to human freedom. Thus, as in the case of Henry of Ghent, the contributions of Schmid and Schneck offer a nuanced picture of Descartes’s conception of freedom as well as the (alleged) conflict between intellectualist and voluntarist ideas in general. Up to this point, it has become clear that in both late medieval and early modern authors, while there were different conceptions of human freedom and the exact causal contribution of the will (and of reason) to free action, there was a general consensus that human beings possess a capacity for rational self-­determination which issues in acts of free choice (liberum arbitrium). Thomas Hobbes, however, opposes this basic idea, as Thomas Pink shows (Chapter 8). Based on a materialist and mechanistic account of psychological powers as physical motions which affect other motions, he flatly rejects the idea of rational self-­determination. His basic criticism is that the idea that the will can determine itself leads to an infinite regress;29 he also takes issue with the underlying metaphysical idea that there is a power of free will which acts contingently (a presupposition taken for granted by voluntarists such as John Duns Scotus). Hobbes denies contingent causation and argues that there is no opposition between freedom and necessity, thus paving the way for a compatibilist understanding of human freedom, which defies the central intuition shared by many medieval authors that “where there is necessity, there is no freedom.”30 As Pink demonstrates, this fundamental change is accompanied by a completely different understanding of willing in Hobbes. The will is not

Introduction  13 treated as an internal agent or faculty which somehow elicits its own act freely, but strictly as a cause of voluntary external action. This reduces the will’s role to that of an action-­guiding desire, and this role can just as well be played by passions such as greed and fear. Human freedom is thereby radically transformed: it is not based on an internal interplay of psychological forces which possess a kind of contingent “freedom of indifference” (libertas indifferentiae), but consists simply in the unimpeded exercise of outward action. For Hobbes, freedom is to be equated with libertas a coactione, that is, freedom from external compulsion: it is no longer a freedom of choice, as it was understood in the various versions of liberum arbitrium in the medieval and early modern authors before him, but a pure freedom of action. Needless to say, this position has far-­reaching consequences for the understanding of moral responsibility; indeed, it seems to be a kind of death blow for any form of ethical voluntarism. But that voluntarism was not dead after all in early modern philosophy even after Hobbes’s fervent attack on liberum arbitrium is amply proved by Samuel Pufendorf, whose theory of freedom is examined by Heikki Haara (Chapter 9). Although Pufendorf was deeply influenced by Hobbes in many respects, he departs from him significantly when it comes to the will. In particular, he takes issue with the idea that the will is ultimately nothing more than a kind of action-­guiding desire such that there is little (if any) difference between animal and human action. At least in part, Pufendorf returns to basic ideas of scholastic faculty psychology and argues for freedom of the will as a kind of liberty of indifference, enabling human beings to choose between alternatives. Haara focuses on the relationship of the will to the passions (also highlighted for Descartes in the contribution by Ariane Schneck). He shows that according to Pufendorf – who seems to be influenced by neo-­Stoic thought in this respect – passions are not able to overpower a firm will. This mastery over the passions does not mean that the will can bend them in any direction, but it can prevent them from gaining motivational force to produce external actions going against natural or civil law. Thus, there is no necessary physical determination of the will by the passions, although Pufendorf acknowledges that human beings are naturally prone to being moved by the unlawful inclinations of their passions; fear of punishment is therefore still a useful means of ensuring (civic) obedience to the law. But Pufendorf also thinks that the ethical cultivation of the passions may play a significant role in furthering one’s freedom. Along these lines, Haara unfolds the consequences of Pufendorf’s moral psychology and theory of action for the guidance of citizens by political governance, for which the internalization of moral and civic norms through habituation is crucial. He thus offers a new line of interpretation, connecting Pufendorf’s moral psychology, theory of action, and theory of political governance. Pufendorf’s account of free will is clearly centred on the idea of

14  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller responsibility, of which he gives a nuanced picture, even drawing on Aristotle’s conception of “mixed” actions (hovering between the voluntary and the involuntary) in order to explain the idea of diminished culpability. Although Pufendorf sees natural-­law morality as pertaining mainly to external actions (and not to inner attitudes), the idea of the free will as a contingently operating causal power underlies his treatment of ethical norms. Part II closes with a kind of case study which throws considerable light on the voluntarist notion of freedom. Eric Hagedorn (Chapter 10) points to a dilemma presented to voluntarists by the Christian tenet that the blessed in heaven (as well as the good angels) no longer possess the ability to sin. This is combined with the claim that they are nevertheless free, or indeed, even more free than humans in the present life. An intellectualist ethics is not fundamentally threatened by this idea: if one sees freedom as the ability to follow willingly what one judges to be best, it is easy to imagine that this ability is heightened in the afterlife, at which point perfect cognition becomes possible so that error as the main cause of wrongdoing drops out of the picture. But for voluntarist authors, it is much more difficult to come to terms with this concept of heavenly freedom, since they usually consider the ability to do otherwise (including diverging knowingly and willingly from God’s command) to be the hallmark of freedom. If, however, the will is essentially a two-­way power, how can one still speak of its freedom when one of these ways – namely, the ability to sin – is no longer possible for it? Hagedorn discusses some fourteenth-­century voluntarists and their reactions to this dilemma, starting with Peter John Olivi, who regards the ability to sin not as a defect of the will but even as one of its noble features. Consequently, Olivi portrays the ability to sin rooted in the will as an essential feature of human freedom. In order to square this idea with the inability of the blessed to sin, he argues that the will in heaven has not lost its status as a two-­way power, but that one path is effectively blocked by God. This sets the tone for many later voluntarist authors, who differ on the exact explanation of heavenly freedom but concur that man’s sinlessness in heaven is due not to some individual feature of the created will itself but to divine activity and interference. As Hagedorn remarks, this is a rather problematic answer to the puzzle they want to solve. As often, the one ready to bite the bullet here is William of Ockham, who argues that if the ability to do otherwise is the essential feature of free will, then the restrictions placed on willing in the afterlife amount to the idea that heavenly “freedom” is an equivocal concept and that the blessed lack freedom in any philosophical sense of the term. The bottom line is that within the framework of a coherent psychological and ethical voluntarism, the idea that freedom remains intact (or is even heightened) even though it can no longer act otherwise must remain an unsolvable

Introduction  15 enigma. But Hagedorn finally points to another fourteenth-­century voluntarist, Marguerite Porete, who offers an unorthodox escape route based on her mystical thought. She assumes that the blessed completely lose their creaturely will, and along with it the power to sin, and that their will is replaced by the divine will. The idea that the possession of divine freedom necessarily entails the inability to sin cannot be doubted, so that the puzzle of heavenly freedom is removed. But this comes at a high price which few voluntarists are likely ready to pay, for in Porete’s model, the ultimate goal of earthly life is to lose one’s will as a source of human personhood and to annihilate every volition that is not God. 2.3 Theological Voluntarism

The last four chapters in this volume discuss various issues related to theological voluntarism. As mentioned earlier, crucial to the metaethical question of the grounding of morality are the divine agent and the modal implications of the conception of divine will. The underlying assumption of theological voluntarism is that at least some of the acts of divine will that determine the moral status of entities such as actions are not necessary, since otherwise divine freedom would be undermined, according to the voluntaristic presupposition of contingency. According to intellectualists, however, the fact that the moral status of entities should depend on non-­ necessary divine acts of will jeopardizes the non-­contingent status of morality. The threat of morality being rendered arbitrary by its dependence on contingent acts of divine will is one of the most perennial objections raised against theological voluntarism by intellectualists. Notwithstanding their criticism, late medieval intellectualists do not question the idea that God is a person whose authority plays a central role in the explanation of morality and its grounding. The debate between theological voluntarists and intellectualists takes place within the framework of the authority of the divine person. They disagree only on the precise role of divine will and intellect. It is therefore no coincidence that in both late medieval and early modern theological voluntarism, a central conception is obligation, which continues to be central in contemporary versions of theological voluntarism.31 Obligation is based on an asymmetrical relation that can obtain only between persons, because only persons can be obliged to perform actions, and only a person can oblige another person to perform an action.32 A radical change in the conception of God as a person probably started only with Spinoza in the early modern period, with consequences for morality and its grounding. It is therefore useful also to distinguish more broadly between approaches (whether voluntarist or intellectualist) according to which morality and its grounding necessarily involve persons and their authority, and those that deny that the grounding of morality necessarily

16  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller involves persons. Given these fundamental conceptual changes in the early modern period, Part III of the volume focuses on well-­known authors of the era, such as Spinoza, Leibniz, and Descartes, but also on less well-­known ones such as the German pre-­Kantian pietist Christian August Crusius and the British woman philosopher Catherine Trotter Cockburn. In addition to issues concerning morality and its grounding, Part III also addresses questions about early modern conceptions of modality, for necessity, contingency, and possibility are explained in relation to the divine powers of intellect and will. This overall approach can be found in both early modern intellectualists and voluntarists. In general, modal conceptions, logic, morality, and metaphysical issues are considered within the framework of the divine intellect and will. This general approach is considered by Sebastian Bender in his contribution on Descartes’s moral and modal voluntarism (Chapter 11). Bender shows the close connection between conceptions of modality and morality, and in particular how the moral conceptions bear on the modal ones. Descartes is a voluntarist concerning moral truths. Moral (theological) voluntarism is the view that the moral quality of at least some entities depends on acts of divine will, at least some of which are not necessary. It seems to be a weaker view than modal voluntarism, since according to modal voluntarism God freely creates all the eternal (i.e., necessary) truths, including for instance mathematical truths, which are traditionally taken to be true in all possible worlds; that is, Descartes’s God is even able to change the modal status of a truth by turning necessary truths into contingent ones and vice versa. The problem is that whereas moral (theological) voluntarism is not such an uncommon doctrine and has both opponents and proponents, modal voluntarism is rather uncommon or even exotic. The question, then, is why Descartes would commit himself to such a seemingly strange and far-­reaching view. Bender shows that Descartes’s commitment to modal voluntarism in fact follows from his commitment to moral voluntarism. To support his argument, Bender draws attention to Descartes’s conception of the divine powers, which combines voluntarist and intellectual elements in a specific way. As to the voluntarist element, the divine will is undetermined by anything in the sense that it can become active without or prior to the intellect presenting any object to it; in this sense, the divine will is a self-­moving power. Once an object is presented to the will, however, it is no longer wholly undetermined. God freely creates the non-­divine essences, but once these essences are created, God’s decisions are determined by what follows from these essences. When God creates an essence, he thereby establishes all kinds of eternal truths, such as moral truths and mathematical ones, with which he henceforth has to comply. This is the intellectualist element. The point is that from Descartes’s assumption that God creates all non-­divine essences, it follows that all the eternal truths that necessarily follow from

Introduction  17 these essences are on a par with moral truths as regards modal status. Thus, Bender concludes, it is due to Descartes’s peculiar conception of the divine powers that modal voluntarism follows from his commitment to moral voluntarism, since in Descartes’s view the modal status of moral truths and all other eternal truths must be the same insofar as all eternal truths follow from essences. Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper also focus in their contribution (Chapter 12) on central aspects of modality by contrasting Spinoza’s and Leibniz’s views on two basic metaphysical principles, namely, the Principle of Plenitude (POP) and the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR), and their relation to each other. Crucially, Renz and Tropper show that unlike Spinoza, Leibniz is able to avoid a tension that results from an equal commitment to both the PSR and the POP, although it is somewhat controversial whether it is correct to ascribe to Spinoza a commitment not only to the PSR but also to the POP. The problem is that the ontological parsimony of the PSR does not fit well with the ontological prodigality entailed by the POP. Tropper and Renz discuss a prominent recent solution to this tension that is based on a shift from the ontological level to the conceptual. The upshot is that in relation to finite things, the modal notions of possibility and necessity are considered only in terms of conceivability and not in terms of essences. Renz and Tropper argue that this conclusion might succeed in resolving the tension between the two principles, insofar as modal claims are thus grounded in conceptual relations and not in ontological facts or entities. The problem remains, however, that Spinoza is unable to account for the intuitive and widely accepted distinction between actually existing and thus possible things, and possible things that do not actually exist and so are merely possible. Against this backdrop, Renz and Tropper present Leibniz’s solution to the problem. Although Leibniz in his early writings shares many metaphysical commitments with Spinoza, he rejects Spinoza’s non-­ personal conception of God, according to which God is a merely metaphysical entity devoid of will. Rather, Leibniz conceives of God as a person with the powers of intellect and will, and hence the powers of spontaneous action; for this very reason, God is not identical to the world, as he is according to Spinoza. Leibniz distinguishes between merely possible things and actually existing possible things in terms of his conception of the divine will. Crucially, he conceives of the divine will in the light of divine perfection: if the notion of the divine agent acting in the best possible way is to be meaningful, there must be real alternatives that God can evaluate. It should be emphasized, however, that Leibniz is not a voluntarist merely in virtue of conceiving of God as a person with intellect and will, for given his strong commitment to the PSR, God’s will is necessarily guided by what is best. The chapter thus illustrates that one can be committed to a personal conception of God without being a voluntarist in any sense.

18  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller Chapter 13, by Ruth Boeker, is also to be located on the argumentative battlefield between theological voluntarists and intellectualists who share the conception of a divine person. Boeker focuses on the still undeservedly neglected woman philosopher Catharine Trotter Cockburn and presents Cockburn’s moral theory as regards both its underlying metaphysics, that is, the grounding of normativity, and the practice of morality, that is, moral motivation. Cockburn rejects theological voluntarism because it is inconsistent with her own teleological view, according to which morality in general and obligation in particular are grounded in human nature, from which relations of “fitness,” or suitability, arise. In Cockburn’s view, fitness is a matter of what is suitable for beings with a certain nature, where the idea of fitness or suitability is itself normative: if it is suitable for a human agent to do X because doing X fits his nature, then he ought to do X. She thus rejects the central idea of theological voluntarism that good and evil depend on (contingent) acts of the divine will, for divine commands are guided by what is fit for human beings. It is worth noting that in this respect Cockburn’s account bears some interesting and relevant resemblance to her contemporary Christian Wolff (1679–1754), who also presented a nature-­ based notion of obligation that was, in his view, innovative and groundbreaking.33 Cockburn emphasizes that all three components of human nature – sensibility, rationality, and sociability – are jointly important. Compared to Wolff’s theory, which is taken by some commentators to be deficient in its explanation of why we should care about the welfare of others, Cockburn’s account of human nature has the advantage that it can explain why we care about and act for the sake of the welfare of others. Most importantly, Cockburn’s account nicely illustrates the role divine will can play in moral motivation within a more intellectualist framework. Although obligation is grounded in the nature of things, the divine will can provide the motivation needed for human agents to comply with their obligations. The chapter thus presents the debate from the perspective of a remarkable woman philosopher with rationalist inclinations and a strong emphasis on the essentially sociable character of human beings. In the last chapter, Sonja Schierbaum continues the discussion on the argumentative battlefield between theological voluntarists and intellectualists from the perspective of (the also still undeservedly neglected) Christian August Crusius (Chapter 14). Schierbaum argues that Crusius’s account of moral obligation does not qualify as a variety of theological voluntarism, since all the relevant acts of divine will are necessary: the grounding of moral obligation does not presuppose any sort of freedom of indifference that applies to God. (This might be surprising given that Crusius clearly is a voluntarist with respect to human freedom of indifference.) Thus, Crusius agrees with intellectualists at least on the necessity of moral obligation. Unlike Cockburn, however, Crusius still insists that obligation is grounded in the divine will.

Introduction  19 According to Crusius, it is not an intrinsic property of actions to be morally good or evil, since they are good or evil only in relation to divine will. Schierbaum emphasizes that in Crusius’s original theory of divine action, human beings and their way of acting are themselves part of God’s own end in creating the world, namely, that free rational agents act as they ought to act. According to Crusius, a moral reason – that is, a reason why something ought to be done – is created only in relation to an end, and something is an end only in relation to a will. Thus, the divine person’s willing that human beings act in accordance with perfection creates a moral reason why human beings ought to act in accordance with perfection. Schierbaum shows that ultimately, human freedom of indifference is entailed by the metaphysical account of divine action. The chapter thus highlights the crucial difference between relational, interpersonal accounts of moral obligation on the one hand, and non-­relational, non-­interpersonal accounts on the other, by focusing on the different roles of the divine will and its necessary acts. As the example of Crusius shows, an account of moral obligation based on divine will differs importantly from a rationalist account in that the former conceives of obligation as an asymmetrical, will-­based relation between persons, regardless of whether the acts of divine are necessary. There is thus a crucial difference between will-­based accounts of moral obligation, and others that are not based on divine will, beyond the question of the modality (necessity or contingency) of the central acts of will. 3 Concluding Remarks The historical development in the three areas of voluntarism as mirrored in the chapters of this volume cannot be easily summarized because of the richness of the material. Nevertheless, a general observation is appropriate concerning the extent to which the three kinds of voluntarism are connected to each other through the two general features, and to what extent they might be logically independent from each other. Concerning the connection between the kinds of voluntarism, we can say that historically, there was indeed a kind of transition from one kind to another, starting with psychological voluntarism and ending with theological voluntarism. This transition may be outlined roughly as follows: Psychological voluntarism is based on the assumption of a kind of pre-­ eminence or dominance of the will in the soul with regard to specifically human activities. This leading and active role of the will is frequently cashed out in terms of different forms of causality which contribute to human activity. Voluntarists usually emphasize the causal role of the will at the expense of the intellect, although some of our chapters (in particular those of Perler and Szlachta) show that voluntarists do not thereby eliminate the causality of the intellect altogether, but keep it in play in order to

20  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller avoid the threat of completely irrational activities. In general, the will is viewed as an indispensable element in explaining evil actions that cannot be accounted for by purely rational models (see the chapters by Müller and Hoffmann on incontinent actions). Thus, voluntarism appears first at the level of the psychology of action in order to describe and analyse how humans act. This perspective is mainly action-­theoretical (in modern parlance), but it gives rise to a fundamental ethical question about human agency: How is it that we are responsible for our actions such that we can be justly praised or blamed and rewarded or punished for them? The answer to this question marks the transition from psychological to ethical voluntarism, in that it involves an account of human freedom of decision. Henry of Ghent emerges in this volume as a key figure and a prototypical example of this development at the end of the thirteenth century. Again, the will is basically pitted against intellect as the main root of freedom, but as the chapters in Part II of the volume show, there is a complex interplay between the two faculties, which is acknowledged even by staunch voluntarist authors. Nevertheless, in the wake of ethical voluntarism, the will becomes the focal point both of personal selfhood and of moral worth: the state of the will determines both our personality and our moral state. The transition to theological voluntarism is marked by the idea that morality – in the guise of the conception of obligation – is grounded in God. Medieval intellectualists and voluntarists share the assumption of a personal God, and hence have in common an approach to obligation based on divine authority. The fundamental question that divides them is whether moral obligation is grounded in divine will or divine intellect. The contributions in this volume show that alternative, non-­ personal approaches to obligation become possible only with the groundbreaking changes in the conception of God in the early modern period. From a historical and developmental perspective, it is interesting to note that it is only with the rise in the early modern period of self-­consciously unified and complete philosophical systems that we find fully developed accounts of all three varieties of voluntarism together, with their respective psychological, ethical, and metaethical issues and their interrelations in the work of one and the same author, as for instance in Crusius.34 Against the backdrop of this presentation, then, we can say that authors who are committed to a kind of ethical voluntarism are also very likely to be committed to a kind of psychological voluntarism, simply because the voluntarist intuition that moral responsibility and imputability require freedom of indifference. It should be clear, however, that psychological and ethical voluntarism are logically independent, since one can be committed to a kind of psychological voluntarism without being committed to a particular ethical approach. For instance, one can be committed to a strong conception of the will as freedom of indifference with respect to action

Introduction  21 theory, and yet take a consequentialist view on the moral value of actions, since the moral value of an action being determined by its outcome does not necessarily depend on the power to do otherwise (i.e., freedom of indifference). In other words, the will can be understood as the pre-­eminent causal factor in human action without the entirety of the ethical architecture (including the basis for how moral actions are evaluated, the seat of the ethical virtues, etc.) being linked to this idea. Lastly, one can be committed both to a kind of psychological voluntarism and to ethical voluntarism without also being committed to theological voluntarism, as is seen in the case of Crusius. The present volume thus aims to contribute to the further understanding of voluntarism in these three areas and their interrelations, both historical and systematic. Notes 1 Terence Irwin regularly uses this label to identify and characterize certain medieval positions (esp. Scotus and Ockham); see Irwin 2007, esp. 670–671, 677– 678, 704–708, 721–724. 2 In contemporary philosophy, there is a strong compatibilist tendency against the intuition that moral responsibility presupposes the possibility of doing otherwise than as one actually does. Frankfurt’s approach is among the most prominent and influential. See Frankfurt 1969; Davidson 1980, 63–82. 3 One of the perennial objections against voluntarism is therefore that of arbitrariness: choices can be made for no reason. For a recent discussion and rebuttal of this objection against freedom of indifference, see Schierbaum 2020. 4 This is to say that G. E. Moore’s “conditional analysis” is consistent with rationalist accounts, but not with voluntarist accounts; see Moore 1912, 211–212. For discussion of the conditional analysis, see Huoranszki 2010. The crucial point is that in a given situation, the agent could not “really” have decided otherwise on the basis of the same reasons for which it did act; thus, the possibility of acting otherwise is merely logical, since the alternative options are not “really” available to the agent. 5 As is well known, Leibniz explains the existence of contingent beings by means of the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR). For Leibniz’s conception of contingency, see his De contingentia (1686/1689); for Wolff’s conception of contingency (Zufälligkeit), see his Deutsche Metaphysik, §§576–580. 6 See Müller 2009, 636–672. 7 See, e.g., the case study of Scotus in Honnefelder 1991. 8 One can think of the modal space as analogous to what Wilfrid Sellars (1956, §36) called the “logical space of reasons.” 9 In this sense, even Leibniz (unlike Spinoza) would agree that contingency is a feature of the actual world. See Chapter 12 by Renz and Tropper in this volume. 10 For the history of theological voluntarism, see Idziak 1979. 11 See Bender’s contribution in this volume (Chapter 11) for discussion of moral truths and other kinds of “eternal” truths. 12 See Pasnau 2022. 13 See the summary of the medieval debates in Hoffmann 2014.

22  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller 14 See O’Connor and Franklin 2022. Tobias Hoffmann (2021, 5) defines intellectualism as “the theory that explains free agency mainly with reference to the intellect,” substituting will for intellect in the corresponding definition of voluntarism. 15 See Kent 1995, 94–96. For nine theses that are characteristic of voluntarist approaches to free will in the thirteenth century, see Hoffmann 2021, 71. 16 It should be emphasized, however, that the distinction of the three kinds of voluntarism is both rather heuristic in terms of historical development, and hermeneutic in terms of the interpretation of the different kinds of problems, i.e., action-­theoretical, ethical, and metaethical. 17 See Saarinen 1994, 2011; Müller 2009. 18 See Kent 1995. 19 See Lottin 1957, 221–224; Hoffmann 2021. 20 Perkams 2012. 21 See, e.g., McCluskey 2001 and Hoffmann 2014, who mainly focus on ethical voluntarism. 22 See Putallaz 1995. 23 As Augustine argues in De libero arbitrio 3.48–49. 24 See Hoffmann 2021, 45–46 (formulation slightly modified). 25 Hoffmann 2021, 70. 26 In metaethical terminology, internalists assume that our moral judgements always carry an immediate motivational force for the agent (although they differ on the degree of it), while externalists think that moral judgements do not motivate us directly but are dependent on other psychological elements (e.g., the passions or the will) to exert an influence on our action. 27 Peter Lombard characterizes liberum arbitrium as a joint “faculty of reason and will” (Sent., lib. 2, d. 24, art. 3), thus leaving open the exact relationship between the two. 28 See Thomas Aquinas, ST IaIIae, q. 17, art. 1, ad 2: “Dicendum quod radix libertatis est voluntas sicut subiectum: sed sicut causa, est ratio. Ex hoc enim voluntas libere potest ad diversa ferri, quia ratio potest habere diversas conceptiones boni. Et ideo philosophi definiunt liberum arbitrium quod est liberum de ratione iudicium, quasi ratio sit causa libertatis.” 29 Some of Hobbes’s criticisms foreshadow the powerful and influential critique of the will in Ryle 1949, chapter 3. 30 See, e.g., Bernard of Clairvaux, De gratia et libero arbitrio, lib. 2, c. 5 (ed. Callerot et al., 169): “Porro ubi necessitas est, libertas non est.” Conversely, for Bernard, the existence of freedom is connected with the will: “Porro ubi voluntas, ibi libertas.” (ibid., 167). 31 See Adams 1987, 1999. 32 See Darwall 2006. 33 We do not mean to imply that Cockburn was aware of Wolff’s writings, but the resemblances between their views are striking. See Schierbaum, Walsh, and Walschots, forthcoming. 34 For discussion see Schwaiger 2018, 255; Carboncini 1991, 199.

Bibliography Primary Sources Augustine. De libero arbitrio. Edited by W. M. Green. CCSL 29. Turnhout: Brepols, 1970.

Introduction  23 Bernard of Clairvaux. De gratia et libero arbitrio. Edited by Françoise Callerot, Jean Christophe, Marie-­Imelda Huille, and Paul Verdeyen. Sources Chrétiennes 393. Paris: Cerf, 1993. Leibniz, G. W. “Zum Begriff der Möglichkeit.” In Kleine Schriften zur Metaphysik, edited by H. H. Holtz, 173–190. Berlin: Suhrkamp, 1996. Lombard, Peter. Sententiae in IV libris distinctae. Edited by P. P. Collegii S. Bonaventurae. 2 vols. Spicilegium Bonaventurianum 4–5. Quaracchi: Collegium S. Bonaventurae, 1971–1981. Wolff, Christian. Vernünfftige Gedancken von Gott, der Welt und der Seele des Menschen, Auch allen Dingen überhaupt [= Deutsche Metaphysik]. Halle: Renger, 1751. Reprint, Christian Wolff: Gesammelte Werke, edited by Jean École, Hans-­Werner Arndt, Robert Theis, Werner Schneiders, Jean-­Paul Paccioni, and Sonia Carboncini, section 1, Deutsche Schriften, vol. 2. Edited by Charles A. Corr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1983. Secondary Literature Adams, Robert M. 1987. The Virtue of Faith and Other Essays in Philosophical Theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 1999. Finite and Infinite Goods: A Framework for Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carboncini, Sonia. 1991. Transzendentale Wahrheit und Traum: Christian Wolffs Antwort auf die Herausforderung durch den Cartesianischen Zweifel. Stuttgart; Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-­Holzboog. Darwall, Stephen. 2006. The Second-­Person Standpoint: Morality, Respect, and Accountability. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Davidson, Donald. 1980. Essays on Actions and Events. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frankfurt, Harry. 1969. “Alternate Possibilities and Moral Responsibility.” Journal of Philosophy 66, no. 23: 829–839. Hoffmann, Tobias. 2014. “Intellectualism and Voluntarism.” In The Cambridge History of Medieval Philosophy, 2nd ed., edited by Robert Pasnau and Christina Van Dyke, 414–427. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2021. Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Honnefelder, Ludger. 1991. “Die Kritik des Johannes Duns Scotus am kosmologischen Nezessitarismus der Araber: Ansätze zu einem neuen Freiheitsbegriff.” In Die abendländische Freiheit vom 10. zum 14. Jahrhundert, edited by Johannes Fried, 249–264. Sigmaringen: Thorbecke. Huoranszki, Ferenc. 2010. Freedom of the Will: A Conditional Analysis. New York: Routledge. Idziak, Janine Marie, ed. 1979. Divine Command Morality: Historical and Contemporary Readings. New York: Edwin Mellen. Irwin, Terence. 2007. The Development of Ethics: A Historical and Critical Study, vol. 1, From Socrates to the Reformation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kent, Bonnie. 1995. Virtues of the Will: The Transformation of Ethics in the Late Thirteenth Century. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press.

24  Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller Lottin, Odon. 1957. “Libre arbitre et liberté depuis saint Anselme jusqu’à la fin du XIIIe siècle.” In Psychologie et morale aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles, vol. 1, Problèmes de psychologie, 2nd ed., 11–389. Louvain; Gembloux: Abbaye du Mont César; J. Duculot. McCluskey, Colleen. 2001. “The Roots of Ethical Voluntarism.” Vivarium 39, no. 2: 185–208. Moore, G. E. 1912. Ethics. London: Williams & Norgate. Müller, Jörn. 2009. Willensschwäche in Antike und Mittelalter: Eine Problemgeschichte von Sokrates bis Johannes Duns Scotus. Ancient and Medieval Philosophy, ser. 1, 40. Leuven: Leuven University Press. O’Connor, Timothy, and Christopher Franklin. 2022. “Free Will.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2022 Edition), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2022/entries/freewill/ Pasnau, Robert. 2022. “Voluntarism and the Self in Piers Plowman.” In Gender, Poetry, and the Form of Thought in Later Medieval Literature, edited by Jennifer Jahner and Ingrid Nelson. Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh University Press. Perkams, Matthias. 2012. “Bernhard von Clairvaux, Robert von Melun und die Anfänge des mittelalterlichen Voluntarismus.“ Vivarium 50: 1–32. Putallaz, François-­Xavier. 1995. Insolente liberté: Controverses et condamnations au XIIIe siècle. Vestigia 15. Paris; Fribourg: Cerf; Éditions Universitaires de Fribourg. Ryle, Gilbert. 1949. The Concept of Mind. London: Hutchinson’s University Library. Saarinen, Risto. 1994. Weakness of the Will in Medieval Thought: From Augustine to Buridan. Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 44. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2011. Weakness of Will in Renaissance and Reformation Thought. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schierbaum, Sonja. 2020. “Choosing for No Reason? An Old Objection to Freedom of Indifference.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 37, no. 2: 183–202. Schierbaum, Sonja, John Walsh, and Michael Walschots, eds. Forthcoming. Wolff’s German Ethics: New Approaches and Perspectives. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schwaiger, Clemens. 2018. “Ethik.” In Handbuch Christian Wolff, edited by Robert Theis and Alexander Aichele, 253–268. Dordrecht: Springer. Sellars, Wilfrid. 1956. “Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind.” In The Foundations of Science and the Concepts of Psychology and Psychoanalysis, edited by Herbert Feigl and Michael Scriven, 253–329. Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science 1. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Part I

Psychological Voluntarism

1 Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism? A Medieval Case Study Dominik Perler

1.1 Introduction: The Threat of Irrationalism All medieval philosophers who subscribed to a faculty psychology agreed that intellect and will, the two rational faculties, are required for human actions. It is these faculties, they unanimously held, which enable human beings to bring about actions and not just bodily movements. In fact, the use of the rational faculties is what distinguishes human beings from non-­ rational animals, which do not act, but simply move their limbs on the basis of sensations and desires. Only bodily movements that are rationally caused are real actions that can be imputed to an agent as their author. But how exactly do human beings use their rational faculties when they act? At first glance, there seems to be a simple answer: they first use their intellect and form a judgement about the action that should be done, and then they use their will to actually do what their judgement tells them to do. For instance, a person who is thirsty first uses her intellect to judge that she should take the glass of water in front of her; she then uses her will to initiate a bodily movement that is in accordance with her judgement, and so actually takes the glass. Technically speaking, she first uses her intellect as the formal cause that fixes the goal of an action as well as the means that are required for reaching it, and then the will as the efficient cause that strives for this goal and sets the body in motion.1 According to this simple conception, the will seems to be nothing more than a kind of servant who dutifully does what his master, the intellect, tells him to do. After all, the will is responsible only for carrying out the action that has been chosen by the intellect; it cannot ignore the intellect’s judgement, nor can it give rise to an action that would go against that judgement. But why should this be the case? A number of medieval philosophers asked this simple but fundamental question, thereby raising doubts about an explanatory model that subordinates the will to the intellect. William of Ockham is a prominent example. He clearly denies that the will has to follow the intellect’s judgement, even if it is the best possible

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-3

28  Dominik Perler judgement in a given situation; the will is absolutely free to ignore it or to act against it. According to Ockham, this is a simple fact which we all experience: But this can be known evidently through experience: a human being experiences that, no matter how much reason dictates something, the will can still will that thing or not will it or will against it.2 This means, in the example just mentioned, that a person who judges that she should take the glass of water in front of her can always ignore this rational dictate or even reject it, and decide not to take the glass. Her will is absolutely free: it cannot be forced to do anything, not even by the intellect. There is at best a coordination and cooperation between the two rational faculties, but no subordination of the will to the intellect. This position seems appealing because it allows us to locate the root of freedom in the will. Moreover, it makes it possible for us to give an account of the crucial difference between human and non-­human animals: since non-­human animals lack a will, they can never bring about a freely chosen action, no matter how sophisticated their behaviour seems to be. However, this position also gives rise to some critical questions, the most pressing of which concern the alleged independence of the will from the intellect. On what ground can the will reject the best possible judgement that is presented by the intellect? When it refuses to accept that judgement, is it not acting arbitrarily, or even irrationally? Suppose the thirsty person has considered all the options for quenching her thirst and has come to the conclusion that drinking the glass of water in front of her is indeed the best option, but then, to our surprise, she refuses to take the glass. When asked why she refuses to do so, she answers laconically: “I simply wanted to act that way.” But this answer would be hardly convincing. If she does not present a reason for rejecting her own best judgement, we are baffled by her reaction. She looks like a defiant child who stubbornly refuses to do what is considered the best option in this situation. I am not the first to draw this comparison. In the late thirteenth century, Godfrey of Fontaines already remarked that those who insist that the will can act against the intellect’s best judgement, simply because it is a free power that can do whatever it wants, reduce an adult person to an immature child: One should not say that the will’s volition can be called the reason why the will wants something, namely by affirming, “I want it because I want it.” This is how children talk [dictum puerorum].3 Insisting on the will’s absolute independence and freedom is merely childish if one does not explain why the will acts the way it actually does in a

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  29 given situation. The freely acting will then looks like an irrational faculty that does whatever it wants to do without being bound by rational considerations. In the modern scholarly debate, we can find a similar objection to a position that presents the will as a faculty that is not under any rational constraint. In his monumental history of ethics, Terence Irwin remarks that medieval voluntarists who define the will as a free power that is never determined by the intellect turn a theory of free will into a theory of irrationality: Voluntarists do not allow the will to choose in the light of the apparent overall good; for if that determines it, practical reason determines it. But if it decides by something other than the overall good, does it not choose non-­rationally, as we would choose on the basis of a passion? And if we conclude that it cannot decide on the basis of any considerations at all, do we not introduce a degree of randomness and irrationality that makes us wonder why we should care so much about having freewill?4 The worry that Irwin expresses here is quite understandable. Once the will is taken to be a faculty that is not determined by practical reasons, it becomes difficult to see why it should still be called a rational faculty. It then seems to be much closer to a sensory faculty that produces desires and passions without any rational ground. In light of this critique, I want to reconsider the voluntarist position by presenting a case study. I intend to analyse how Henry of Ghent, who is famous for defending the freedom of the will, deals with the objection that voluntarism leads to irrationalism. In developing this analysis, I will proceed in three steps. First, I will look at Siger of Brabant’s intellectual determinism, which was the initial target of Henry’s critique (§2). I will then examine how Henry attacked this position and how he attempted to give a new account of the causal relation between the intellect and the will (§3). Finally, I will point out a deep disagreement between Siger and Henry about the scope of rational explanations of human actions (§4). I hope this case study will shed light not only on some aspects of a late thirteenth-­ century controversy, but also on fundamental principles and commitments that were at stake in the debate between voluntarists and intellectualists. To avoid misunderstandings, I hasten to add that my aim is not to show how the voluntarists as a well-­defined group or intellectual movement reacted to the intellectualists as another group. It would be misleading to speak of two distinct groups, since there were different forms of voluntarism and intellectualism in the late thirteenth century.5 It would even be incorrect to speak of a single voluntarist strategy in Henry’s own writings, since he developed and partially changed his position in the period between 1276, when he wrote his first Quodlibet in response to Siger of Brabant,

30  Dominik Perler and the late 1280s, when he engaged in a polemical exchange with Godfrey of Fontaines.6 However, I do not intend to describe his intellectual development or his reaction to various Parisian authors of the late thirteenth century. I want instead to reconstruct and assess his early position in a systematic perspective by focusing on the threat of irrationalism as the key problem for voluntarism. 1.2 Intellectual Determinism To understand why Henry insists on the freedom of the will, it will be helpful to take a look at Siger of Brabant’s position, which Henry knew quite well and attacked in his early texts.7 Like all philosophers of his time, Siger holds that both intellect and will are required for generating an action. He also insists that first the intellect needs to become active because it needs to specify the goal of an action and the means that are necessary for reaching it. In doing so, the intellect engages in a process of deliberation and finally comes up with a judgement that presents the appropriate action. It is only at this point that the will can become active, because it cannot strive for an action unless it is clear what action it should bring about. Siger clearly rejects the view that the will can initiate an action by itself or that it can give rise to one by dismissing the judgement presented by the intellect.8 This is impossible because the will is an appetitive faculty, not a cognitive one, and so it cannot produce a thought that would specify the action; only the intellect is able to do that. Given this division of labour between the two rational faculties, it is clear that the will cannot be an independent or even an autonomous faculty. Whenever it initiates an action, it becomes active on the basis of the intellect’s activity. It cannot act as the first cause, as Siger points out: One should therefore note that the freedom which the will has in its activities is not to be understood in such a way that the will is the first cause of its willing and acting – a cause that is able to move itself to opposites and that has not been moved by some prior thing. For it is only on the basis of an apprehension that the will is moved to an act of willing.9 This means that the will of the thirsty person in my previous example cannot be the first cause that gives rise to an action, because it cannot decide by itself whether or not it should strive for a glass of water. It is up to the intellect to make this decision and to come up with an apprehension, as Siger says, or a judgement of the action to be pursued. The will is then moved by this judgement, produces a volition in accordance with it, and thereby initiates an action. The will is therefore at best the second cause,

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  31 which is fully dependent on the intellect as a prior cause. But not even the intellect is, strictly speaking, the first cause, for it acts in response to perceptions, imaginations, and other sensory states; thus, it is activated by the sensory faculty responsible for these states. Lurking in the background of this account is a conception of the soul that takes it to be a complex network of causes. Each faculty of the soul is a cause, and all the faculties are interrelated in a long causal chain. Moreover, this chain is part of the natural world, and as such is connected with many other causes. Other than God, there is no unmoved cause: every cause is moved by another cause.10 It would therefore be inappropriate to call the will a first cause or even a self-­moving cause that produces an activity from itself. It is always a moved cause, and if we want to understand why it elicits a certain volition at a given moment, we need to look at the causes that precede it and make it act in a certain way. The will comes very late in the chain of causes because it is activated by the intellect, which is itself activated by the sensory faculty, which in turn is activated by many external causes. To use a modern comparison, one could say that the will is like the last in a long series of falling dominoes. How exactly is the causal relation between all these dominoes to be understood? Unfortunately, Siger is not very explicit, but he seems to have in mind a relation of efficient causation.11 This means that every cause literally acts upon another cause and activates it so that it brings about a certain effect. Of course, efficient causation does not rule out other types of causation; in particular, it does not rule out formal causation. The intellect is a formal cause insofar as it determines the form and hence the goal of an action when it comes up with a certain judgement. But it is also an efficient cause insofar as it acts upon the will and makes it produce a volition that corresponds to the judgement. Without this efficient cause, the will would never become active – or, to put it again in modern terms, without being hit by another domino, this domino would never change its position. It seems, then, as if Siger is committing himself to an unrestricted determinism. For he appears to be claiming that the will is fully determined by the intellect, which presents a certain judgement and thereby makes the will produce a corresponding volition. He even seems to subscribe to the thesis that the intellect too is fully determined in its activity; after all, the judgement which it produces is fixed by the sensations and perceptions that are provided by the sensory faculty. There seems to be a causal chain in which every cause is determined in its activity by the preceding cause. Consequently, there can be no free decision and no free action. This is exactly how a number of modern commentators understood Siger, calling him a determinist who rules out human freedom.12 But this interpretation is inadequate, as François-­Xavier Putallaz has pointed out.13 When referring to a causal chain, Siger does not contend that every item in

32  Dominik Perler this chain is fully determined in its activity. In particular, he does not hold that the intellect is fully determined by the preceding cause, for when it is activated by the sensations and perceptions that are provided by the sensory faculty, it can always evaluate the sensory input in different ways and come up with different judgements. Moreover, it can reflect upon its judgements and subsequently produce new judgements. It is never condemned to produce one and only one judgement in a given situation. Consequently, the will is never condemned to produce one and only one volition either, since new judgements will always give rise to new volitions. Emphasizing the difference between human and non-­human animals, Siger holds: What applies to the will is different from what applies to the sensory appetite, because the will wants on the basis of a rational judgement, whereas the sensory appetite desires on the basis of a sensory judgement. … But we are not born with a determined judgement with respect to what is good and bad; it is possible to go this or that way; hence this is also possible for the will.14 Let me illustrate the contrast between sensory and rational appetite, which Siger describes here, with the example of the thirsty person. Suppose this person is accompanied by a dog who is also thirsty. When the dog approaches the water in front of him, he has a sensory judgement, which is simply an apprehension and a spontaneous estimation of the water as something drinkable and good.15 This sensory judgement immediately gives rise to a sensory desire: the dog strives for the water and runs towards it. There is nothing internal that could stop or change his desire. By contrast, the thirsty person produces a rational judgement, which is based on a conceptual evaluation of what is present to her. Perhaps she evaluates the water as being clean and healthy, and comes up with the rational judgement that she should drink it. This judgement will give rise to a corresponding volition; consequently, she will run towards the water, just like the dog. But perhaps she will inspect the water more closely and realize that it is heavily polluted. This will lead her to the rational judgement that she should avoid it, and this judgement will in turn give rise to a negative volition; consequently, she will not run towards the water. In short, different rational judgements will cause different volitions. I hope this example shows that in rational beings there is no necessary causal order that leads to one and only one volition. Since the intellect is free to evaluate sensory input in different ways, the will is to some extent also free. But its freedom is closely tied to the freedom of the intellect, for a new volition always depends on a new judgement. A new volition is even fixed by a new judgement, because the will cannot act against it or ignore it.16 This means that Siger does in fact commit himself to determinism, but

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  33 only to a position that could be called conditional determinism: if the intellect produces the judgement p, then the will has to produce the corresponding volition. Whether or not the intellect does in fact produce p (and not q or r), is an open question. However, as soon as it produces p, the will has no choice; it has to do what the intellect tells it to do. The will is like a servant who has to execute the command given by his master, the intellect. 1.3 Efficient and Occasional Causes It is against this position that Henry reacts in his first Quodlibet, in which he intends to refute intellectual determinism.17 He unmistakably holds that the will is not a faculty that simply waits, as it were, for the judgement made by the intellect and then provides the corresponding volition. On Henry’s view, the will is not subordinate to the intellect. It is rather the other way around: the intellect is subordinate to the will and has to follow it. Henry explicitly calls the intellect the servant of the will, thereby reversing the hierarchical order.18 But what exactly does this mean? To find an answer to this question, it is important to see how Henry describes the relationship between the two rational faculties. Just after claiming that the will is the superior faculty, he states: Hence, the will commands reason to consider, to reflect, and to deliberate when it wants and about the things it wants, and similarly it makes it stop doing so. In no such way does the intellect command or move the will.19 Henry clearly holds that it is the will that is the moving power: it activates the intellect so that it pays attention to certain things and starts thinking about them. It also makes the intellect cease thinking about them – it presses the intellect’s on-­off button, as it were. In making this claim, Henry reverses the causal order: whereas Siger assumed that it is the intellect that first becomes active and produces a judgement to which the will then responds, Henry contends that the intellect cannot do anything by itself. Rather, it needs to be activated just like an engine that needs to be started, and it is precisely the function of the will to start it, together with the senses, which produce perceptions and thereby provide material on which the intellect can work. Moreover, the will needs to steer the intellect’s attention so that it considers certain things, focuses on them, and starts reasoning about them. If there were no steering activity, the intellect would not know what to think about. Being confronted with many things in a perceptual situation, it would not know which ones are relevant or which ones it should focus on; in particular, it would not know which ones are relevant for choosing a certain action.

34  Dominik Perler Let me illustrate this point with an example. Suppose you leave your apartment and reach a crowded street. You see many people around you, young and old, locals and tourists. All of a sudden you see a man start beating the woman he is with. You think about what you should do and quickly come to the conclusion that you should intervene to stop the beating. What makes you think that? Henry would say that it is not simply your intellect that produces a thought; it first needs to be activated by something else. But it is not enough to be activated by perceptions, for there are many perceptions in this situation. After all, you see not only the man beating the woman, but also many other people passing by. What you need is a special attention to this particular event; that is, you need to make a selection among all the things and events that are present to you, and focus on a single one. And for this act of focusing, you need a cause, which is precisely your will: it is your will that makes your intellect pay attention to the act of violence rather than something else. Once your intellect is paying attention, it starts thinking about what to do and reaches the conclusion that you should intervene. I hope this example makes clear that, for Henry, the will plays an important role in the cognitive process. It does not come into play only after the judgement that is necessary for an action has been made; rather, it makes the judgement itself possible by directing the intellect’s attention.20 This is why no judgement can be made without some previous activity of the will. With this thesis, Henry appeals to an Augustinian conception of the will, which takes it to be not just the faculty that follows the intellect and executes its judgement, but also the one that guides the intellect and makes it produce a certain judgement in a given situation.21 Since the will can freely guide the intellect, it is up to the will where it wants to lead the intellect and which things it makes the objects of attention. A conception of the will that takes it to be like the last in a long series of dominoes ignores this crucial function. Let us assume now that the intellect has been activated and that it has come to a judgement that fixes the goal of an action as well as the means that are required for reaching it. How does the intellect then interact with the will? Here again, Henry criticizes Siger’s conception. As we have seen, Siger thinks that the intellect is an efficient cause that acts upon the will and makes it produce the appropriate volition so that the judgement will be executed. According to Henry, this account relies on an erroneous conception of causation. The intellect can never be an efficient cause that literally acts upon the will and moves or somehow pushes it to produce a volition. The intellect is a different type of cause, which Henry describes as follows: Although the [guiding] principle of the will stems from the intellect and the volition is caused by an apprehended good, this does not come from a cause through which something is the case, but only from a cause without

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  35 which something cannot be the case. This is so because insofar as it is moved by a cause through which something is the case, the will is not moved to an act of willing and activated by something else: it is moved only by itself.22 In this crucial passage, Henry introduces an important terminological distinction, namely, that between a “cause through which something is the case” (causa propter quam) and a “cause without which something cannot be the case” (causa sine qua non).23 The first type of cause is the real or efficient cause that brings about a certain effect; for instance, when I am digesting food, my stomach is the efficient cause that acts upon the food and thereby produces an effect. In contrast, the second type of cause does not produce or bring about anything; it is only the cause without which the event in question could not occur. In some passages, Henry refers to it as the “occasion” (occasio) for the real cause to become active.24 We can therefore call it an occasional cause. To be sure, it is not just any kind of occasion, but one that has to be present; it is thus a necessary occasional cause. However, it has no inner force and does not produce anything.25 The food in my example could therefore be called a necessary occasional cause, because the stomach cannot produce any act of digesting unless some food is present. However, the food itself does not do anything, since it lacks an inner force. The stomach is the only real cause; it acts upon the food and digests it. Using this distinction between two types of cause, Henry stresses that the intellect is not a real cause because it is not a cause that acts upon the will; consequently, it does not produce an effect in it.26 The will is the only real cause of willing; it is the only power that becomes active and produces an effect, namely, a volition. But the will cannot do so unless a judgement is provided by the intellect. This is why it needs the intellect as an occasional cause. Thus, two faculties are necessary for the production of a volition, but they play different roles in the causal process. Several points are noteworthy about this thesis. First of all, it is evident that Henry rejects Siger’s causal analysis, which takes all the causes in the process leading to a volition to be efficient causes. Such an analysis ignores the basic fact that the intellect does not literally act upon the will. The intellect – or, rather, the judgement that it produces – merely provides the occasion for the will to become active. Once this occasion is present, the will becomes active by itself. In fact, as Henry emphasizes, it becomes active as a self-­moving cause:27 it activates itself in reaction to the occasional cause that is present, like the stomach that becomes active in reaction to the food that is present. Of course, there is also a disanalogy, since the stomach is affected by the food and so moves itself only partially. The will, by contrast, is not affected or acted upon by the intellectual judgement; rather, it fully moves itself by responding to the judgement that is offered to it.28 It would

36  Dominik Perler therefore be misleading to compare the will to a domino that is set in motion by another domino. The will is not a passive thing, but something active that can change itself and adjust itself to other things that are present. The second point is that Henry acknowledges that the will does not activate itself out of nothing, nor does it do so randomly or arbitrarily. It becomes active only if a judgement has been produced, and this judgement needs to present something as good and desirable – or, as Henry says in the passage just quoted, an “apprehended good” needs to be present.29 Henry thus subscribes to the sub ratione boni principle, nowadays often called the “guise of the good” principle.30 According to this principle, the will cannot strive for something that is not evaluated at all or that is evaluated as bad, for the will’s striving presupposes that the thing in question is evaluated as good. Of course, this does not mean that the thing is in fact good, since erroneous evaluations are always possible, but it is necessary that the thing be considered – rightly or wrongly – to be good and hence desirable. This shows that the will’s activity is based on a rational process, for an evaluation is indeed such a process. Thus, a thirsty person who strives for water cannot do so unless she has first evaluated the water that is present to her as clean and healthy and thereby reached the conclusion that it is something good. Her will cannot strive for the water without a previous activity of the intellect that leads to this conclusion.31 Finally, a third crucial point concerns the activity of the will. As has become clear, the will actualizes itself and reacts by itself to an occasional cause. Since it is not actualized externally, there is no external thing that acts upon it and somehow pushes it to come up with a volition. Consequently, there can be no external determination. Not even the best possible occasional cause can force the will to become active and produce a volition. It is up to the will itself whether or not it will really respond to the occasional cause. That is why Henry emphasizes that the will is not only a real cause, but also a free cause.32 This amounts to saying that the will is never forced to produce a volition in response to a judgement that is presented by the intellect. Henry makes this point by contrasting necessitation with inclination. Like divine grace, he says, which inclines a human being to acting virtuously without forcing it to do so, an intellectual judgement only inclines the will to producing a certain volition without forcing it to do so.33 This is the case even if a judgement presents something as the best possible thing: in this case there certainly is a strong and almost irresistible inclination, but it is still only an inclination and not a necessitation. The will does not strive for the best possible thing necessarily, but can always accept or reject it, as Henry points out: While the apprehension [of a thing] remains, it can indifferently not want it and want it, and similarly for the things that go along with it.34

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  37 The important point is that the intellectual apprehension or judgement of a thing as good does not determine the will in its activity. The will is a two-­ way power; as such it can strive for that thing or not strive for it, even while the judgement remains in place. Thus, when the thirsty person judges that the water present to her is good and desirable, she still has the freedom not to go for it. Her positive judgement does not rule out having a negative volition or abstaining from a volition, and no new judgement replacing the positive judgement is required for this possible reaction. This means that the person does not need to re-­evaluate the water and reach the conclusion that it only appears to be good but is in fact heavily polluted and therefore bad. Rather, even while judging that it is good, her will can elicit a negative volition and refuse to go for the water.35 It is at this point that Henry’s voluntarism becomes fully visible; it is also at this point that the problem of irrationalism arises. For is it not irrational or even irresponsible not to go for something that is judged to be a good thing or even the best thing in a given situation? Is the thirsty person not irrational if she refuses to go for the water while judging that this is the best thing for her to do? This is in fact how Godfrey of Fontaines, who accused Henry of turning an adult person into a child who acts without a reason, would have responded.36 On his view, the thirsty person needs a new judgement to refuse the water, for if the positive judgement is not replaced with a negative one, her will lacks a rational ground for a negative volition and her rejection of the water is therefore purely irrational. Siger of Brabant would even have said that the refusal of the water is simply impossible. If the thirsty person judges the water to be good and desirable, she must produce a volition that is in accordance with this judgement. There is no alternative because the will is a moved cause: it is determined in its activity by the intellect, which acts upon it and makes it produce a volition that corresponds to the judgement. The only thing that can lead to a revised volition is a revised judgement; that is, if the will is to produce a different volition, the intellect must first provide a different judgement. These reactions are quite understandable, so it is worth looking more closely at Henry’s position in order to understand why he would reject them. He would certainly agree that it is very likely that the will of the thirsty person will act in accordance with the judgement that is present – or, to put it in his terminology, the will has a very strong inclination to follow the action-­guiding judgement. Moreover, he would point out that there is also a strong habituation: after all, this person has repeatedly followed her judgement in similar situations and has thus become accustomed to doing so. But Henry would still insist that strong inclination and habituation do not amount to necessitation, for there is always a possibility for the will to reject the intellect’s judgement, even if this possibility is perhaps never actualized. This is because the intellect producing the judgement is not an

38  Dominik Perler efficient cause that can act upon the will and force it to come up with a corresponding volition. Since the will is a self-­activating and self-­moving cause, it is not subject to other causes; other causes serve only as occasions for the will to become active, but do not act upon it or somehow push it. According to Henry, it is precisely this point that Siger and Godfrey overlook. They wrongly assume that there is a chain of efficient causes and that the will as the last cause is fully determined by all the previous causes – or, to invoke the modern picture again, they wrongly think that the last domino must fall when all the other dominoes fall. On Henry’s view, this picture presupposes a mistaken conception of causation. But he does not want to open the door to irrationalism when he claims that the will can reject a judgement presented by the intellect, nor does he want to deny that in most cases the will does act in accordance with the intellect. All he intends to do is to spell out the consequences of a metaphysical conception that insists on the distinction between efficient and occasional causes. Henry illustrates this point with the case of the fallen angels.37 Since angels have a perfect intellect that is not subject to bodily influences, they cannot be disturbed in their cognitive activities. Nor are they limited in their activities, for they are not dependent on sensory information. Given that they have innate knowledge of all things, they always form the best possible judgements about everything. Now, if there were just one long chain of efficient causes, their best judgements would inevitably lead to the best volitions and consequently also to the best actions. But this is not the case, as the example of the fallen angels shows. Lucifer, one of these angels, clearly judged that union with God was the best possible thing, yet he nevertheless turned away from God. Why? Not because he had a defective judgement, nor because he changed his judgement, but rather because he freely rejected his own best judgement. This behaviour would not have been possible without there being an indeterminacy of the will. It was possible for the will as a self-­moving efficient cause not to follow the best judgement as the occasional cause, and in the case of Lucifer, we see this possibility actualized. This case might at first seem to be just a strange and exceptional case that is of merely theological significance and irrelevant for philosophical discussions. But it should not be ignored or dismissed, for like many seemingly strange theological cases, it has an important methodological function in showing what is metaphysically possible.38 If one can find a single case in which it is conceivable for the will to reject the best possible judgement without there being a revision or replacement of the judgement, one will have successfully shown that the will is indeed not necessitated by the judgement of the intellect. In fact, there is not simply a long chain of efficient causes in which the will as the last cause is fully determined by all the previous causes. Rather, there are occasional causes as well as efficient ones, and the will as a self-­moving efficient cause is not necessitated by the

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  39 intellect as an occasional cause to produce a certain volition, but only strongly inclined to do so. Or, to be more precise, there is only a psycho­ logical necessity for the will to follow the judgement provided by the intellect, because the two rational faculties are so well coordinated that under normal circumstances the will spontaneously and quasi-­ automatically executes the judgement. But there is no metaphysical necessity: the will is not determined by the judgement. This is the crucial point illustrated by the seemingly strange case of the fallen angels.39 1.4 Conclusion I hope it has become clear that Henry rejects the determinist position for reasons that are rooted in his theory of causation. He does not want to make the will an irrational faculty that does whatever it wants regardless of intellectual judgements: after all, the will cannot become active unless there is a process of intellectual deliberation and an action-­guiding judgement resulting from it. Nor does he claim that the will can go for just anything, be it good or bad, for he clearly accepts the principle that the judgement at the end of the process of deliberation must present the thing to be pursued as something good and desirable; only on this basis can the will strive for that thing and initiate a bodily movement. It would therefore be misleading to call Henry an extreme voluntarist who claims that the will is not bound by any rational considerations and evaluations.40 All he wants to emphasize is that there is a crucial difference between efficient and occasional causes, and that the will as an efficient cause can never be necessitated by an occasional cause. It is this metaphysical point that is at the core of his theory of free will. Even if there were human beings who always act in accordance with their judgements, this point would still be valid. So far, so good. But an intellectualist, such as Siger, Godfrey, or, more recently, Terence Irwin, could still reply that Henry’s position leads to irrationalism. Why? Because, as we have seen, Henry holds that the will can freely accept or reject a judgement, without adding that the will needs a reason for a positive or a negative reaction; instead, he insists that the will as a two-­way power can go either way without needing a special reason. Does this not amount to irrationalism? The case of the fallen angels seems to confirm this suspicion. For if Lucifer judges that union with God is a good thing – or even the best possible thing – and if he then rejects this judgement without replacing it with another judgement, he seems to be acting without any reason, and his rejection, produced by his will as a self-­moving cause, seems to be an arbitrary act with no rational foundation. This is clear from the simple fact that he cannot provide an explanation or a justification for his volition. All he can say in the end is, as Godfrey would put it, “I want it because I want it.” Does this lack of an explanation not show that he acts irrationally?

40  Dominik Perler How one answers this question will depend on the standards one sets for what counts as a satisfactory explanation. If one requires that there be an explanation for every activity, including acts of the will, then Lucifer should indeed be able to explain why he rejects his own judgement, and he could not give such an explanation without adducing another judgement that would give him a reason for rejecting his first judgement. If he were then to reject this judgement as well, he would need still another judgement that would give him a reason for overruling his second judgement. Thus, he would need a long chain of judgements that would never find an end, at least not unless he arrives at a self-­explanatory judgement. If one argues along these lines, one is appealing to the Principle of Sufficient Reason, which demands an explanatory judgement, and hence a reason, for everything.41 According to this principle, there are no brute facts, not even in the will. Consequently, the will is always dependent on the intellect, because it is precisely the function of the intellect to come up with a judgement that presents a reason. Thus, Lucifer or a human being cannot simply say, “I want it because I want it,” for this would be a violation of the Principle of Sufficient Reason. Whatever someone wants must be explicable with reference to a reason that is articulated in a judgement. Of course, the judgement might not be explicitly articulated, and a human being, who unlike Lucifer is cognitively limited, might not be fully aware of it. Nevertheless, there must be a judgement underlying the volition, because there can be no brute facts. But it is also possible to choose another line of argument, by claiming that facts or activities, though they are to some extent explicable, are never fully explicable. That is, explanations always stop short at some point. In the case of human or angelic actions, they stop at the level of the will, for the will as a free power can act in a certain way without there being a reason for this activity: it is simply a brute fact that the will can accept or reject a given judgement, without there being another judgement that would give it a reason for doing so. This is why it would not make sense to ask Lucifer or a human being why they want what they want: this is a brute fact that cannot be explained with reference to an articulable judgement. In following this line of argument, one is rejecting the Principle of Sufficient Reason. Or, to be more precise, one is accepting only a restricted version of it: some facts or activities may be fully explicable, in particular activities in the material world, which are part of a long chain of efficient causes. But the will is not part of this chain, and consequently, its activities cannot be explained with reference to other efficient causes. It is therefore pointless to look for a full explanation in the sense of a full causal story. The story ends when we reach the will as a self-­moving cause. This is how Henry would argue, I think, and this is the main reason for the distinction he draws between the will as a free cause and the multitude

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  41 of natural causes.42 The activities of natural causes such as the senses and the intellect can indeed be fully explained, because we can always refer to other causes that act upon them and make them produce certain activities; that is, all natural causes are part of a long causal chain, and everything in that chain is explicable. But the will stands outside the chain of natural causes, and consequently, its activities cannot be explained with reference to parts of that chain: they must be accepted as something fundamental. This is of course exactly the claim that Henry’s opponents reject. On their view, even the activities of the will must be explicable, and they insist that there can be no explanation of these activities without judgements that provide a reason for them. What is at stake here is thus nothing less than the Principle of Sufficient Reason. Should we assume that there needs to be an explanation for everything, including the activities of the self-­ moving will? Or should we concede that explanation stops short at some point? These questions about the limits of explanation are at the heart of the debate between intellectualists and voluntarists. Acknowledgements I am grateful to Ian Drummond, Can Laurens Löwe, Jörn Müller, and Sonja Schierbaum for detailed comments on earlier versions of this chapter. Notes 1 For an influential explanatory model along these lines, see Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae IaIIae, q. 9, art. 1. For a detailed account of the interplay between the two causes, see Löwe 2021, 81–92. 2 William of Ockham, Quodl. I, q. 16 (OTh 9:88). All translations from Latin are mine. 3 Godfrey of Fontaines, Quodl. X, q. 13 (ed. Hoffmans, 371). 4 Irwin 2007, 705. 5 These forms need to be specified for different domains. Hoffmann (2014, 414) rightly remarks that “not every writer fits neatly into one of the two main camps, since there are considerable differences among them when it comes to the details of their moral psychology and ethics.” 6 On Henry’s engagement with various opponents, see Macken 1977. On his place in the thirteenth-­century controversies, see Leone 2014; Hoffmann 2021, 63–84. 7 Henry does not explicitly mention Siger as his opponent, but the position he attacks in his first Quodlibet (written in 1276) is strikingly similar to the position found in texts of Siger (written between 1272 and 1276). Here I will focus on Siger’s De necessitate et contingentia causarum and his Quaestiones in Metaphysicam. Putallaz 1995, 188–192, adduces textual evidence that the position presented in these texts is indeed the target of Henry’s critique. 8 Siger holds that the will is “determined by a judgement” when striving for something; see Quaestiones in Metaphysicam, lib. 5, q. 8 (ed. Dunphy, 331). 9 Siger of Brabant, De necessitate et contingentia causarum (ed. Duin, 34).

42  Dominik Perler 10 Siger takes this causal axiom to be a metaphysical principle, which he traces back to Avicenna; see De necessitate et contingentia causarum (ed. Duin, 14). 11 When Siger introduces the notion of cause, he speaks of a cause that “produces an effect” (De necessitate et contingentia causarum, ed. Duin, 14), thereby suggesting that it is an efficient cause. And when he then discusses the cause that is relevant for the will, he calls it something that “moves the will” (34), suggesting again that it acts upon it as an efficient cause. 12 This interpretation was originally developed by Mandonnet 1911 and repeated by later commentators. For an exposition and critical discussion of this interpretative tradition, see Ryan 1983, 157–164; Putallaz 1995, 16–23. 13 See Putallaz 1995, 37–42. 14 Siger of Brabant, De necessitate et contingentia causarum (ed. Duin, 35); similarly Quaestiones in Metaphysicam, lib. 5, q. 8 (ed. Dunphy, 331). 15 Note that the estimation does not involve any concepts; it is produced by the estimative power, which is one of the inner senses. On this non-­conceptual response, see Perler 2012. 16 This is to be said against Christopher J. Ryan (1983, 191), who speaks of a “veto power” of the will and claims that “the will is free not to be moved by any cause.” There is no textual evidence for this strong claim, which ascribes an autonomy to the will. The will cannot oppose the intellect or refuse to be moved by it. 17 It is also this position that was condemned in 1277 by the Parisian commission of which Henry was a member. See proposition 131 of Bishop Stephen Tempier’s Articuli condemnati (ed. Piché, 118). 18 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 14 (ed. Macken, 90), and the analysis of the servant metaphor in Müller 2018. See also Michael Szlachta’s contribution to this volume (Chapter 6). 19 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 14 (ed. Macken, 86). 20 Of course, the will’s activity presupposes a number of judgements, among them the descriptive judgement that the man is indeed beating the woman and the moral judgement that beating a person is wrong. But it is important to distinguish between the judgements that precede the will’s activity and the action-­ guiding judgement that follows it. The will is the “master” of the intellect insofar as it determines the action-­guiding judgement. 21 On the Augustinian origin of the idea that the will can guide the intellect, see Nawar 2021; on its persistence far beyond the Middle Ages, see Decaix and Mora-­Márquez 2020. 22 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. XII, q. 26 (ed. Decorte, 152). 23 Henry was of course not the first to draw this distinction; on its ancient origin and its use in the thirteenth century, see Solère 2014. 24 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 108, 112) and q. 17 (140). 25 Hence a causa sine qua non has no power to move something, but only “metaphorically moves,” as Henry points out; see Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 14 (ed. Macken, 89) and q. 17 (127). 26 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. XII, q. 26 (ed. Decorte, 152–153), where Henry emphasizes that the intellect does not move the will. Note that for Henry, although the intellect is not a real cause with respect to the will, it is of course such a cause with respect to its own acts; after all, it produces thoughts. 27 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. XII, q. 26 (ed. Decorte, 152–153) and Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 100). 28 The stomach is therefore on a lower level than the will. Henry distinguishes six levels of causes, situating the will on the second level, just below God. See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 120–138).

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  43 9 See note 22. 2 30 Note, however, that Henry does not subscribe to the sub ratione optimi principle. The will does not need to strive for the thing that is judged to be the best thing. In fact, Henry concedes that it can strive for something that is judged to be a “lesser good” in a given situation. See Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 94–115) and the analysis in Müller 2009, 591–598. 31 A possible exception is akrasia, when a passion intervenes before the intellect makes an appropriate judgement. The will is then immediately influenced by the passion and strives for the object that is presented as desirable. In this case, the passion causes a “disorder in the will,” as Henry points out; see Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 115). Note, however, that even in this case, the will becomes active only if there is a cognitive activity, even if only a sensory one. 32 See, for instance, Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 133–135). 33 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 133–134). 34 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. XII, q. 26 (ed. Decorte, 156). 35 The refusal is most evident in cases of sinning, which Henry discusses at great length. He claims that the sinner who acts against his own best judgement has the conclusion of a practical syllogism actually present to him and therefore actually knows what he should do, but his will nevertheless acts against this knowledge and initiates a sin. See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10 (ed. Macken, 258), with the analyses in Müller 2009, 581–591, and Perler 2020, 417–429. 36 See note 3. 37 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. VIII, q. 10 (ed. Badius, fols. 322–323), and the detailed analysis in Hoffmann 2021, 222–225. 38 On this methodological function of angels, which is similar to the function of thought experiments in contemporary debates, see Perler 2008. 39 It is also illustrated by the case of akrasia, where the will follows the passions, not an intellectual judgement. Henry discusses this case at great length; see Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 115–150). 40 Henry therefore does not fit the characterization of voluntarism given by Irwin (2007, 705), who claims that defenders of this position assume that the will “cannot decide on the basis of any considerations at all.” 41 For a concise characterization of this principle, see Della Rocca 2010. 42 It is also one of Henry’s main reasons for establishing a hierarchy of causes. Since natural causes are always moved by something else, they are lower causes that can be fully explained with reference to other causes. God and the will, by contrast, move themselves, and are therefore higher causes; when explaining them we cannot go beyond a reference to their own self-­motion. Henry refers to an “active power” that makes this self-­motion possible, and such a power cannot be further explained. See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 137–138).

Bibliography Primary Sources Godfrey of Fontaines. Les Quodlibets huit, neuf et dix. Edited by Jean Hoffmans. Les Philosophes Belges 4. Leuven: Éditions de l’Institut Supérieur de Philosophie, 1924–1931. Henry of Ghent. Quodlibeta. Paris: Badius, 1519. Reprint, Leuven: Bibliothèque S.J., 1961.

44  Dominik Perler ———. Quodlibet I. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 5. Leuven; Leiden: Leuven University Press; Brill, 1979. ———. Quodlibet X. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 14. Leuven; Leiden: Leuven University Press; Brill, 1981. ———. Quodlibet IX. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 13. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1983. ———. Quodlibet XII, quaestiones 1–30. Edited by Jos Decorte. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 16. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1987. Siger of Brabant. “De necessitate et contingentia causarum.” Edited by Joannes J. Duin in La doctrine de la providence dans les écrits de Siger de Brabant, 14–50. Leuven: Éditions de l’Institut Supérieur de Philosophie, 1954. ———. Quaestiones in Metaphysicam. Edited by William Dunphy. Philosophes Médiévaux 24. Louvain-­la-­Neuve: Éditions de l’Institut Supérieur de Philosophie, 1981. Tempier, Stephen. “Articuli condemnati anno 1277.” Edited by David Piché in La condamnation parisienne de 1277: Texte latin, traduction, introduction et com­ mentaire. Paris: Vrin, 1999. Thomas Aquinas. Summa theologiae. Edited by Pietro Caramello. Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1952. William of Ockham. Quodlibeta septem. Edited by Joseph C. Wey. Opera Theologica 9. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1980. Secondary Literature Decaix, Véronique, and Ana María Mora-­Márquez, eds. 2020. Active Cognition: Challenges to an Aristotelian Tradition. Cham: Springer. Della Rocca, Michael. 2010. “PSR.” Philosophers’ Imprint 10, no. 7. http://hdl. handle.net/2027/spo.3521354.0010.007 Hoffmann, Tobias. 2014. “Intellectualism and Voluntarism.” In The Cambridge History of Medieval Philosophy, 2nd ed., edited by Robert Pasnau and Christina Van Dyke, vol. 1, 414–427. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2021. Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Irwin, Terence. 2007. The Development of Ethics: A Historical and Critical Study, vol. 1, From Socrates to the Reformation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Leone, Marialucrezia. 2014. Filosofia e teologia della vita activa: La sfera dell’agire pratico in Enrico di Gand. Bari: Edizioni di pagina. Löwe, Can Laurens. 2021. Thomas Aquinas on the Metaphysics of the Human Act. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Macken, Raymond. 1977. “Heinrich von Gent im Gespräch mit seinen Zeitgenossen über die menschliche Freiheit.” Franziskanische Studien 59: 125–182. Mandonnet, Pierre. 1911. Siger de Brabant et l’averroïsme latin au XIIIe siècle. Leuven: Institut Supérieur de Philosophie. Müller, Jörn. 2009. Willensschwäche in Antike und Mittelalter: Eine Prob­ lemgeschichte von Sokrates bis Johannes Duns Scotus. Leuven: Leuven University Press.

Does Voluntarism Lead to Irrationalism?  45 ———. 2018. “Der Herr und sein Diener mit der Lampe: Heinrich von Gent über Wille und Intellekt.” In Freiheit und Geschichte: Festschrift für Theo Kobusch zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by Jörn Müller and Christian Rode, 95–120. Münster: Aschendorff. Nawar, Tamer. 2021. “Augustine on Active Perception, Awareness, and Representation.” Phronesis 66: 84–110. Perler, Dominik. 2008. “Thought Experiments: The Methodological Function of Angels in Late Medieval Epistemology.” In Angels in Medieval Philosophical Inquiry: Their Function and Significance, edited by Isabel Iribarren and Martin Lenz, 143–153. Aldershot: Ashgate. ———. 2012. “Why Is the Sheep Afraid of the Wolf? Medieval Debates on Animal Passions.” In Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy, edited by Martin Pickavé and Lisa Shapiro, 32–52. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2020. Eine Person sein: Philosophische Debatten im Spätmittelalter. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann. Putallaz, François-­Xavier. 1995. Insolente liberté: Controverses et condamnations au XIIIe siècle. Paris; Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires de Fribourg; Cerf. Ryan, Christopher J. 1983. “Man’s Free Will in the Works of Siger of Brabant.” Mediaeval Studies 45: 155–199. Solère, Jean-­Luc. 2014. “Sine Qua Non Causality and the Context of Durand’s Early Theory of Cognition.” In Durand of Saint-­Pourçain and His Sentences Commentary: Historical, Philosophical, and Theological Issues, edited by ­Andreas Speer, Guy Guldentops, Thomas Jeschke, and Fiorella Retucci, 185– 227. Leuven: Peeters.

2 Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia Radicalizing Views on Incontinence around 1277 Jörn Müller 2.1 Introduction In order to identify and distinguish the “varieties of voluntarism” in scholastic philosophy, several synchronic and diachronic perspectives may be taken. One might draw with broad strokes a panoramic picture stretching over several decades or even centuries; or one might zoom in very closely on a few authors or a small set of texts with the aim of doing close readings and fine-­grained analyses. My take in this chapter is somewhere between these two approaches. I will trace some broad developments in medieval authors around the famous condemnation of 1277, which is itself often regarded as a pinnacle of voluntarist thought. The general framework of my discussion is provided by the thirteenth-­century discussions of human agency and free choice, in which one can roughly identify an intellectualist and a voluntarist strand, which were sometimes deeply at odds with each other. While intellectualists see the intellect as the root and source of human freedom, voluntarists point to the will as the king in the human soul and as the ultimate source of free decision. In the second half of the thirteenth century, this debate emerged in the wake of the intensified reception of Aristotle’s writings on ethics and psychology, especially his Nicomachean Ethics and De anima. These led to a kind of “psychological turn” in debates about human freedom, which is evident in the interest of both parties in the description and causal analysis of action.1 A controversial issue in action theory is acting against one’s rational judgement, a phenomenon referred to as “weakness of will” or “incontinence” (the Latin translation for the Greek term akrasia), which, as Bonnie Kent has rightly stated, “became a focal point of the intellectualist-­ voluntarist controversy” in the second half of the thirteenth century.2 In this chapter I will focus exclusively on the voluntarist side, and take the different ways in which voluntarist authors around 1277 treated this phenomenon, and especially Aristotle’s analysis of it, as a way to highlight

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-4

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 47 certain developments within ethical voluntarism.3 My general thesis is that in the handling of incontinent actions by voluntarist authors of this period, we can discern a significant and far-­reaching radicalization. In particular, I argue that the discussion of incontinent actions undergoes a shift from Aristotelian akrasia to cases of clear-­eyed incontinence which do not fit with Aristotle’s psychology of action. The structure of this chapter is as follows. First, I will outline the conceptual and argumentative framework of incontinent actions for the following analysis (§2.2). I will then look at the historical development of voluntarist views on incontinent action, basically in three stages: the situation before 1277 as found in Walter of Bruges and Henry of Ghent (§2.3), the condemnation itself (§2.4), and the radicalization in voluntarist accounts after 1277 that can be found in William de la Mare and Peter John Olivi (§2.5). In this way it will become clear that ethical voluntarism changed considerably during this period. I conclude by reflecting on what lessons might be drawn from these changes for the emerging understanding of human agency in the later voluntarist tradition (§2.6). 2.2 The Conceptual Framework: Incontinent Action and Aristotelian Akrasia First of all, a terminological remark is called for. In what follows, “incontinent action” is used as a kind of umbrella term to designate intentional actions which contradict the agent’s practical judgement. By performing an incontinent action, an agent does something which is not in accordance with her rational judgement about what is the best or right thing to do, but she nevertheless does this action freely; that is, she does not act under psychological compulsion or coercion.4 Incontinent actions can take many different shapes and require a more sophisticated description than the one just given, and in the accounts that we will look at in what follows, we will see such refinements at work. But even at first glance, it is obvious why medieval voluntarists might make use of incontinence in order to support their views. Incontinent actions seem to undermine two assumptions which proponents of an intellectualist ethics and action theory usually make. Borrowing the terminology from Tobias Hoffmann’s recent book in slightly modified form,5 medieval intellectualists would usually subscribe to two principles: (P1) Judgement-­Volition Conformity: Willing conforms to what reason judges as to be willed. (P2) Socratic Deficiency: Deficient willing presupposes deficient cognition.

48  Jörn Müller Both principles are stated, for example, by Thomas Aquinas, and are the kernel of what Socrates set in motion by stating the cornerstones of “ethical intellectualism” in the early Platonic dialogues. But these two assumptions are seriously challenged by the phenomenon of incontinence. For assuming that incontinent actions are intentional implies that they are free, but then a gap opens up between judgement and volition, or between intellect and will. The will obviously does not conform to the rational judgement (against P1), and this aberration, which usually leads to bad or sinful action, cannot be ultimately explained by a cognitive failure (against P2). Thus, in the struggle against intellectualists, incontinent action appears to be grist for the voluntarist mill, and severely undermines any idea of the intellect having unchallenged supremacy in grounding or guiding our actions. That incontinence goes against the purely intellectualist grain was already noted by Aristotle in his influential treatment of akrasia in book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics (1146b6–1147b19), where he stresses the influence of the passions (pathē) in this process. There he rebuts the Socratic denial of incontinence (as documented in Plato’s Protagoras 351e–358a), which was basically rooted in the two principles just stated. So Aristotle seems to be a natural ally of voluntarists in their quarrel with intellectualists. On closer inspection, however, this might prove a fragile alliance, for at least two reasons. First, it is not Aristotle’s intention to throw all Socratic assumptions overboard, but only to reduce them to their proper scope. His own analysis boils down to the conclusion that Socrates was not entirely wrong.6 In a certain sense, it is not possible to act against one’s better judgement, that is, a here-­and-­now judgement that it would be wrong to perform this particular act in the situation at hand. Thus, Aristotle himself seems to deny clear-­eyed incontinence which flies in the face of an actual rational judgement tailored to the concrete situation; he argues rather that the agent’s knowledge that the action she is performing right now is wrong remains in a merely habitual state.7 Thus, the syllogism of “right reason” which would prompt the correct action (or prevent a false act) is not completed, for the agent does not reach the practical, action-­guiding conclusion.8 Instead, the agent forms a different practical syllogism which triggers the incontinent action.9 Thus, Judgement-­ Volition Conformity is not refuted but spelled out in a nuanced way that allows for certain incontinent actions which always involve some cognitive deficit. This also keeps a back door open for Socratic Deficiency in a reformulated version. Ultimately, then, Aristotle seems to support the idea that “every evildoer is ignorant.”10 The second reason is that the Aristotelian analysis does not contain any explicit references to the will as a causal factor in the description and explanation of how incontinent action comes about. Akrasia seems to be

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 49 due to the influence of passions on the cognitive apparatus. Aristotle mainly shows how desire affects the actualization of habitual knowledge and the formulation of a practical syllogism which leads to action. Overall, the Aristotelian account is firmly based on conceptual tools which are regularly used by medieval intellectualists to explain how human action and free choice originate in reason and its activities. It seems that a voluntarist would need to perform a tour de force of interpretive effort to adjust all this to their vocabulary and principles in order to bolster the claim that it is in fact the will – and not the intellect – that is in the driver’s seat in all human decisions and actions, including incontinent ones. In short, incontinent action, especially in the analysis provided by Aristotle, might prove a double-­ edged sword for medieval voluntarist authors in their debate with their intellectualist opponents. Let us now look more closely at how they make use of the concept of incontinent action, starting with the era before the condemnation of 1277. 2.3 Before 1277: Accommodating Aristotelian Akrasia In question 4 of his Disputed Questions, held at Paris between 1267 and 1269 and revised around 1270, Walter of Bruges addresses the question: “Whether the will is necessitated by its appetible object” (utrum voluntas necessitetur ab appetibili suo).11 Aristotelian akrasia is introduced in support of the view by which the will is so necessitated: in the incontinent person, rational judgement about the appropriate object of choice is removed so that the will is necessarily determined to its act by the object of sinful desire, which appears good.12 In his response, Walter turns the tables and uses the example of incontinence to opposite effect, to prove that the will is never necessitated, either by its object or by the intellect, but always wills freely: We experience [experimur] frequently that reason encourages and counsels one thing and the will does the contrary. … An example is the incontinent in Nicomachean Ethics 7, who has a sound reason [sana ratio] by which he judges that the shameful is to be fled, but because he has a corrupt appetite [appetitus corruptus] he chooses what reason judges to be something to be fled. In the same way, even one who is in virtue or grace, possessing sound reason and will, sins when he wills, although reason has a contrary judgement [licet ratio contrarium judicet].13 The bottom line is this: Walter denies intellectualist Judgement-­Volition Conformity (P1 in the previous section) and identifies book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics as a potential resource for arguing against it. Incontinent action in the Aristotelian sense is thereby adduced as corroboration of a voluntarist understanding of human action in general. But Walter

50  Jörn Müller keenly discerns what needs to be done in order to prove his point with regard to Aristotle’s account. Since Aristotelian akrasia always involves ignorance in some form, it has to be established that such action is still voluntary, for if it is not, an incontinent person cannot be held accountable for her action. Walter therefore picks up the thread of the Aristotelian analysis but spins it further at a crucial point: The incontinent has sufficient knowledge for judging that what appears good to him is evil and should be avoided. He knows in the universal that all fornication is evil and should be avoided – from which he could conclude, if he willed [si vellet], that for him it is also evil and to be avoided. Hence, he does not lack knowledge except because he wills [quia vult], on account of which he sins willingly [voluntarie].14 In this way, Walter stresses an important difference: the incontinent acts in partial ignorance but not out of ignorance. He seems to be very keen on safeguarding full moral accountability for incontinent actions, which might be called into question if they were instances of peccare ex ignorantia, since ignorance is in many cases a legitimate excuse for wrongdoing. Walter blocks this path effectively. The cognitive failure to reach the action-­ guiding conclusion of the right practical syllogism is not rooted in the intellect itself or in the workings on the intellect by the passions; rather, it is due to the will’s intentional inactivity, which actively undermines the process of practical reasoning. What enables faulty practical reasoning is not a contingent lack of knowledge, but a deliberate failure by the will. This voluntariness of incontinent action is also proof of the will’s control over the intellect, which is even more striking in the following case given by Walter.15 Even if reason judges that a is better than b and therefore to be willed, the will can stay indifferent to both alternatives and order reason to rule in favour of a third alternative c, which is inferior to both of the other two. Walter marks a significant difference between the preceding judgement (iudicium) of reason and its final, action-­ guiding decision (arbitrium). Effectively, the will causes reason to change its mind when it comes to action, notwithstanding the conclusion of its prior deliberation. The final decision of reason about what is to be done happens “at the nod of the will” (ad nutum voluntatis). Nevertheless, this seems to be a case of a diachronic change in the intellect, which shifts from the judgement that “a is the best option available” to the decision that “c is to be done.” Therefore, the agent does not act against a contrary judgement which is simultaneously present, but oscillates towards a new one that favours the incontinent action. This account is notable for two reasons. First, it sets some limits to the possibility of clear-­eyed wrongdoing within the framework of Aristotelian incontinence. As other passages from his Disputed Questions make clear,

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 51 Walter does not suppose that the practical syllogism of right reason has been completed in these cases.16 The universal premise is not actualized in an action-­guiding conclusion, and at the moment of action, it somehow stays in the background in the guise of habitual knowledge. Thus, the incontinent person does not act “in the face of” a particular here-­and-­now judgement, but only violates a general rule or principle of which he is not even conscious when acting. Thus, secondly, Walter keeps practical reason in play in incontinent actions. He quotes approvingly Bernard of Clairvaux’s assertion that the will “acts against reason’s judgement with the help of reason”.17 Usually only the first part of this statement is emphasized – that the will acts against reason’s judgement – but one also has to pay attention to the second part, which points out the required collaboration of reason. This is also shown by Walter’s treatment of original sin. Adam acts against God’s command because he wills not to sadden his wife, thereby choosing the minor good over the higher good, but “judging the former to be good for him in some way [illud sibi arbitrans aliquo modo bonum]”.18 The fundamental idea that every action takes place sub ratione boni and is based on a judgement is thus still intact. So Walter does not flatly deny reason a role in the bringing about of an incontinent action;19 he just wants to ensure that this contribution is not misunderstood in the sense of Socratic Deficiency (P2). It is not that bad willing is not caused or preceded by faulty reasoning, but precisely the reverse, in incontinent action and any other form of evil action. Defending the causal primacy of the will in incontinent action is also an important concern for Henry of Ghent in his first Quodlibet, held at Christmas 1276. In question 17, he offers a lengthy answer to the question, “Whether the disorder of the will is caused by an error in reason or the other way round.”20 This question is part of a sustained demonstration of the superiority of the will over reason, aimed primarily at refuting the contrary ideas offered by Thomas Aquinas.21 Henry consistently argues against a certain theory of action which he deems to be a form of intellectual determinism in which the will is necessitated by reason’s practical judgement, which seems to be championed particularly in Nicomachean Ethics 7.22 Henry thus has a double aim in this question. First, he wants to offer a voluntarist picture of human agency, correcting the false assumptions of an intellectualist theory of action. According to Henry, reason is only an adviser to the will, and does not causally move it. He illustrates this relationship with the catchy metaphor of the will as the king in the whole soul, with reason as merely a servant who carries a lamp ahead of his master.23 Reason moves the will only in a metaphorical sense, by presenting a desirable object to the will; it is up to the will to act on that object or not. Necessitation of the will by reason’s judgement is impossible, just as a king can always act against the rational judgement of his adviser. Consequently,

52  Jörn Müller in Henry’s view, incontinent actions are always due causally to the disorder of the will: the judgement of reason and the passions which distort it are only a causa sine qua non, or an occasion for the self-­determination of the will as a self-­moving entity.24 This ties in closely with the second aim of the question, namely, to give a voluntarist reading of Aristotle’s theory of action in general and of his account of incontinence in particular. Henry sets the tone as follows: “Therefore, it is strange to attribute to the philosopher that he wanted the judgement of reason to limit and to necessitate the will to will according to the intellect’s form [necessitare voluntatem ad volendum secundum formam intellectus].”25 So Henry not only denies Judgement-­ Volition Conformity (P1) in his own account but also rejects it as a correct understanding of Aristotle’s moral psychology. Henry even calls Aristotle as a star witness in his voluntarist case against the intellectualists: Aristotle explicitly says in the third book of his Ethics that man is able to act freely in such a way as to act against a firm judgement by reason. … Note that he clearly assigns free choice of evil to the will, even in its contradiction to a previous right opinion [opinioni rectae praecedenti].26 On Henry’s reading, Aristotle denies Judgement-­Volition Conformity as well as Socratic Deficiency, and the key text to which he ties this interpretation is Nicomachean Ethics 7. In the second part of the question,27 he undertakes a detailed exegesis of it to prove his point. This is nothing less than a blow-­by-­blow account of the Aristotelian text which comes close to a full-­fledged commentary. Having treated this multifaceted analysis elsewhere in greater detail,28 here I would like to point out just one significant feature: Henry denies that the distortion of practical judgement in incontinence is due to the direct causal influence of the sensual passions on reason. He argues instead that the passions first affect the will, and only via the will’s free consent to them are they capable of clouding the agent’s practical deliberation. He analyses Aristotle basically in Augustinian terms, drawing on the triad of suggestio, delectatio, and consensus as a description of how sin befalls man.29 In this model, the consent (consensus) given by the will is the decisive act in causing sinful action. This analysis safeguards the superior role of the will in incontinent actions; the passions do not necessitate the will, but merely offer it another opportunity to determine itself. Thus, the voluntariness of incontinent actions, and so our moral responsibility for them, are secured (which was also a major preoccupation for Walter of Bruges): it is in the power of the will alone whether to act on the occasion of the occurrent passions, and it certainly can refrain from doing so.

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 53 All this does not preclude that Aristotelian incontinence also involves a certain cognitive impairment. Error of reason is still the cornerstone in explaining how incontinent actions come about, and Henry spills a lot of ink in describing the blinding of the intellect as a result of the direction of the will. Nevertheless, he ultimately turns the Socratic Deficiency thesis, against which he battles relentlessly, into an “Augustinian deficiency thesis”, which he accepts because it safeguards the causal primacy of the will over the intellect: “Deficient cognition presupposes deficient willing.”30 It should be mentioned that Henry later forcefully returns to the subject of incontinent actions in his tenth Quodlibet in 1286, in which he explicitly distances himself from the “Aristotelian prophecy”31 concerning incontinence (which was followed by Aquinas and his intellectualist supporters). Suddenly Aristotle is no longer a potential ally in the battle against the intellectualists, but rather belongs to the enemy camp. This marks a kind radicalization in Henry’s views on incontinence, which might be accounted for at different levels.32 But despite this change of mind, his last stance does not completely overturn a basic tenet of Aristotelian akrasia: In his final analysis of the issue, Henry approaches the possibility of clear-­eyed incontinence in Quodlibet X,33 but he continues to support the idea that, simultaneously with the incontinent disorder in the will, a blinding within reason occurs (which is nevertheless caused by the will’s defect).34 Thus the incontinent finally always acts in ignorance – but not out of it – and not in the face of a simultaneous contrary judgement. The fact that Henry does not further radicalize his view on sinning without ignorance may be explained by his general approach to this problem after 1277. He obviously tries to steer a kind of middle course between Scylla and Charybdis, namely between the voluntarist condemnation in 1277 of the article that “if reason is right, will is right,”35 and the rather intellectualist propositio magistralis of Giles of Rome, according to which there is never malice in the will without there also being some kind of error or ignorance in reason.36 The reconciliation of these two seemingly contradictory tenets via the analysis of (Aristotelian) incontinence is an interpretive tour de force which shows that even in his later career, Henry is not as radically voluntarist as some earlier scholars have argued.37 It may well be that Henry’s efforts were not regarded as successful by other voluntarists, who resorted to more radical views concerning clear-­eyed incontinence, as we will see later in this chapter. In sum: Henry’s first Quodlibet shows a remarkable tendency to accommodate Aristotle’s account of incontinent action within his own picture of human agency and freedom. As in Walter of Bruges, Aristotelian akrasia is enlisted in the voluntarist camp in order to keep the threat of intellectual determinism at bay: incontinent actions defy any intellectualist view of

54  Jörn Müller human agency. Aristotle is even invoked as a voluntarist avant la lettre, whose own action theory can be harmonized with Christian authorities such as Augustine and Bernard of Clairvaux. This depicts in broad strokes the profile of the first phase of voluntarist views in the 1270s. Now how does the Parisian condemnation, in which Henry took an active part,38 express the voluntarist stance towards incontinent actions? 2.4 The Condemnation of 1277: Articulating the Voluntarist Stance The articles of the famous condemnation of 1277 which are concerned with the will39 show a clear tendency: they aim to safeguard the freedom of the will by firmly rejecting “the thesis that all wrongdoing results from ignorance, that anyone who knew better would perforce do better or even will to do better.”40 Obviously, the phenomenon of incontinent action supports such a stance against P2 (see Section 2.2), at least as long as it is understood in a voluntarist vein. Two articles which in their wording seem to be aimed at Aristotelian incontinence are probably intended to counter problematic readings of it. This is especially clear in the first article, which denies that “a man acting from passion acts under coercion [homo agens ex passione coacte agit]”.41 Since peccare ex passione is a synonym for incontinent action in the sense of Aristotelian akrasia,42 this article is further proof that incontinence was under scrutiny mainly because of its possible implications for human freedom. And the voluntarist twist is quite clear: incontinent actions must be understood as freely willed and not as necessitated, which ties in with the general thrust of argument in Walter of Bruges and Henry of Ghent. The second article of the 1277 condemnation is of fundamental importance for the later development of the voluntarist stance vis-­à-­vis incontinent acts. It rejects the thesis that “while passion remains and particular knowledge is actually present, the will cannot act against it [voluntas, manente passione et scientia particulari in actu, non potest agere contra eam]”.43 The wording of this article is ambiguous,44 but the reference to the presence of passions suggests a link with Aristotelian akrasia, while the emphasis on particular knowledge (scientia particularis) can be understood as follows: In the standard reading of Aristotle’s account of incontinent actions (see Section 2.2), the practical syllogism of right reason is not concluded so that no final judgement emerges which prohibits a particular action, e.g., the tasting of sweets, here and now; instead, an alternative syllogism is completed which judges the incontinent action as the action to be done. But this might imply that the will just necessarily follows a distorted hic et nunc judgement of reason and cannot resist it – which is highly problematic in a voluntarist framework (as Henry’s treatment of

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 55 this problem in Quodl. X, q. 13 shows). It is certainly no coincidence that the intellectualist Siger had stated before 1277: Some take it as true that one still has choice even when the particular judgement that this is good or bad is still in place [stante iudicio in particulari]; but in the seventh book of his Ethics and elsewhere Aristotle says the contrary.45 Again, Aristotelian akrasia is the bone of contention between intellectualists and voluntarists. The upshot of the second article seems to be a vindication of Judgement-­ Volition Conformity (P1), with detrimental consequences for the voluntarist’s purposes. For if the will were not capable of acting against a present here-­and-­now judgement of practical reason, it loses ultimate control over its own willing and the outward action caused by it. The conclusion that the voluntarists draw from this potential predicament for their understanding of human agency is that clear-­eyed wrong willing which flies in the face of a synchronic contrary judgement of reason must be possible in order to rule out such enslavement of the will in its activity. Consequently, a more “strict” incontinence must be argued for, also in order to support the rejection of the thesis that “If reason is right, the will is also right,” which was also condemned in 1277 (see Section 2.3). But this marks a transition to sinning without ignorance, which ultimately goes beyond the framework of Aristotelian akrasia in favour of a more radical model of incontinent action. 2.5 After 1277: Radicalizing Incontinence Shortly after the Parisian condemnation, William de la Mare composed his Correctorium fratris Thomae, assembling 117 passages from Aquinas with critical replies to them. Among them is an article concerning the question whether “a defect in reason precedes the sin in the motion of the will [defectus in ratione praecedit peccatum in motu voluntatis].46 Basically, Aquinas is faulted for maintaining Socratic Deficiency and for trying to explain the origin of evil in terms of Aristotelian akrasia, that is, by invoking error in particular knowledge and the influence of sensual passion.47 William launches an attack on these two pillars of Aquinas’s understanding of incontinence: Everyone can experience in himself [potest experiri in seipso] that in spite of the fact that reason judges something truly to be a sin (like fornication or something else), nevertheless the will can move the body to sin and commit it while this judgement stands [durante ipso iudicio]. …

56  Jörn Müller In the same way, it happens most often on the inside [of ourselves] that we witness the following: the will is able to sin in willing and choosing without any defect of reason in its application of the universal notion of goodness or utility to the particular good [bonum particulare] and also without any interception of the judgement by the vehemence of a passion in the lower parts [of the soul].48 Undoubtedly, William is arguing against Aristotelian akrasia as a basic understanding of human wrongdoing, and favours instead clear-­ eyed incontinence, that is, acting against a present judgement of reason concerning a particular good here and now. His position is based on inner experience, a line of argument typical of Franciscan thinkers.49 It also seems to be in line with our ordinary experience: it is an undeniable phenomenon of our psychic life that we sometimes clearly recognize what is good here and now and nevertheless do the opposite. This experience of “hard” or clear-­ eyed incontinence is, as John Searle puts it, “as common as wine in France.”50 William also corroborates this appeal to everyday experience by citing Scripture, in particular the first sin of Adam, which was caused by neither ignorance nor passion.51 The fall from Paradise was a stock example for voluntarists, which they regularly threw at their intellectualist opponents in support of their position that evil starts in the will and cannot be explained by cognitive failures.52 In general, William considerably weakens the link between practical deliberation and free decision by stressing that in the saints as well as in the morally worst people, action is not triggered by any complex thought process but is occasioned by the simple apprehension of the features of the object. The saint does not need any syllogistic reasoning in the style of Nicomachean Ethics 7 to decide that it is right to feed this hungry person or to give alms to this beggar.53 This also holds for the incontinent person in the earlier description by William: the will directly moves the body without any intermediate rational judgement or decision. No distortion of judgement is needed in order to produce the bad willing, and consequently William does not even hint at the possibility that the bad act is accompanied by error or ignorance. Therefore, he can also easily reject the influence of the passions on this process of deliberation; this would only muddy the waters in his model of clear-­eyed incontinence. In order to prove his point, he gives an example directly targeting Aristotle’s account of akrasia, which is centred on bodily desires and pleasures. We may also pursue higher non-­ sensual goods like honour in an incontinent manner (i.e., contrary to our present judgement) without any passionate arousal in our sensitive soul.54 Bonnie Kent has argued that William in his Correctorium is not attacking Aristotle, but only Aquinas and his interpretation of “the Philosopher.”55 Yet in the case of incontinence, William directly targets the two main

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 57 explanatory pillars of Nicomachean Ethics 7. Moreover, his insistence that an Aristotelian model of akrasia is radically insufficient for explaining evil action and its origin is certainly not in line with Walter’s and Henry’s initial attempts to accommodate Aristotelian akrasia within their voluntarist picture of human agency (see Section 2.3). Instead, William highlights the case of clear-­ eyed incontinence, which lacks the traditional features of Aristotelian akrasia and thus transgresses this framework. This greater emphasis on sinning without the involvement of ignorance and passion seems to be the trademark of a more radicalized view of incontinent actions in the voluntarist tradition after 1277. It is staunchly defended against all attempts by supporters of Aquinas, who attempt to counter these voluntarist attacks by playing down clear-­eyed incontinence. But all these later reactions (which also do not propose very original readings of incontinent actions) try to build their defences around an analysis of Aristotelian akrasia, thereby completely missing the point of William’s radicalized view.56 While Walter does not renounce – at least not explicitly – the alliance with Aristotle forged by Walter and the early Henry, Peter John Olivi goes one step further, cutting all links between a voluntarist picture of human agency and Aristotle, who is treated as an outright enemy. In his famous question on free choice,57 Olivi several times cites Aristotle in general and book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics in particular in order to argue against human freedom. If Aristotle’s syllogistical theory of action is right, then the will is necessitated by cognition, and sinning is always due to some form of ignorance. Olivi does not accept this intellectualistic view of human wrongdoing, declaring in a rather menacing tone: “Not only does the previous statement contain a lie by Aristotle, but it is also heretical to follow him in this [etiam sequi eum in hoc est haereticum].”58 The heresy, as depicted by Olivi, consists mainly in applying the model of akrasia to the first fall of the angels and to Adam’s sin – the voluntarists’ stock examples of clear-­ eyed evil action – in order to explain how their sin was possible at all.59 This is a recurring theological motif in several voluntarist texts on Aristotelian akrasia: if incontinent actions are due merely to a certain kind of ignorance, this shortcoming might be corrected by supplying knowledge, without the administration of divine grace to the human will – but this comes perilously close to Pelagianism.60 Nonetheless, Olivi’s hostility to Aristotelian akrasia is not only theologically motivated but also has a philosophical point. According to him, the classical Aristotelian distinctions between habitual and actual knowledge and between universal and particular knowledge are ultimately insufficient to explain the state of mind in the incontinent agent: They do not solve the difficulties in explaining how incontinence is possible, but rather enhance them.61 Olivi presents the rationale behind this scathing judgement in questions 85 and 86 of his commentary on the second book of Peter Lombard’s

58  Jörn Müller Sentences (composed between 1280 and 1282), where Olivi addresses Aristotle’s account of incontinence in some detail.62 He maintains that the Aristotelian theory of action has the consequence that the conclusion of reason’s practical syllogism is tantamount to the action.63 Yet on this understanding, the will is in fact necessitated in its action by the conclusion of the intellect’s deliberation, and so there is no possibility of acting against one’s judgement about what is good here and now. In arguing against this and for the possibility of clear-­eyed incontinence, Olivi mostly takes up well-­known voluntarist examples and arguments but gives them a new twist. For example, he reinvigorates the idea of inner experience as evidence of clear-­eyed incontinence, as follows: According to this [sc. Aristotle’s view of incontinence] no one would or could do something while a present remorse of conscience [cum actuali remorsu conscientiae] tells him to do the opposite of what he is doing and stimulates him to this contrary act. This is just the opposite of what we experience all the time [assidue experimur].64 The everyday experience of guilty conscience (which simultaneously accompanies an action which we deem not right) virtually requires that a practical syllogism prohibiting this particular action here and now has been completed; the resulting judgement of conscience is thus present in one’s mind while one is acting against it; and it is exactly this contradiction which causes our inner feeling of remorse.65 In a nutshell, this argument also contains Olivi’s explanation of the clear-­eyed incontinent action and the divided psychological state of the agent. In the remorse of conscience we recognize our own action to be morally bad. Now, Olivi draws a clear line between two kinds of practical knowledge.66 One concerns the factual moral character of an action, for example, that this is fornication and that it is morally prohibited by God’s command. The other kind of practical knowledge is accompanied by an affective appraisal of the action, for example, that this act of fornication is desired by me because of the sexual pleasure which it will afford. What happens in the incontinent agent is a contradiction between these two judgements, one of them prohibiting this particular action and the other calling for it. The incontinent agent acts on her “affective knowledge,” which is preferred by the will, and contrary to the “speculative knowledge” that this is morally wrong, which nevertheless is simultaneously present.67 At first glance this analysis of the incontinent’s inner conflict may seem a bit trivial, but it paved the way for the important distinction between notitia dictativa and notitia directiva which later figures prominently in Scotus and in Ockham.68 Similar ideas about two different forms of practical judgement can also be found earlier in Walter of Bruges69 and in Henry

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 59 of Ghent,70 albeit not in the context of discussing incontinence. In fact, even contemporary philosophers in the wake of Donald Davidson have adopted this line of explanation in order to establish the possibility of incontinent actions. One has to assume that there are two kinds of practical judgements: (1) one which ultimately triggers the incontinent action and (2) a different and contradicting one which is overruled in this act.71 Olivi’s solution has the advantage that it prevents clear-­eyed incontinence from being completely irrational. The incontinent will still acts “in the guise of the good” (sub ratione boni) and not completely arbitrarily, although it cannot be ultimately explained why it shuns the moral good in favour of the pleasant or useful one. In any case, clear-­eyed incontinence does not threaten the supreme role of the will as a totally active power (totaliter potentia activa)72 – so cherished by Olivi – but rather corroborates it. Nevertheless, Olivi’s strategy has at least two philosophical consequences which might be viewed critically. First, it may give rise to a purely externalist view of moral judgements: They do not carry motivational weight of their own but always need reinforcement by other motives which are valued for non-­moral reasons. This picture might be welcomed by staunch Humeans but will certainly not be applauded by anyone still claiming an internal link between moral reasons and motivations. Second, Olivi would probably have some trouble explaining incontinent actions which go against the affective judgement itself. His model is well-­suited to explaining “moral weakness,” that is, acting against what one judges to be morally right because one is more strongly motivated to follow non-­moral reasons; but there are also significant cases of “prudential weakness” in which the agent fails to do what she appreciates most at the affective level. Incontinent actions of the latter kind are extremely hard cases which are controversial in the philosophical literature, since they seem close to being pathological cases which are excluded from incontinence. Nevertheless, they also seem to be part of our human experience. It is unclear how voluntarists like Olivi could handle such cases. Since the causal power of the will is usually heightened so much in voluntarist theories, it is not easy to see how it could fail in executing the affective judgement which is backed by it. Probably a more nuanced understanding of the will as a psychological capacity which would also allow for occasional failures or even chronic weaknesses would be required. But this is not on the philosophical menu of a thirteenth-­century voluntarist like Olivi, who wants to safeguard at any cost the causal primacy of the will in incontinent actions. 2.6 Conclusion We witness a radicalizing trend in voluntarist authors around 1277, from integrating Aristotelian akrasia into a voluntarist picture of human agency

60  Jörn Müller by reinterpreting it (the first phase) towards harshly criticizing and ultimately subverting it (the second phase). The growing voluntarist focus on examples of “sinning without ignorance” – like Adam and the fallen angels – marks a move from (weaker) diachronic forms of incontinence to (­stronger) synchronic ones which are not easily accommodated within the framework of Aristotelian akrasia. This shift may to a certain extent be explained by the polemical background in this era. Voluntarists increasingly recognized that clear-­eyed incontinence is a serious stumbling block for every intellectualist theory of action based on Aristotle. Aristotelian akrasia is somehow ambivalent when it comes to Judgement-­Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency (which all voluntarists ultimately battled against), whereas clear-­eyed incontinence leaves no doubt that sinning without error or ignorance is possible. Focusing on this phenomenon is therefore a kind of strategic move by voluntarists in their debate with intellectualist authors, as also the later example of Gonsalvus of Spain in his quarrel with John of Pouilly proves. He sums up neatly where the voluntarists are heading for in their debate with the intellectualists: The same goes for the sin of the first angel and the first parent because in them no ignorance – neither actual nor habitual – preceded their sin. Therefore they sinned against their conscience, and that would not be possible if the will could not move against the judgement of reason.73 But apart from this “polemical” background, there is also another explanation available to account for these radicalizing developments towards clear-­ eyed incontinence in voluntarist authors after 1277. In order to establish a completely will-­based account of agency as the basis of human freedom, the ethical voluntarists already introduced many tenets of what is called metaphysical voluntarism: the will has to be understood as a special entity which somehow transcends natural causation and is able to move and determine itself completely. This special causality of the will as a self-­ determining power may manifest itself in many phenomena of human action, and clear-­eyed incontinent actions show just how far the causal independence of the will reaches, even in evil action. This extreme, metaphysically underpinned heightening of the causal power of the will has two ramifications for the handling of incontinence. First, the Aristotelian account of akrasia, which adduces different causal elements (e.g., the practical syllogism and various forms of ignorance and the passions) to account for incontinent actions, loses its attractiveness for the voluntarists, not only because it might also be used by the intellectualists to bolster their rival view of agency, but also simply because it is unnecessarily complicated (at least in the view of the voluntarists). Since incontinent

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 61 actions can simply be explained by the will’s conscious choice of the bad against reason’s contrary judgement, why bother with all the other elements of human psychology so cherished by the Aristotelians? It is no coincidence that a metaphysical voluntarist like John Duns Scotus turns his full attention to peccare ex malitia and does not exhibit much interest in peccare ex passione in the sense of Aristotelian akrasia.74 Second, this new perspective has another intriguing consequence. Usually incontinent actions – especially clear-­eyed ones – are regarded as a stumbling block for philosophical action theory because they undermine some very fundamental assumptions which we usually harbour about ourselves as rational agents. Incontinence is a problem to be solved, and this explains to a certain extent its regular resurfacing in the history of philosophy. But for a staunch voluntarist, this is just not the case. At least at the level of causal explanation, a hard-­core voluntarist account of human agency does not see incontinent actions as posing any kind of problem or threat. Acting incontinently is just another manifestation of the strength of the human will. Or, to put it succinctly, within a coherent voluntarist framework of human agency, Davidson’s famous question – “How is weakness of the will possible?” – loses its philosophical edge. Whether this is a true merit or a serious drawback of voluntarism is another question – certainly, the intellectualists reject this whole picture of clear-­eyed incontinence as epitomizing exactly the kind of irrationalism of which they accuse their voluntarist opponents in general. Notes 1 For an overview of these developments, see Hoffmann 2021, 13–196. 2 Kent 1984, 271. I have provided a comprehensive account of these controversies up to and including Scotus in Müller 2009, 497–672. See also Saarinen 1994; Kent 1984, 1995; and the contributions to Hoffmann, Müller, and Perkams 2006. 3 For the terminology and the differences among psychological, ethical, and metaphysical voluntarism, see Kent 1995, 95–96, and the Introduction to this volume, Section 2. 4 This is basically also the general description of what is called weakness of will in modern debates; see Davidson 1980, esp. 22, where “acting incontinently” is defined. I have refrained from using this terminology here in order to prevent confusion concerning the idea of a “weak” will because – as will become clear within the next few pages – the whole story in the thirteenth century revolves around a causally extremely “strong” will. Moreover, while the Latin incontinentia translates the Greek akrasia, my use of “incontinent action” is not restricted to Aristotelian cases (which always involve the passions) but construed in a broader sense which covers not only these cases but also other situations where agents act against their own rational judgement of what to do. 5 See Hoffmann 2021, 45–46.

62  Jörn Müller 6 See Aristotle, EN 7.3, 1147b9–17. 7 See Aristotle, EN 7.3, 1146b31–1147a24. 8 E.g.: (P1) All high-­calorie food is to be avoided. (P2) This is high-­calorie food. (C) This is to be avoided. 9 To use Aristotle’s own example from EN 7.3, 1147a29–35: (P1) Everything sweet is to be tasted. (P2) This is sweet. (C) This is to be tasted. 10 See Aristotle, EN 3.1, 1110b28–29. 11 Walter of Bruges, Quaestiones disputatae [= QQ. disp.], q. 4 (ed. Longpré, 34–47). On Walter’s teaching on freedom of the will and incontinence, see Stadter 1971, 33–85; Decorte 1983; Kent 1995, 117–123, 175–178. 12 See Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 4, obj. 11 (ed. Longpré, 36): “Minor patet VII Ethicorum [...].” 13 Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 4, resp. (ed. Longpré, 39). Unless otherwise indicated, translations are mine. 14 Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 4, ad 11 (ed. Longpré, 45; translation from Kent 1995, 177, emphasis added). 15 See Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 5, resp. (ed. Longpré, 52). 16 See esp. Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 11 (ed. Longpré, 108–109). 17 Bernard of Clairvaux, De gratia et libero arbitrio, lib. 2, c. 3 (ed. Callerot et al., 168): “faciat per ipsam contra ipsam, hoc est quasi per eius ministerium, contra eius consilium sive iudicium.” 18 Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 6, ad 14 (ed. Longpré, 65). 19 See, e.g. Walter of Bruges, Quodl., q. 5, ad 5 (ed. Longpré, 54). 20 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 115–150): “Utrum deordinatio voluntatis causetur ab errore rationis vel econverso.” 21 On Henry’s discussions of free will in their historical context, see Macken 1977. 22 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 115): “arguitur primo quod deordinatio voluntatis causatur ab errore rationis, quia dicit Philosophus in VIIo [Ethicorum]…” 23 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 14 (ed. Macken, 90). For a closer analysis of this metaphor and its background in Henry, see Müller 2018. 24 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 129); for the will as a self-­ mover, see Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 99–139). 25 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 121). 26 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 129–130). 27 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 130–150). 28 See Müller 2007; 2009, 569–591; 2021. 29 See Augustine, De sermone Domini in monte 1.12.34–36 (CCSL 35:36–39). 30 Hoffmann 2021, 70. 31 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10 (ed. Macken, 261). For the importance of this phrase see Hödl 1999, 254–256 and 259–260. See also John of Pouilly’s reply to it in his Quodl. II, q. 11, discussed by Tobias Hoffmann in his contribution to this volume. 32 For a detailed treatment of this change and possible reasons for it, see Müller 2021. 33 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10 (ed. Macken, 258, 266). 34 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 13 (ed. Macken, 286–287). 35 Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, no. 130 (vol. 1, 173); Hissette 1977, no. 166: “Quod si ratio recta, et voluntas recta.” 36 Giles of Rome, Apologia, art. 51 (ed. Wielockx, 59): “Numquam est malitia in voluntate, nisi sit error vel saltem aliqua nescientia in ratione.”

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 63 37 See the contribution to this volume by Michael Szlachta, who also argues for a moderate version of voluntarism in Henry. Dominik Perler shows in his contribution that Henry’s voluntarism does not lead to irrationalism. 38 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. II, q. 9 (ed. Wielockx, 67). 39 For an overview, see Kent 1995, 76–79. For interpretation of this condemnation in light of the controversies between intellectualists and voluntarists, see Putallaz 1995, 52–91; Kent 1995, 68–81. 40 Kent 1995, 77 (her emphasis). 41 Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, no. 129 (vol. 1, 172–173); Hissette 1977, no. 169. 42 See Thomas Aquinas, ST IaIIae, q. 77, arts. 2–3. 43 Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, vol. 1, no. 129; Hissette 1977, no. 169. 44 The pronoun eam could refer either to scientia or to passio, so there are two different readings available; see Kent 1995, 78. Roland Hissette (1977, 262) interprets it as referring to scientia, so that the will cannot act against a here-­and-­now judgement of reason which has been formed under the influence of passion. This seems convincing to me. Hissette points out that in a later manuscript, this article is annotated as being “contra Thomam”; the reference is probably to ST IaIIae, q. 77, art. 2, where Aquinas describes a scenario along the lines of Hissette’s understanding of article 169. 45 Siger of Brabant, Quaestiones in Metaphysicam, lib. 5, q. 8 (ed. Dunphy, 330– 331). The explicit connection of article 169 with this statement has been not sufficiently taken into account in scholarship on the condemnation. 46 William de la Mare, Correctorium fratris Thomae, art. 82 (ed. Glorieux, 331–336). 47 See William de la Mare, Correctorium, art. 82 (ed. Glorieux, 331): “Istud secundum aliquos videatur concordare Philosopho VIII [melius: VII] Ethicorum.” 48 William de la Mare, Correctorium, art. 82 (ed. Glorieux, 332). 49 See also Walter of Bruges, QQ. disp., q. 4, resp. (ed. Longpré, 39), quoted earlier in Section 2.3. 50 Searle 2001, 10. 51 See William de la Mare, Correctorium, art. 82 (ed. Glorieux, 333). 52 See also Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 116). Another example which can be used in this context is the angelic fall; on voluntaristic accounts of this, see Hoffmann 2021, 219–242. 53 See William de la Mare, Correctorium, art. 54 (ed. Glorieux, 231). 54 See William de la Mare, Correctorium, art. 82 (ed. Glorieux, 332). 55 See Kent 1995, 81–94. 56 See the rather feeble answers given by John Quidort of Paris, Richard Knapwell, Robert of Orford, and Thomas of Sutton, as sketched in Müller 2009, 620–624 (with relevant references), which rather pour old wine into new bottles and beg the question raised by the phenomenon of clear-­eyed incontinence. The only exception is John of Pouilly, who offers a more original position; see the contribution by Tobias Hoffmann in this volume (Chapter 3). On the debates about the different Correctoria between 1277 and 1290, see also Putallaz 1995, 94–126. 57 See Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum [= QQ. in II Sent.], q. 57 (ed. Jansen, 305–394). 58 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., q. 57 (ed. Jansen, 356). 59 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86 (ed. Jansen, 188). 60 For this line of argument, see, e.g., Walter de la Mare, Correctorium, art. 82 (ed. Glorieux, 331–332): “Hoc videtur sapere errorem Pelagii contra gratiam.”

64  Jörn Müller 1 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86 (ed. Jansen, 189–190). 6 62 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86 (ed. Jansen, 185–197). 63 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86 (ed. Jansen, 187): “Dicit Aristoteles, VII Ethicorum suorum, quod [...] in factivis seu practicis necessario et confestim sequitur opus.” This position is not clearly stated in Nicomachean Ethics 7 but is articulated in Aristotle’s De motu animalium 7, 701a10–25. 64 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86, resp. (ed. Jansen, 190). 65 Gonsalvus of Spain uses a similar argument: if the incontinent agent were mistaken about what is good – as the intellectualists ultimately believe – he would feel no remorse in the moment of action; but this would ultimately render impossible the experience of agere contra conscientiam, which leads to untenable consequences. See his Quaestiones disputatae, q. 8 (ed. Amorós, 126– 127). William de la Mare (Correctorium, art. 54, ed. Glorieux, 216), also points to the “experience” of conscience as supporting evidence for his argument. 66 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86, resp. (ed. Jansen, 193): “Duplex est modus sciendi vel cogitandi vel opinandi sive credendi. Unus est per solam simplicem notitiam vel speculationem, secundus est cum experimentali gustu et cum affectuali approbatione vel reprobatione eius quod cogitatur.” It is important to recognize that the second judgement is built on the first: it has to be acknowledged that a certain object or action is pleasant before it can become the object of an appraisal judgement. 67 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., qq. 85–86, ad 1 (ed. Jansen, 194). 68 See Kobusch 1994. 69 See his distinction between iudicium and arbitrium, as sketched out above in 2.3. 70 See especially Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 6, where Henry distinguishes between a command in the descriptive mode (modus indicativus) and in the prescriptive mode (modus praecepti/imperativus). 71 Donald Davidson (1980) contrasts an unconditional “all out” judgement and a conditional “all things considered” judgement. 72 See Peter John Olivi, QQ. in II Sent., q. 58 (ed. Jansen, 410–411). 73 Gonsalvus of Spain, QQ. disp., q. 8 (ed. Amorós, 128). 74 See my account of Scotus in Müller 2009, 636–672.

Bibliography Primary Sources Aquinas, Thomas. Summa theologiae. Edited by Commissio Leonina. 9 vols. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P. M. edita 4–12. Rome: ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1888–1906. Aristotle. De motu animalium. Edited by Martha C. Nussbaum. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978. ———. Ethica Nicomachea. Edited by I. Bywater. Oxford: Clarendon, 1894. Augustine. De sermone Domini in monte. Edited by Almut Mutzenbecher. CCSL 35. Turnhout: Brepols, 1967. Bernard of Clairvaux. De gratia et libero arbitrio. Edited by Françoise Callerot, Jean Christophe, Marie-­Imelda Huille, and Paul Verdeyen. Sources Chrétiennes 393. Paris: Cerf, 1993.

Voluntarism and Aristotelian Akrasia 65 Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis. Edited by Heinrich Denifle and Émile Chatelain. 4 vols. Paris: Delalain, 1889–1891. de la Mare, William. Correctorium fratris Thomae. Edited by Palémon Glorieux, in Les premières polémiques thomistes, vol. 1, Correctorium corruptorii “Quare”. Bibliothèque Thomiste 9. Kain, Belgium: Le Saulchoir, 1927. Giles of Rome. Apologia. Edited by Robert Wielockx. Aegidii Romani Opera Omnia 3.1. Florence: Olschki, 1985. Gonsalvus of Spain. Quaestiones disputatae et de Quodlibet. Edited by León Amorós. Bibliotheca Franciscana Scholastica 9. Florence: ex Typographia Collegii S. Bonaventurae, 1935. Henry of Ghent. Quodlibet I. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 5. Leuven; Leiden: Leuven University Press; Brill, 1979. ———. Quodlibet II. Edited by Robert Wielockx. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 6. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1983a. ———. Quodlibet IX. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 13. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1983b. ———. Quodlibet X. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 14. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1981. Olivi, Peter John. Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum. Edited by Bernhard Jansen. 3 vols. Bibliotheca Franciscana Scholastica 4–6. Quaracchi: ex Typographia Collegii S. Bonaventurae, 1924–1926. Siger of Brabant. Quaestiones in Metaphysicam. Edited by William B. Dunphy. Philosophes Médiévaux 24. Louvain-­la-­Neuve: Éditions de l’Institut supérieur de philosophie, 1981. Walter of Bruges. Quaestiones disputatae. Edited by Ephrem Longpré. Les Philosophes Belges 10. Leuven: Institut supérieur de philosophie de l’Université, 1928. Secondary Literature Davidson, Donald. 1980. “How Is Weakness of the Will Possible?” In Essays on Actions and Events, 21–42. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Decorte, Jos. 1983. “Der Einfluß der Willenspsychologie des Walter von Brügge OFM auf die Willenspsychologie und Freiheitslehre des Heinrich von Gent.” Franziskanische Studien 65: 215–240. Hissette, Roland. 1977. Enquête sur les 219 articles condamnés à Paris le 7 mars 1277. Philosophes Médiévaux 22. Leuven: Publications Universitaires. Hödl, Ludwig. 1999. “Die Diskussion des Johannes de Polliaco über die Lehrentscheidung der Pariser Theologen von 1285/86 ‘Non est malitia in voluntate.’” Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge 66: 245–297. Hoffmann, Tobias. 2021. Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoffmann, Tobias, Jörn Müller, and Matthias Perkams, eds. 2006. Das Problem der Willensschwäche in der mittelalterlichen Philosophie/The Problem of Weakness of Will in Medieval Philosophy. Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie médiévales: Bibliotheca 8. Leuven: Peeters. Kent, Bonnie D. 1984. “Aristotle and the Franciscans: Gerald Odonis’ Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics.” PhD dissertation, Columbia University.

66  Jörn Müller ———. 1995. Virtues of the Will: The Transformation of Ethics in the Late Thirteenth Century. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Kobusch, Theo. 1994. “Kunstwissen und sittliches Wissen in der Philosophie des Nominalismus.” In Scientia und ars im Hoch-­und Spätmittelalter, edited by Ingrid Craemer-­Ruegenberg and Andreas Speer, 499–513. Miscellanea Mediaevalia 22. Berlin: De Gruyter. Macken, Raymond. 1977. “Heinrich von Gent im Gespräch mit seinen Zeitgenossen über die menschliche Freiheit.” Franziskanische Studien 59: 125–182. Müller, Jörn. 2007. “Willensschwäche im Voluntarismus? Das Beispiel Heinrichs von Gent.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 89: 1–29. ———. 2009. Willensschwäche in Antike und Mittelalter: Eine Problemgeschichte von Sokrates bis Johannes Duns Scotus. Ancient and Medieval Philosophy, ser. 1, 40. Leuven: Leuven University Press. ———. 2018. “Der Herr und sein Diener mit der Lampe: Heinrich von Gent über Wille und Intellekt.” In Freiheit und Geschichte: Festschrift für Theo Kobusch zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by Jörn Müller and Christian Rode, 95–120. Münster: Aschendorff. ———. 2021. “How Free Are Weak-­Willed Agents? Henry of Ghent in Search of a Voluntarist Reading of Aristotelian akrasia.” In Libertés médiévales, edited by Kristell Trego, 185–205. Paris: Vrin. Putallaz, François-­Xavier. 1995. Insolente liberté: Controverses et condamnations au XIIIe siècle. Vestigia 15. Paris; Fribourg: Cerf; Éditions Universitaires de Fribourg. Saarinen, Risto. 1994. Weakness of the Will in Medieval Thought: From Augustine to Buridan. Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 44. Leiden: Brill. Searle, John R. 2001. Rationality in Action. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Stadter, Ernst. 1971. Psychologie und Metaphysik der menschlichen Freiheit: Die ideengeschichtliche Entwicklung zwischen Bonaventura und Duns Scotus. Veröffentlichungen des Grabmann-­Institutes zur Erforschung der mittelalterlichen Theologie und Philosophie, n.F., 12. Munich: Schöningh.

3 Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on “Aristotle’s Prophecy about Incontinence” Tobias Hoffmann

3.1 Introduction In late thirteenth-­and early fourteenth-­century discussions of free will, two closely related questions were at the centre of the debate: (1) Do we necessarily will according to what we occurrently judge as to be willed? (2) Does disordered willing – that is, evil willing – presuppose that one’s cognition of what is to be willed is also disordered – that is, in some sense deficient? For the theses that respond to each of these questions affirmatively, I propose the following labels: Judgement-­Volition Conformity: Willing necessarily conforms to what reason judges as to be willed. Socratic Deficiency: Deficient willing presupposes deficient cognition. The two questions can then be rephrased as follows: Do Judgement-­ Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency obtain? Medieval theologians were deeply divided on this issue. In the final decades of the thirteenth century, the most outspoken ones were Henry of Ghent and Godfrey of Fontaines, the former rejecting both theses and the latter affirming them. In this chapter I will focus on an important instance of Henry of Ghent’s denial of Judgement-­Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency and on the ingenious response by John of Pouilly – Godfrey of Fontaines’s faithful student1 – who defends them. Henry polemically asserts that those who defend Socratic Deficiency prefer what he calls the “prophecy” of Aristotle’s theory of incontinence to Scripture as expounded by the saints. Pouilly replies that the saints hold the same view as Aristotle. To show this, he reconstructs examples of moral reasoning by Augustine, Anselm of Canterbury, and Bernard of Clairvaux according to the form he takes Aristotle to employ in book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics in his explanation of incontinent action. Pouilly thus argues that incontinence not only fails to disprove Judgement-­ Volition Conformity, but rather, if properly analysed, confirms it.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-5

68  Tobias Hoffmann While Henry of Ghent’s view of incontinence is well studied, Pouilly’s theory is little known.2 Therefore, after first looking at how Henry arrives at his remark that his adversaries prefer Aristotle to Scripture and the saints, I will focus mainly on Pouilly’s rebuttal. The exchange is an interesting instance of the medieval reception of Aristotle’s theory of incontinence, especially insofar as it illustrates what divided medieval thinkers regarding the connection between cognition and volition in general and between defective cognition and evil volition in particular. 3.2 Henry of Ghent In question 10 of his tenth Quodlibet, of Advent 1286, Henry of Ghent gives a detailed account of the relation between intellect and will and between cognition and volition. In this long-­winded question, he uses article 129 of the condemnation issued on 7 March 1277 by Stephen Tempier, the bishop of Paris, to reject Judgement-­Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency. Article 129 declares that the following statement is false: As long as passion and particular knowledge remain in act, the will cannot act against it.3 This statement alludes to incontinence, which for medieval thinkers falls under the label of sin from passion. “Particular knowledge” refers to knowledge that concerns the particular situation; it is the knowledge that here and now I should not act according to my occurrent passion. By denying that the will can act against such knowledge, the censured thesis affirms Judgement-­Volition Conformity; by condemning this thesis, then, article 129 rejects Judgement-­Volition Conformity. As Henry interprets it, the article also denies Socratic Deficiency. In fact, Henry holds that in censuring the thesis that the will cannot act against particular knowledge while this knowledge remains in act, the purpose of the article is to affirm the following: While right reason remains in the universal and the particular, the will can, in the moment in which [right reason] remains, will contrarily to it and by its desire generate evil in the will, in such a way that a knower, remaining a knower and persisting in his or her knowledge, can act against his or her knowledge.4 On Henry’s understanding, then, Bishop Tempier denies both Judgement-­ Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency, and he enforces the view that the will can be evil before there is any error in reason (i.e., in the intellect insofar as it proceeds discursively). Thus, according to Henry, article 129

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  69 supports his own view, which is that what causes evil is not erroneous reason but the will itself.5 To establish that evil is caused by the will, not by erroneous reason, is immensely important to Henry, as is more generally getting the relation between cognitive and volitional deficiencies right. Like many of his contemporaries, Henry was keen to reject the idea that moral evil begins in reason rather than in the will.6 The point is that non-­culpable cognitive deficiencies excuse a person from moral fault, while culpable cognitive deficiencies presuppose moral fault, for culpable ignorance or error is due to one’s culpable negligence. Accordingly, any morally relevant cognitive flaw does not cause moral evil but rather presupposes it. In his first Quodlibet, where Henry was already defending this view, he gives two examples: mad people act involuntarily and so without sin, even when they kill someone, as long as their madness was in no way caused by their own will; and Abraham’s nephew Lot, who slept with his daughters out of ignorance because they made him drunk, did not sin, since he was not able to act by his own choice.7 Henry adds to his denial of Socratic Deficiency that rather than flawed reason causing the will to be evil, the opposite is the case: the will, having become evil by itself, necessarily and immediately causes an error in reason. Henry broadens the meaning of the word “error,” which literally means a false statement, to include “darkening” of reason.8 For reason to be “darkened” means for Henry that an individual’s judgement starts to waver and falls short of firmness and rectitude, so that the individual begins to doubt.9 Henry backs his two claims – that one can act against the judgement of right reason while still upholding that judgement, and that an evil will immediately obscures reason – with quotations from Augustine’s commentary on the Psalms10; he can thus claim that his own view is contained in Scripture as it is expounded by “the saints.” Henry argues as follows: The will’s evil immediately causes a certain error, or darkening, in reason; consequently, the will falls more freely and more fully into evil, whereupon reason is further corrupted. This circular relationship continues until reason is entirely blinded and the will is completely obstinate, that is, trapped in evil.11 Henry clarifies that this mutual corruption of reason and will happens in the following way: The causality always begins in the evil of the will, contrary to what certain people say – as mentioned at the end of the previous question [i.e., Quodl. X, q. 9] – who on this matter follow Aristotle’s prophecy in book 7 of the Ethics, dismissing the doctrine contained in the sacred books and expounded by the saints, as is clear from what has been said.12

70  Tobias Hoffmann The critical edition of Quodlibet X does not indicate whom Henry has in mind when referring to “certain people” (quidam), but thanks to his own cross reference, we can at least see what this view consists in. In the passage of question 9 of Quodlibet X to which Henry is referring, there is no mention of incontinence, nor does incontinence come up anywhere else in the question. What he mentions instead is someone’s claim that the will is “simply passive” and that it does not reduce itself from potentiality to actuality.13 These two claims are a threat to Henry’s theory that evil always originates in the will.14 As I have argued elsewhere, the anonymous view he is polemicizing against seems to be that of Godfrey of Fontaines in question 16 of his Quodlibet III, where he discusses the self-­motion of the will.15 Quodlibetal disputations were public debates which, especially during these years, were the principal vehicle of discussion among Parisian theology masters. It can be assumed that Henry and Godfrey were present at each other’s quodlibetal debates. The fact that Henry’s Quodlibet X and Godfrey’s Quodlibet III were debated in such temporal proximity – they both took place in Advent 1286 – is no obstacle to hypothesizing that Henry is responding to Godfrey in the written version of his Quodlibet X, which he could have published weeks or months after the actual debate.16 However, we cannot know for sure whether Henry is targeting Godfrey, since only the opening arguments of question 16 of Godfrey’s Quodlibet III are recorded, but not the solution.17 The “prophecy” that Aristotle is supposed to have proclaimed in book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics is that an evil will is caused by an error of reason. In question 13 of the same Quodlibet X, Henry mentions a view that seems to correspond to the position he is referring to in question 10. He describes it as follows: Some who follow the Philosopher say that the incontinent conduct them­ selves in the moment of intense passion as the intemperate conduct themselves at all times. For just as the intemperate are continuously in error, judging the opposite of the [moral] principle, for example that fornicating is good, so too the incontinent judge the same in the moment in which the will wills what previously it wanted to avoid [noluit], in such a way that in that moment it cannot not will [non velle] what reason then dictates as to be done, although prior to that it was able not to will it, when [reason] dictated the opposite, and later it will be able [to will it], when [reason] dictates the opposite after passion has ceased.18 Henry expounds the view that the incontinent judge one way in the moment of passion, but when passion is absent, they judge differently. But while they are judging that something is to be willed, they cannot will differently;

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  71 they can will differently only if they revise their judgement. It is plausible to assume that this is the view held by Godfrey, although we have no trace of it in the works of his that antedate Henry’s discussion and that have come down to us.19 Henry takes issue with its affirmation of Socratic Deficiency, that is, the claim that what makes incontinent conduct possible is the incontinent person’s occurrent false judgement that the incontinent action is to be done. Furthermore, contrary to Henry, this view affirms Judgement-­ Volition Conformity, claiming that the incontinent cannot will differently from their occurrent judgement. Thus, according to the view that Henry is objecting to, the mistaken practical judgement causes incontinent action. The hypothesis that a disorder of the will is caused by an error of reason was already formulated by Henry’s opponens (i.e., the person in charge of formulating initial arguments against the presumed thesis of the master) in question 17 of his first Quodlibet, with reference to book 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics.20 As Jörn Müller has pointed out, however, there is an important difference between Henry’s treatment of incontinence in his first Quodlibet and in his tenth. In his early account, Henry reads Aristotle as sharing his own view that in the incontinent person, the will is evil before reason is flawed. In his later account, however, he attributes to Aristotle the thesis that reason is flawed before the will is evil. Thus, he sees Aristotle as being in disagreement with his own position, and so he speaks polemically of “Aristotle’s prophecy about incontinence.”21 3.3 John of Pouilly Whereas Henry denies Judgement-­ Volition Conformity and Socratic Deficiency, John of Pouilly affirms both. Indeed, he defends precisely the account of incontinence that Henry argues against. Pouilly intends to show that all intentional human action, including incontinent action, is the result of a practical judgement that follows from a practical inference, and that incontinence therefore does not invalidate Judgement-­Volition Conformity or Socratic Deficiency, but rather confirms both. Pouilly makes this case in question 11 of his second Quodlibet, of Advent 1307.22 There he is asked about Judgement-­Volition Conformity as follows: Whether the practical intellect, by the act of deliberation [consilii] and by its verdict [sententiam], immobilizes and determines the will in such a way that in the moment in which the deliberation or verdict is upheld, the will cannot will the opposite of the verdict.23 Pouilly’s response is extremely long, running to about one hundred pages in transcription. He divides his response into eight sections in the form of

72  Tobias Hoffmann eight conclusiones (i.e., theses) together with their demonstrations. While he formulates his own view in the first seven theses, much of the discussion of the eighth thesis is devoted to refuting Henry’s denial of Judgement-­ Volition Conformity, although Pouilly also refutes more briefly a similar view maintained by Gonsalvus of Spain and a position that could be Duns Scotus’s. 3.3.1 Three Conditions for Judgement-Volition Conformity

Pouilly formulates his own conception of Judgement-­Volition Conformity in his fifth and sixth theses. When one has made a certain practical judgement, one cannot at that moment not will accordingly (non velle; thesis 5), nor can one will the opposite (velle oppositum; thesis 6): [Thesis 5] When an end is willed unconditionally, in such a way that one judges and wills to pursue it absolutely and wholly so that no other end is willed more, and if by the deliberation and judgement of a practical syllogism something is found through which the end can be had but not without it, and the verdict [sententia] has been given, then the will is determined by the deliberation, judgement, and verdict of the practical intellect – which verdict is nothing but the firm assent with the will’s approval [complacentia] – in such a way that the will necessarily wills it and chooses it, and it cannot in that moment not will it [non velle] or not choose it. I say, however, “judgement and verdict,” for while deliberation still wavers and fluctuates, it need not be that way.24 [Thesis 6] Under the same presuppositions [as in thesis 5], [the will] chooses necessarily and immutably what has been given as a verdict [illud sententiatum], in such a way that it cannot in that moment will the opposite.25 The statement of the fifth thesis might give the impression that the judgement and the verdict can come apart, for the verdict adds the will’s complacentia (approval).26 John of Damascus, from whom Pouilly derives the sequence deliberation–judgement–verdict–choice, envisages that the will can refuse to “love” (i.e., endorse) the judgement, in which case there is no verdict.27 But Pouilly nowhere allows that the judgement is not followed by the verdict, nor does he anywhere discuss in any detail the relationship between judgement and verdict. Pouilly gives multiple proofs for his theses, which need not concern us now.28 What is important for our purposes are the conditions he mentions in the formulation of his fifth thesis, for they reveal his conception of Judgement-­Volition Conformity. He mentions three conditions for

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  73 Judgement-­Volition Conformity to obtain. The first two concern the end, the third the means to the end: . An end must be willed unconditionally (simpliciter) 1 2. No other end must be willed more 3. One must have identified through deliberation a means by which the end can be obtained and without which it cannot be obtained Thus, if I desire an end unconditionally and more than any other end, and if through deliberation I have discovered what is the only means to attain it, then I judge that this means must be chosen, and I cannot but choose that means. As Pouilly explains further on, the second condition is not truly distinct from the first, but merely explicates it; he mentions it to cover cases in which under duress someone forsakes an end (such as truthfulness) for the sake of another end (such as staying alive).29 Pouilly is ambiguous about whether these three conditions are jointly sufficient conditions for Judgement-­Volition Conformity (i.e., Judgement-­ Volition Conformity obtains if all three are met) or jointly necessary conditions (i.e., Judgement-­Volition Conformity obtains only if all three are met). On the one hand, at the end of the discussion of the fifth thesis, he presents them as jointly necessary conditions: “Unless these [conditions] are met, the choice will not follow necessarily, or rather, it will not follow.”30 He thus sets the bar for Judgement-­Volition Conformity extremely high, especially in affirming that Judgement-­Volition Conformity obtains only if an end is willed unconditionally. Even William of Ockham, who stresses the will’s freedom of indifference31 and allows that the will can act differently from reason’s judgement,32 admits that the will cannot act against the judgement of reason when the end is willed unconditionally and the means are recognized as indispensable for that end.33 On the other hand, throughout his discussion of his fifth thesis, apart from the just-­mentioned final statement, Pouilly treats these conditions as merely jointly sufficient. This conception of the three conditions is also expressed in a concluding statement that summarizes theses 5 and 6: So I conclude that when the deliberation and the judgement have been completed, and when the verdict has been given that something is to be chosen, the principle of which deliberation is the desire of the end as something to be had absolutely, the will chooses it necessarily and immutably, nor can it not will it in that moment.34 This passage is more naturally read as affirming that the three conditions are jointly sufficient than that they are jointly necessary. Furthermore, in

74  Tobias Hoffmann his discussion of the sixth thesis, Pouilly affirms clearly that Judgement-­ Volition Conformity extends farther than the special case in which all three conditions are met: From this it is concluded that the judgement and verdict of reason and the choice of the will are always conform, and that the practical intellect fixes the will by its deliberation, judgement, and verdict in such a way that in the moment in which its verdict is maintained, the will cannot will the opposite of what the verdict has stated, nor deviate from its verdict and judgement.35 The details of Pouilly’s Judgement-­ Volition Conformity aside, what is important for our purposes is that he affirms it against Henry’s claim that the will can become corrupt by itself by acting against the correct judgement of reason. He writes: According to the saints and the philosophers, as has been explained [in the discussion of theses 5 and 6], it does not happen [that an individual] knows something in the way said above, namely, when the three conditions are met, and wills the opposite or does not will it.36 In the end, what Pouilly intends to defend, and what Henry denies, is a conception of Judgement-­Volition Conformity that entails that if one’s judgement changes, one’s willing also changes, and conversely that for willing to change, the judgement must change. Pouilly argues that this is the case with the incontinent, as we will now see. 3.3.2 Pouilly’s Account of Aristotle’s Explanation of Incontinence

To support his defence of Judgement-­Volition Conformity against Henry, Pouilly proposes an interpretation of Aristotle’s account of incontinence in Nicomachean Ethics 7.3 that allows him to show that Augustine, Anselm, and even Bernard of Clairvaux are in agreement with Aristotle’s “prophecy about incontinence.” His concluding statement of the discussion of Aristotle and the three “saints” tells us more specifically what he intends to establish: “Therefore it is impossible for the will to will the opposite of what reason judges unless necessarily there is first the opposite judgement.”37 In other words, it is possible to act against one’s practical judgement, but only in virtue of a new and revised practical judgement.38 Pouilly’s argument that the saints agree with Aristotle is based on a reading of Aristotle’s account of incontinence that is heavily influenced by Albert the Great, either directly or via Thomas Aquinas.39 This reading is importantly different from the historical Aristotle, and is characterized by

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  75 the claim that the practical reasoning of incontinent individuals works not with two premises but with three: a prohibitive major premise that pleasure is to be avoided, a permissive major premise that pleasure is to be pursued, and a minor premise that states that something pleasurable is at hand. In expounding Aristotle’s account, Pouilly proposes the following two practical syllogisms: Prohibitive syllogism Nothing sweet is to be tasted. This is sweet. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (Abstinence follows, as is implied.)

Permissive syllogism Everything sweet is delightful, and hence to be pursued. This is sweet. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (Pursuit follows, as is implied.)40

In Aristotle’s discussion of the prohibitive and permissive major premises in his account of incontinence in Nicomachean Ethics 7.3 (1147a24– b3), he does not hold that the incontinent follow through with the permissive syllogistic reasoning; that is, they do not make a complete permissive practical inference that ends in the practical judgement that incontinent behaviour is to be pursued, for then they would be acting according to their decision (προαίρεσις), which is what Aristotle repeatedly denies.41 Rather, they abandon the judgement they hold outside the moment of passion, that such and such pleasures are to be avoided. Pouilly, by contrast, follows Albert and Aquinas in claiming that the incontinent make the complete permissive practical inference. He explicitly states a bit further down that the incontinent make an all-­things-­considered practical judgement and act according to it.42 In Pouilly’s explanation, the incontinent form different practical syllogisms when passion is absent and when passion is present: When passion is absent: Fornication is bad and thus to be avoided. Having intercourse with her is fornication. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (Abstinence follows, as is implied.)

When passion is present: Pleasure is to be pursued. Fornicating with this pretty woman is very delightful. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (Fornication follows, unless something prevents it.)43

Pouilly makes two clarifications. First, even though the incontinent are influenced by passion, it is in their power to remain in their knowledge and to use it.44 Thus, free decision (liberum arbitrium) is upheld. Second, when

76  Tobias Hoffmann passion is absent, they have knowledge in actu, meaning that they actually consider their knowledge.45 Their knowledge concerns both the universal and the particular. When passion is present, they only have knowledge in the universal (“fornication is to be avoided”), while in the particular they are deceived (“this act of fornication is to be done”), and so they act against their own knowledge (i.e., against their universal knowledge, as is implied). It is precisely because they are so deceived that it is possible for them to will the opposite of their universal knowledge.46 3.3.3 The Practical Syllogisms of “the Saints”

The point for Pouilly is that the incontinent are trapped between a prohibitive and a permissive practical inference. They do not act against their particular judgement that they should avoid pleasure, but rather according to their occurrent all-­things-­considered judgement that pleasure is to be pursued; what they act against is only their universal knowledge that certain pleasures are to be avoided. Thus, incontinence does not disprove Judgement-­Volition Conformity, but rather confirms it. As we will now see, Pouilly claims that the analysis of reluctant action by Augustine, Anselm of Canterbury, and Bernard of Clairvaux follows the same pattern as Aristotle’s explanation of incontinent action, and so he argues that “the saints” validate Aristotle’s account of incontinence. Pouilly first establishes the parallel between Aristotle’s explanation of incontinence and Augustine’s analysis of the reasoning of those who commit suicide contrary to a certain awareness that suicide is to be avoided. He quotes a passage from De libero arbitrio, where Augustine considers the mindset of a suicidal person: Whoever believes that after death he will not exist is moved by intolerable troubles to the complete desire of death and chooses and embraces death, having in the opinion the error of total disappearance, and in the sense the natural desire for tranquillity.47 Pouilly reconstructs Augustine’s point by means of the following two practical syllogisms: Prohibitive syllogism That by which the human being completely ceases must be avoided. This is death. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (Suicide is not committed.)

Permissive syllogism That by which one can attain tranquillity is to be done. This is death. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– (Suicide is committed.)48

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  77 Pouilly is not suggesting that this is a case of incontinent behaviour; rather, he analyses it in terms of reluctant action, which involves a conflict between two ends, one of which – tranquillity, in this case – is loved more.49 The difference between incontinent and reluctant action is that the former occurs in a troubled state of conscience due to the interference of passion, while the latter can be chosen in full awareness; the incontinent would not repeat the action when outside the state of passion, whereas those who act reluctantly would do the action again. What interests Pouilly is what he takes to be a common feature of reluctant action and incontinent action: in neither situation does the individual act against his or her particular judgement, only against the judgement resulting from the prohibitive practical syllogism, but in conformity with the permissive practical syllogism. We now turn to a similar reconstruction by Pouilly, this time using an example from Anselm of Canterbury: Someone may love both the truth and life, but when he is under threat and cannot have both, he prefers to lie.50 Pouilly puts the liar’s reasoning in syllogistic form: Prohibitive syllogism What corrupts the truth must be avoided. Such is the lie. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Etc.

Permissive syllogism That by which life is saved is to be done. Such is the lie. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Etc.51

This is not a case of incontinence either, but rather, as Pouilly clarifies again, of conflict between two ends, one of which is loved more.52 Pouilly even manages to read a passage from Bernard of Clairvaux along the same lines. It is this: The will is a rational motion and presides over the sense and desire. For whatever it turns to, it always has reason as associate and somehow as follower. [The will] is not always moved by reason, but it is never moved without reason, such that [the will] does many things by means of [reason] against [reason], that is, as it were through its ministry, against its counsel and judgement.53 This passage actually seems to confirm Henry of Ghent’s view; indeed, we find it cited in Henry’s Quodlibet I, question 16, in an opening argument in favour of Henry’s view that one can prefer a smaller to a greater good.54 But Pouilly reads this passage as stating that when the will acts against reason, then one practical syllogism is replaced by a contrary practical syllogism, resulting in the contrary practical judgement. He draws the

78  Tobias Hoffmann conclusion already mentioned: “Therefore it is impossible for the will to will the opposite of what reason judges, unless necessarily there is first the opposite judgement.”55 What, then, are we to think of Aristotle’s prophecy? Pouilly makes this concluding remark: From all this it is clear that this prophecy of book 7 of the Ethics about the incontinent is not only the prophecy of Aristotle, but also of the saints, who are manifestly in agreement with him, the words of whom I have put forth so meticulously so that it may come into view that Aristotle said what is true and that they, who presumptuously derided Aristotle, are in truth to be derided.56 3.4 Conclusion The different attitudes of Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly toward Aristotle’s account of incontinence reveal core disagreements about the relationship between cognition and volition. Henry of Ghent rejects the presumed reduction in Aristotle’s explanation of moral evil to deficient cognition, which, in his view, would threaten the Christian understanding of sin as a culpable failure rather than a mere cognitive mistake. John of Pouilly, by contrast, intends to show that Aristotle’s theory not only is compatible with Christianity, but is even implicitly endorsed by some of its most authoritative representatives. While it is a stretch to align the thought of Augustine, Anselm of Canterbury, and Bernard of Clairvaux with Aristotle’s action theory, Pouilly’s move of comparing the rational structure of incontinent action with that of reluctant action is ingenious. Against Henry of Ghent, John of Pouilly aptly defends a position that was a minority view in early fourteenth-­century theories of action: the idea that the will is unable to will differently from what the intellect judges as to be willed here and now (Judgement-­ Volition Conformity), and the related idea that an evil volition is possible only if something has gone wrong with cognition (Socratic Deficiency). Though Pouilly might be considered a “secondary figure,” he was a sharp and original thinker who is well worth studying. Acknowledgements Earlier versions of this chapter were presented at the Cornell Summer Colloquium in June 2021 and at the Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Ethics conference in July 2021. I thank the participants at the conferences for constructive comments. I am especially grateful for suggestions by Ian Drummond, Jörn Müller, and Sonja Schierbaum.

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  79

Manuscripts A = Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, lat. 14565 N = Nürnberg, Stadtbibliothek, Cent. III.75 P = Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, lat. 15372 Notes 1 Pouilly says that he intends to follow Godfrey on most or all issues: see John of Pouilly, Quodl. V, q. 12 (Nürnberg, Stadtbibliothek, Cent. III.75, fol. 140rb– va; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, lat. 15372 [henceforth abbreviated as P], fol. 169vb). I thank Chris Schabel for bringing this text to my attention. The five manuscripts that contain Pouilly’s Quodlibeta are listed in Courtenay and Ubl 2010, 66–67. I here quote Quodlibet II according to P and Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, lat. 14565 (henceforth abbreviated as A). The text of Pouilly’s Quodlibet II, question 11, which I quote later in the chapter, is established on the basis of all five extant manuscripts, although for the sake of brevity I provide only the references to A and P. In the passages quoted in this chapter, the variants are trivial and hence not worth indicating. I am preparing a critical edition of Pouilly’s Quodlibet II, questions 11–14, and Quodlibet IV, questions 6–7, on the intellect and the will. 2 On Henry of Ghent’s view, see Kobusch 2006, 253–259; Müller 2007; 2009, 569–617; 2021; Hoffmann 2008. Theo Kobusch (2006, 260–262) provides a brief discussion of John of Pouilly’s account of incontinence, and Ludwig Hödl (1999, 260) mentions Pouilly’s remarks about Aristotle’s prophecy about incontinence. 3 Stephen Tempier, Articuli condemnati, art. 129 (ed. Piché, p. 118): “Quod uoluntas, manente passione et scientia particulari in actu, non potest agere contra eam.” 4 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 258, lines 62–65): “Stante ratione recta et in universali et in particulari, pro hora in qua stat, potest voluntas ei contrariari, et per appetitum generari malitia in voluntate, ut sciens manens sciens et perseverans in sua scientia, possit contra scientiam suam agere.” 5 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 259, lines 87–92). 6 The eminent theological locus of the question whether evil originates in a defect of reason or of the will is the sin of the evil angels. For thinkers who defend the view that the defect that leads to evil begins in the will rather than in reason, see Hoffmann 2021, chapter 9. 7 See Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17, ad arg. (ed. Macken, 139–140, lines 51–63). Cf. Gen. 19:32–35. 8 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 259, lines 93–95); cf. q. 13 (288, lines 43–46). 9 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 262, lines 57–60). Though this point is marginal in this chapter, it is worth noting that John of Pouilly sharply criticizes Henry’s view that an evil will immediately causes an error in reason; see Hödl 1999, 280–297. 10 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 258, line 65–p. 260, line 20). 11 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 259, line 93–p. 261, line 24). 12 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 261, lines 24–28): “Semper causalitas incipit a malitia voluntatis, e contra illi quod dicunt quidam, ut

80  Tobias Hoffmann habitum est in fine praecedentis quaestionis, qui in hoc prophetiam sequuntur Aristotelis in VII° Ethicorum, dimittentes doctrinam clausam in libris sacris­ et a sanctis expositam, ut patet ex dictis.” 13 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 9, co. (ed. Macken, 226, lines 59–64). 14 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10, co. (ed. Macken, 261, line 24). 15 See Hoffmann 2023, 117. 16 Henry’s Quodlibet X is clearly an ordinatio, that is, a revised written version of an oral disputation, for he addresses his audience as “readers”; see Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 10 (ed. Macken, 269, line 1, and 271, line 42). On the characteristics of Parisian theological quodlibetal debates during this period, see Hamesse 2006. 17 See Godfrey of Fontaines, Quodl. III, q. 16 (ed. De Wulf and Pelzer, 227–228). 18 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. X, q. 13 (ed. Macken, 286–287, lines 22–30): “Dicunt aliqui sequentes Philosophum quod incontinens se habet in hora passionis intensae sicut se habet intemperatus omni tempore. Intemperatus enim sicut est in errore continuo iudicando oppositum principii, ut quod fornicari sit bonum, sic, ut dicunt, incontinens in errore est iudicando idem in hora pro qua voluntas vult illud quod ante noluit, ita quod pro hora illa non potest illud non velle quod ratio tunc dictat esse faciendum, licet prius potuit non velle, quando dictavit oppositum, et postea poterit, cum oppositum dictaverit cessante passione.” 19 The critical edition of Henry’s Quodlibet X indicates as the source for this view a discussion of the connection of the virtues in Godfrey of Fontaines, Quodlibet II, question 11, but there is no mention there of incontinence. I believe that the attribution to Godfrey is correct, albeit not to that particular text. The expounded view sits comfortably with the position Henry mentions in Quodlibet X, question 10, with reference to question 9, and as mentioned, I think there are strong reasons for attributing the view that Henry expounds in question 9 to Godfrey. It also has similarities with the view of Thomas Aquinas, although it is not found in Aquinas as it is formulated here. On Aquinas’s view that incontinence is transitory vice, see Kent 1989, esp. 214. 20 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17, arg. 1 (ed. Macken, p. 115, lines 4–10); cf. Aristotle, EN 7.3, 1147a24–b17. 21 See the passage of Henry quoted in note 12. On the change in Henry’s position, see Müller 2009, 606–609; and 2021, 198–204, which goes into more detail and discusses possible reasons for this change. 22 For the dating of Pouilly’s Quodlibeta and Quaestiones ordinariae, see Schabel 2014, 257–259; for the dating of Pouilly’s Quodlibet II to Advent 1307, see Schabel, forthcoming. 23 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, intr. (A, fol. 102rb/P, fol. 47va): “Utrum intellectus practicus per actum consilii et per suam sententiam sic immobilitet et determinet voluntatem quod pro illo instanti pro quo stat consilium vel sententia non possit voluntas velle oppositum eius quod sententiatum est.” 24 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 5 (A, fol. 103vb/P, fol. 48va): “Fine volito simpliciter, sic quod homo iudicat et vult illum simpliciter prosequi et omnino, sic quod non est alius finis magis volitus, et per consilium et iudicium syllogismi practici sit aliquid tale inventum per quod potest finis haberi et sine ipso non potest, et sit sententiatum quod voluntas sic determinatur per consilium, iudicium et sententiam intellectus practici – quae sententia non est aliud quam assensus firmus cum voluntatis complacentia – quod illud necessario vult et eligit, nec pro

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  81 illo tunc potest non velle illud vel non eligere. Dico autem ‘iudicium et sententiam,’ quia quando consilium adhuc vacillat et fluctuat, non oportet ita esse.” 25 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 6 (A, fol. 104vb/P, fol. 49va): “Eadem positione stante, sic necessario et immutabiliter eligit illud sententiatum quod pro illo tunc non potest velle oppositum.” 26 I thank Scott MacDonald for pointing out this difficulty. 27 See John of Damascus, De fide orthodoxa, trans. Burgundio of Pisa, c. 36, n. 11 (ed. Buytaert, 137, lines 94–96). 28 For the most important demonstrations of theses 5 and 6, see Hoffmann 2021, 135–136; 2023, 111–114. 29 Regarding the three conditions, see John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 5 (A, fol. 104va–vb/P, fol. 49rb–va). See esp. ibid. (A, fol. 104vb/P, fol. 49rb–va): “Secundo posui quod non sit aliquis alius finis quem magis desideret, quem non potest conservare si finem alium volitum velit habere, ut in praedicto exemplo Anselmi: iste vult et diligit veritatem, magis tamen diligit vitam. Et quia veritatem non potest servare nisi occidatur et vitam perdat. … Et redit hoc ad primam condicionem, quia illum finem non vult quis omnino habere modo illo quo potest haberi omnibus circumstantiis pensatis, ex quo alium finem magis diligit.” 30 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 5 (A, fol. 104vb/P, fol. 49va): “Quod ideo dico quia nisi ista fuerint, non necessario et immutabiliter sequitur electio, immo nec sequitur.” 31 See William of Ockham, Quodl. I, q. 16 (OTh 9:87, lines 12–15). 32 See, e.g., William of Ockham, Rep. III, q. 12 (OTh 6:421, lines 15–18). 33 See William of Ockham, Ord. I, d. 1, q. 6 (OTh 1:493–494, 499–500). For discussion, see Panaccio 2012, 86–88. 34 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 6 (A, fol. 105vb/P, fol. 50rb): “Concludo igitur quod peracto consilio et iudicio et sententiato quod aliquid sit eligendum, cuius consilii principium est volitio finis ut omnino habendi, voluntas necessario seu immutabiliter illud eligit, nec potest illud non velle pro illo instanti.” 35 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 6 (A, fol. 105rb/P, fol. 49vb): “Ex quibus concluditur quod iudicium et sententia rationis et electio voluntatis semper habent conformitatem, et quod intellectus practicus per suum consilium, iudicium et sententiam suam sic immobilitat voluntatem quod pro illo instanti pro quo stat huius sententia, voluntas non potest velle oppositum eius quod sententiatum est, immo nec deformari ab huius sententia et iudicio.” 36 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 109ra/P, fol. 52vb): “Secundum sanctos et philosophos, ut declaratum est, non contingit aliquid scire modo praedicto, scilicet illis tribus condicionibus stantibus, et velle agere contrarium vel non velle illud.” 37 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 110ra/P, fol. 53va): “Unde impossibile est voluntatem velle contrarium eius quod ratio iudicat, quin necessario praecedat iudicium contrarium.” 38 Pouilly also makes this point against Gonsalvus of Spain. See John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 112ra/P, fol. 55ra): “Sed [voluntas] non necessario sequitur omne rationis iudicium, sed frequenter fertur contra aliquod iudicium rationis, sed tamen per aliud iudicium.” 39 See Albert the Great, Super Ethica, lib. 7, lect. 3, n. 621, ad 2 (Editio Coloniensis 14:531, line 75–532, line 3), n. 625 (535, lines 60–77); Ethica, lib. 7, tract. 1, c. 5, n. 12 (Borgnet 7:474b–475b); Thomas Aquinas, Sententia libri Ethicorum, lib. 7, lect. 3 (Leonina 47:391–393, lines 126–283), and Quaestiones disputatae de malo, q. 3, art. 9, ad 7 (Leonina 23:87–88).

82  Tobias Hoffmann 40 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 109va/P, fol. 53ra): “Igitur, sicut ibi tractat Aristoteles, incontinens in hora passionis habet quodammodo rationem rectam in universali, cui tamen contrariatur concupiscentia sive passio appetitus, et format sibi quasi contrarias propositiones. Quarum unam accipit secundum rationem rectam, aliam vero accipit secundum concupiscentiam – quia, ut dicit III Ethicorum, ‘qualis est unusquisque, talis finis ei videtur’ – et ulterius tertiam, quae est quasi communis utrique, scilicet minorem particularem. Unde facit duos syllogismos ex tribus propositionibus; verbi gratia, ratio dicit ‘Nullum dulce est gustandum,’ concupiscentia autem, id est ratio iudicans conformiter concupiscentiae, dicit quoniam ‘Omne dulce est delectabile, et per consequens prosequendum.’ Sensus autem dicit quoniam ‘Hoc est dulce.’” 41 See Aristotle, EN 3.2, 1111b13–14; 7.3, 1146b22–24; 7.4, 1148a17; 7.8, 1151a6–7. 42 The context of this statement is Pouilly’s discussion of Gonsalvus of Spain’s denial of Judgement-Volition Conformity; see John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 112ra/P, fol. 55ra): “Similiter, incontinens pro hora passionis iudicat fornicationem cum pulchra muliere esse simpliciter bonam, quia in particulari et omnibus consideratis, et hoc iudicium sequitur voluntas; tamen in universali credit et scit illam esse malam et impeditivam aeternae vitae. Et sic maior est falsa.” 43 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 109va/P, fol. 53ra), continuing the text quoted in note 40: “Et quia passio absorbet in ipso pro hora rationis iudicium saltem in particulari, non permanet incontinens pro hora in sua scientia, nec ea utitur, sed prohibetur uti a passione, et ducit concupiscentia rationem, quia ‘concupiscentia potest movere unamquamque particularum,’ ut dicit Aristoteles. Et sic incontinens extra horam passionis habet rectam scientiam in universali et in particulari, et ea utitur et optime syllogizat ‘Fornicatio est mala et ideo fugienda; sed cognoscere istam est fornicatio, ideo etc.,’ et ita sentit. In hora autem passionis occurrente pulchra muliere accipit ex concupiscentia: ‘Delectatio est prosequenda vel delectabile’; sensus autem dicit quod fornicari cum ista pulchra muliere est valde delectabile; et ideo ducit concupiscentia et fornicatur, nisi aliquid prohibeat.” 44 Ibid.: “Sed non obstante tali concupiscentia, in potestate eius est stare in sua scientia et uti ipsa, quia semper actus nostri a principio usque ad finem sunt in nostra potestate, ut dicit Aristoteles III Ethicorum.” 45 Ibid.: “Sic igitur incontinens ante horam passionis habet rectam scientiam in universali et in particulari et in actu.” Pouilly’s specification of recta scientia (correct knowledge) is redundant, since knowledge is by definition correct. As to his understanding of actual knowledge, Pouilly clarified at the beginning of his explanation of Aristotle’s account of incontinence that he understands it as knowledge that is actually considered. See ibid. (A, fol. 109rb/P, fol. 52vb): “Prima distinctio est quod scire dicitur dupliciter, scilicet habitu et actu. Nam, ut dicit, ‘habens scientiam non utens autem scientia, et utens’ – Commentator: ‘id est operans secundum propriam scientiam’ – ‘dicitur scire, differt autem habentem quidem scientiam non speculantem autem, agere quae non oportet agere ab eo quod est habentem et speculantem; hoc enim durum’ – Commentator: ‘hoc enim est durum et inconveniens, si quis habens scientiam et operans circa ipsam decipiatur,’ scilicet et agat quae non oportet agere – ‘sed non’ scilicet est durum ‘si non speculans,’ scilicet agat quae non oportet agere et contra scientiam; Commentator: ‘sed non est inconveniens neque durum si quis decipiatur habens quidem scientiam non speculans autem, id est, non operans.’”

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  83 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 109va/P, fol. 53ra): “Sic igitur incontinens ante horam passionis habet rectam scientiam in universali et in particulari et in actu.” 46 Ibid. (continuing the text quoted in the previous note): “In hora autem passionis solum habet rectam scientiam in universali et non in particulari, sed decipitur, et ideo agit contra rectam scientiam suam. Et ideo scit aliquid uno modo et contrarium alio modo, et per consequens potest velle et agere oppositum.” 47 Augustine, De libero arbitrio, lib. 3, 8.23.82 (CCSL 29:289): “Cum ergo quisque credens quod post mortem non erit intolerabilibus tamen molestiis ad totam cupiditatem mortis impellitur et decernit atque arripit mortem, in opinione habet errorem omnimodae defectionis, in sensu autem naturale desiderium quietis.” Pouilly quotes this passage in Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 109vb/P, fol. 53rb). 48 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 109vb/P, fol. 53rb): “Ecce quomodo secundum Augustinum iste facit duos syllogismos recte, secundum quod dicit Aristoteles, et patent isti syllogismi. Prima enim propositio quam accipit opinio falsa est: ‘Illud per quod omnino deficit homo est fugiendum.’ Prima propositio secundi syllogismi quae accipitur ex desiderio sensus est: ‘Illud per quod potest haberi esse quietum est agendum.’ Tertia propositio – quae potest esse minor in utroque syllogismo – est quod ‘Hoc est mors,’ ita quod ambos syllogismos quasi sub disiunctione simul format sic: ‘Illud per quod omnino deficit aliquis per quod tamen habetur esse quietum est faciendum et appetendum; mors est huiusmodi.’” 49 Ibid. (continuing the text quoted in the previous note): “Aliquid enim quod fugiendum est ratione alicuius finis, bene est appetendum ratione alterius magis dilecti, ut supra dictum est.” 50 Anselm of Canterbury, De libertate arbitrii, c. 5 (ed. Schmitt, 1:214–215). 51 See John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 110ra/P, fol. 53rb): “Prima propositio primi syllogismi est: ‘Illud quod est corruptivum veritatis est fugiendum.’ Prima autem propositio secundi syllogismi est: ‘Illud quod est salvativum vitae est faciendum.’ Propositio vero minor communis utrique syllogismo quam accipit sensus est: ‘Mendacium est huiusmodi.’” 52 Ibid. (continuing the text quoted in the previous note): “Et quia magis diligit vitam quam veritatem, ideo fortior est syllogismus cuius maior sumitur ex concupiscentia.” 53 Bernard of Clairvaux, De gratia et libero arbitrio, 2.3 (Opera 3:168): “Voluntas est motus rationalis, et sensui praesidens, et appetitui. Habet sane, quocumque se volverit, rationem semper comitem et quodammodo pedissequam: non quod semper ex ratione, sed quod numquam absque ratione moveatur, ita ut multa faciat per ipsam contra ipsam, hoc est per eius quasi ministerium, contra eius consilium sive iudicium.” Pouilly quotes this passage verbatim (apart from a slight variation in word order) in Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 110ra/P, fol. 53va). 54 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16, arg. in opp. (ed. Macken, 94, lines 12–15). 55 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 110ra/P, fol. 53va): “Unde impossibile est voluntatem velle contrarium eius quod ratio iudicat, quin necessario praecedat iudicium contrarium.” 56 John of Pouilly, Quodl. II, q. 11, concl. 8 (A, fol. 110ra–b/P, fol. 53va–b): “Ex quibus omnibus patet quod illa prophetia VII Ethicorum de incontinente non solum est prophetia Aristotelis, sed etiam sanctorum cum eo concordantium manifeste, quorum dicta ita seriose induxi ut appareat Aristotelem verum dixisse, et illos praesumptuose deridentes Aristotelem in veritate deridendos esse.”

84  Tobias Hoffmann Bibliography Primary Sources Albert the Great. Super Ethica commentum et quaestiones. Edited by Wilhelm Kübel. 2 vols. Opera Omnia (Editio Coloniensis) 14. Münster: Aschendorff, 1968–1987. ———. Ethica. Vol. 7 of Opera Omnia, edited by Auguste Borgnet. Paris: Vivès, 1891. Anselm of Canterbury. De libertate arbitrii. In Opera omnia, edited by Franz Sales Schmitt, vol. 1, 201–226. Edinburgh: Thomas Nelson & Sons, 1938. Augustine. De libero arbitrio libri tres. Edited by William M. Green. CCSL 29: 205–321. Turnhout: Brepols, 1970. Bernard of Clairvaux. De gratia et libero arbitrio. In Sancti Bernardi opera, vol. 3, Tractatus et opuscula, edited by Jean Leclercq and Henri M. Rochais, 165–203. Rome: Editiones Cistercienses, 1963. Godfrey of Fontaines. Les quatre premiers Quodlibets de Godefroid de Fontaines. Edited by Maurice De Wulf and Auguste Pelzer. Les Philosophes Belges 2. Leuven: Institut Supérieur de Philosophie de l’Université, 1904. Henry of Ghent. Quodlibet I. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 5. Leuven; Leiden: Leuven University Press; Brill, 1979. ———. Quodlibet X. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 14. Leuven; Leiden: Leuven University Press; Brill, 1981. John of Damascus. De fide orthodoxa: Versions of Burgundio and Cerbanus. Edited by Éloi Marie Buytaert. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1955. John of Pouilly. Quodlibet I, q. 10. Edited by Ludwig Hödl in “Die Diskussion des Johannes de Polliaco über die Lehrentscheidung der Pariser Theologen von 1285/86 ‘Non est malitia in voluntate….’” Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge 66 (1999): 264–297. Tempier, Stephen. Articuli condemnati anno 1277. In La condamnation parisienne de 1277: Texte latin, traduction, introduction et commentaire, edited by David Piché. Paris: Vrin, 1999. Thomas Aquinas. Quaestiones disputatae de malo. Edited by Commissio Leonina. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P. M. Edita 23. Rome: Commissio Leonina; Paris: Vrin, 1982. ———. Sententia libri Ethicorum. Edited by Commissio Leonina. 2 vols. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P. M. edita 47. Rome: ad Sanctae Sabinae, 1969. William of Ockham. Quaestiones in librum tertium Sententiarum (Reportatio). Edited by Francis E. Kelley and Girard I. Etzkorn. Opera Theologica 6. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1984. ———. Quodlibeta. Edited by Joseph C. Wey. Opera Theologica 9. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1980. ———. Scriptum in librum primum Sententiarum (Ordinatio): Prologus et distinctio prima. Edited by Gedeon Gál and Stephen Brown. Opera Theologica 1. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1967.

Henry of Ghent and John of Pouilly on Incontinence  85 Secondary Literature Courtenay, William J., and Karl Ubl. 2010. Gelehrte Gutachten und königliche Politik im Templerprozeß. Monumenta Germaniae Historica Studien und Texte 51. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung. Hamesse, Jacqueline. 2006. “Theological Quaestiones Quodlibetales.” In Theological Quodlibeta in the Middle Ages, vol. 1, The Thirteenth Century, edited by Christopher Schabel, 17–48. Leiden: Brill. Hödl, Ludwig. 1999. “Die Diskussion des Johannes de Polliaco über die Lehrentscheidung der Pariser Theologen von 1285/86 ‘Non est malitia in voluntate….’” Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge 66: 245–297. Hoffmann, Tobias. 2008. “Henry of Ghent’s Voluntarist Account of Weakness of Will.” In Weakness of Will from Plato to the Present, edited by Tobias Hoffmann, 115–137. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. ———. 2021. Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2023. “John of Pouilly’s Intellectualist Reading of the March 7, 1277 Condemnation.” In Willing and Understanding: Late Medieval Debates on the Will, the Intellect, and Practical Knowledge, edited by Monika Michałowska and Riccardo Fedriga, 106–146. Leiden: Brill. Kent, Bonnie. 1989. “Transitory Vice: Thomas Aquinas on Incontinence.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 27, no. 2: 199–223. Kobusch, Theo. 2006. “Willensschwäche und Selbstbestimmung des Willens: Zur Kritik am abendländischen Intellektualismus bei Heinrich von Gent und in der franziskanischen Philosophie.” In Das Problem der Willensschwäche im mittelalterlichen Denken/The Problem of Weakness of Will in Medieval Thought, edited by Tobias Hoffmann, Jörn Müller, and Matthias Perkams, 249–263. Leuven: Peeters. Müller, Jörn. 2007. “Willensschwäche im Voluntarismus? Das Beispiel Heinrichs von Gent.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 89, no. 1: 1–29. ———. 2009. Willensschwäche im Denken der Antike und des Mittelalters: Eine Problemgeschichte von Sokrates bis Johannes Duns Scotus. Leuven: Leuven University Press. ———. 2021. “How Free Are Weak-­Willed Agents? Henry of Ghent in Search of a Voluntarist Reading of Aristotelian akrasia.” In Libertés médiévales, edited by Kristell Trego, 185–205. Paris: Vrin. Panaccio, Claude. 2012. “Intellections and Volitions in Ockham’s Nominalism.” In Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy, edited by Martin Pickavé and Lisa Shapiro, 75–93. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schabel, Christopher. 2014. “John of Pouilly’s Quaestiones ordinariae de scientia Dei.” Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie médiévales 81: 237–272. ———. Forthcoming. “John Duns Scotus in the Eyes of His Fellow Regent Masters in 1306–1307, John of Pouilly and Henry of Friemar the Elder OESA.” In Duns Scotus’ Interlocutors at Paris, edited by Wouter Goris and Garrett R. Smith. Leiden: Brill.

4 Descartes and Leibniz on the Nature of the Will Stephan Schmid

4.1 Introduction While Descartes and Leibniz both agreed that the mind is an immaterial substance, they disagreed on many questions about how the mind and its operations are to be understood. They disagreed for instance about the possibility of unconscious thought, about animal perception, and perhaps even about the nature of thought.1 As I argue in this chapter, they also disagreed on questions concerning the appetitive, or conative side of the mind, that is, the mind’s ability to desire certain things and to make choices. More precisely, I argue that Descartes and Leibniz endorsed two entirely different metaphysical views about the nature of the will: while Descartes conceived of the will as an irreducible faculty of the soul, which the soul can employ in three ways – by assenting to an idea perceived by the intellect, by denying it, or by withholding from judging altogether – Leibniz conceived of it as constituted by rational strivings, due to which the mind has the tendency to be motivated by reasons or by what it intellectually perceives to be good or bad. To explain these two different conceptions of the will and to provide evidence for believing that they were indeed endorsed by Descartes and Leibniz respectively, this chapter proceeds as follows. Section 4.2 reconstructs Descartes’s conception of the will against the backdrop of late scholastic debates, which Descartes draws on by characterizing the will as a faculty of the soul. Section 4.3 explains why Leibniz could not have shared this conception of the will, in particular because it falls prey to Leibniz’s general criticisms of late scholastic theories of faculties, among which that of Francisco Suárez is identified as one of Leibniz’s main targets. Section 4.4 spells out what Leibniz himself took to be the nature of the will. Finally, I will argue that appreciating these different conceptions of the nature of the will can help us better understand Descartes’s and Leibniz’s discussions of free agency, which have often been described in terms of the medieval distinction between voluntarism and intellectualism. Moreover, appreciating Descartes’s

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-6

Descartes and Leibniz  87 and Leibniz’s disagreement about the appetitive or conative side of the mind might also force us to reconsider Leibniz’s views about the cognitive side of the mind. 4.2 Descartes’s Conception of the Will In his Fourth Meditation, Descartes explains that “the will simply consists in the fact that we can do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid).”2 He also describes the will as “the faculty of choice” (facultas eligendi).3 Putting these characterizations together, we learn that for Descartes, the will is a faculty by which we can (choose to) do or not do (i.e., affirm or deny, pursue or avoid) something. But what does this mean? When describing the will as a “faculty,” Descartes employs a central notion of scholastic psychology. In this tradition, a faculty is a power or capacity of the soul which is postulated in order to explain the various operations (or activities) of a living being, such as its nutritive functions responsible for metabolism and procreation, its sensory perceptions and desires, and its highest operations of thinking (or understanding) and willing. Regarding the higher activities of understanding and willing – the only ones for which Descartes saw the need for assuming a soul or mind in the first place4 – scholastic philosophers postulated the faculties of intellect (intellectus), which is the power to understand or know something, and will (voluntas), which is the power to form volitions and make choices. Insofar as these faculties were supposed to explain their respective operations, they were also described as causes of these operations. In describing the will as a faculty, Descartes draws on this tradition. This is evident not only from the fact that the other examples of faculties that he discusses in these passages are the intellect and the “faculty of memory or imagination” (facultas recordandi vel imaginandi),5 which were all paradigmatic faculties recognized by his scholastic forerunners, but also from the fact that he describes the intellect, or “faculty of knowledge,” and the will, the aforementioned faculty of choice, as “concurrent causes” of our activity of making a judgement.6 However, the mere fact that Descartes draws on the scholastic tradition by describing the will as a faculty is not necessarily significant. For late scholastic philosophers widely disagreed about what faculties really are.7 Nominalists, such as William of Ockham, held that the faculties are simply names applied to the soul in view of its different possible ways of acting.8 Accordingly, Dominik Perler has suggested that Ockham held a reductionist theory of faculties that aims at “reducing faculties to mere roles or ways of acting of the soul.”9 Such a reductionist account of faculties, as defended

88  Stephan Schmid by Ockham and other nominalists, was directed against realist accounts of faculties, which construed faculties as being (in some ontologically robust sense) distinct from the soul. A particularly influential realist view was advocated by Thomas Aquinas, but enjoyed a revival among early modern scholastics, notably Francisco Suárez. Suárez argued that the faculties of the soul are entities (or res) which are even really distinct from the soul because they have a different nature or definition than the soul. According to Aristotle’s famous definition in De anima, the soul is “the first actuality of a natural body that is potentially alive”;10 the soul is thus defined with respect to the body. The faculties of the soul by contrast are defined with respect to their operations: the perceptual faculties, for instance, are that by which a living being can perceive, the intellect is that by which a living being can understand, and the will is that by which a being can rationally desire something. But given that the soul and its faculties have different (real) definitions, they must have different essences, and so must be different things, or res.11 This reifying conception of faculties sparked the scorn of many early modern authors, who rejected it as absurd. A prominent example is John Locke, who famously complained that “the fault has been, that Faculties have been spoken of, and represented, as so many distinct Agents.” The criticism is that contenders of such a reificationist view of the faculties are committed to saying that it is not the human being who understands or wants something, but their intellect or will.12 A closer look at Suárez’s reificationist account of faculties, however, reveals that he would not have been liable to Locke’s criticism. Suárez emphasizes that faculties are “vital powers,” which can be exercised only through the soul that has these powers.13 Thus, unlike other powers, such as heat for instance, which can bring about their effects independently of the subject they inhere in – heat can warm other things regardless of whether it inheres in fire or in water14 – faculties or vital powers can bring about their effects or operations only with the support of the soul that underlies them, which acts through these faculties by “using” them.15 Accordingly, Suárez opposes construing faculties, such as the will and the intellect, as distinct agents, even though he conceives of them as distinct res. Instead of distinct agents, Suárez explains, the powers of the soul can, with respect to their vital operations, rightly be called instruments conjoined to the soul, insofar as they are subordinated to the soul as the principal form so that they cannot bring about their operations without the actual influence … of the soul.16 Just like Locke, then, Suárez insists that it is the soul – or rather, the whole human being it constitutes together with the human body by informing it – that understands or wants something by means of its intellect and its will, and not the intellect or will alone.

Descartes and Leibniz  89 In light of the theoretical options available in the tradition that Descartes drew on by describing the will as a faculty, how should we understand his conception of the will as a faculty of choice (facultas eligendi)? At first sight, it seems obvious that Descartes simply joined the medieval nominalists in rejecting a reificationist conception of faculties and by reducing the faculties of the soul to a way of describing the different kinds of operation of which the soul is capable. Indeed, he puts great emphasis on the fact that the soul is a simple and indivisible substance, such that “the faculties of willing, of understanding, of sensory perception and so on … cannot be termed parts of the mind, since it is one and the same mind that wills, and understands and has sensory perceptions.”17 In this respect, Descartes clearly sides with the medieval nominalists, who deny that the faculties are anything distinct from the soul.18 Faculties for Descartes are simply essential capacities of the soul, which are no more distinct from it than the capacity for receiving different shapes or the capacity for being moved are distinct from bodies. Just as these physical capacities follow from the nature of bodies as extended things (res extensae), the mental capacities for perceiving ideas (the intellect) and for forming volitions (the will) follow from the soul’s nature as a thinking thing (res cogitans).19 It is therefore not surprising that some scholars have suggested that faculties are for Descartes “nothing but roles the soul can play.”20 But such an interpretation tends to miss the explanatory (and, as we will see shortly, instrumental) character that Descartes associates with the faculties of the soul. For Descartes, the faculties of the soul are not merely the causal roles that the soul can play, but rather what enables it to play these causal roles: they are the traits or features of the soul in virtue of which it can engage in its characteristic activities. For example, the intellect enables the soul or the mind to perceive ideas, not simply by receiving these ideas as a piece of sealing wax receives an impression, but by putting the soul into a position to form these ideas. This is particularly clear when Descartes explains that when we form our ideas of bodies or external things, it is not “because these things transmit the ideas to our mind through the sense organs,” but rather “because they transmit something which, at exactly that moment, gives the mind occasion to form these ideas by means of the faculty innate to it [per innatam sibi facultatem].”21 Similarly, Descartes takes the will to be something we can make use of, when he admonishes us not to make “incorrect use of free will.”22 Thus, the faculties are for Descartes capacities of the soul through the exercise of which the soul can engage in its characteristic activities. It is therefore natural for Descartes to describe the relation between the soul and its faculties in instrumental terms, saying that the soul makes use of its faculties, most importantly regarding the will, which, he remarks, is not “the kind of faculty which would ever enable me to go wrong while using it correctly.”23 In this respect, there is a close affinity between the conceptions of

90  Stephan Schmid the faculties of the soul in Descartes and Suárez, even though they radically disagree about their ontological status. Both emphasize the instrumental role of the faculties: they are the things (Suárez) or essential features (Descartes) by and through which the soul (or the ensouled human being) engages in its characteristic activities. For Descartes, then, the will is an essential capacity of the soul of which it can make (correct or incorrect) use in order to affirm or deny, pursue or avoid something. But how exactly does the will relate to the pairs of activities which Descartes mentions when he characterizes the will as that by which we can (1) affirm or deny something or (2) pursue or avoid something?24 Is the will a capacity for two irreducible pairs of activities (and for refraining from engaging in them) – that is, for (1) affirming or denying, and for (2) pursuing or avoiding something – or is it fundamentally a capacity for only one of these pairs, with the other pair ultimately explained in terms of the more fundamental one? In the Fourth Meditation, where Descartes gives his most extensive exposition of his theory of the will, he focuses on the will as the capacity to affirm or deny an idea perceived by the intellect. It is one thing to perceive a certain idea – for instance, the idea of a blossoming tree in front of the window – but it is quite another to affirm this idea and thereby judge that there is a blossoming tree in front of the window. Indeed, sometimes I should deny that there is a blossoming tree in front of the window (e.g., when I am in a movie studio and I know that in fact it is winter) or I should refrain altogether from judging (e.g., when I cannot rule out the possibility that I am being deceived). For Descartes, the will is the capacity which enables me to do exactly this: to affirm a perceived idea, to deny it, or to refrain from judging altogether. But how is this capacity related to my capacity to avoid or pursue something? It seems that for Descartes, my capacity to avoid or to pursue something is in fact constituted by my capacity to make judgements. As Descartes writes: “Since our will tends to pursue or avoid only what our intellect presents as good or bad, we need only to judge well in order to act well.”25 This suggests that our decision to pursue or avoid X amounts simply to affirming or denying the corresponding evaluative or practical idea that X is good or bad (to this or that degree). To give a concrete example, my general decision to pursue learning to play an instrument consists simply in judging that learning an instrument is something good, and my choice to skip dessert today consists in judging that doing so is better, or “good to a higher degree,” than every other option I have. That this was in fact Descartes’s suggestion is supported by the fact that it nicely fits with his “guise of the good thesis.” Or, as he puts it: “The common scholastic doctrine … that ‘the will does not tend towards evil except in so far as it is presented to it by the intellect under some aspect of goodness.’”26 If deciding to pursue X consists simply in judging X to be good, we cannot pursue

Descartes and Leibniz  91 X unless we have judged X to be good in at least one respect.27 Hence, it seems that according to Descartes, the capacity to judge (i.e., to affirm or deny an idea) is the same capacity as the capacity to pursue or avoid something: I come to pursue or avoid something by judging options to be good (or as worthy of pursuit) or bad (or as something to be avoided). I submit therefore that for Descartes, the will is simply the mind or soul’s essential rational capacity to affirm or deny ideas perceived by the intellect or to refrain from judgement altogether. It is essential to the mind as the trait or feature of the mind by or through which it is able to engage in its characteristic activities. It is a rational capacity insofar as its exercise is sensitive to reasons: the mind can exercise the will more easily the more clearly and distinctly it perceives the ideas in question, that is, the more evidence it has for taking the idea under consideration to be true or false, or good or bad (to this or that degree).28 Depending on the theoretical or practical character of the ideas (i.e., whether they are about the nature of a perceived object or also about its goodness), the will’s affirmation or denial of the idea in question gives rise only to a doxastic state (i.e., a belief or disbelief that something is such and such) or also to an inclination to pursue or avoid the affirmed or denied idea. If this inclination is based on the practical judgement that X is, all things considered, the best option, it amounts to a full-­blown intention to pursue X. Fundamentally, however, the will is for Descartes nothing more than a capacity to affirm or deny ideas or to withhold judgement altogether. It is precisely on this point that Leibniz focuses his criticism. 4.3 Leibniz against the Cartesian Conception of Will Acts of affirming or denying ideas result in doxastic states: in beliefs or disbeliefs that things are such and such. Given that Descartes explains such acts in terms of acts of will (or in our suspension of such acts), he is committed to doxastic voluntarism, that is, the view that beliefs are up to our will. But doxastic voluntarism seems to be plainly false, as we seem precisely not to be able to believe things at will; otherwise, it seems, I could bring myself to believe that the moon is made of cheese as easily as I can bring myself to raise my arm, simply by willing it. Leibniz, in his “Critical Thoughts on the Principles of Descartes” (1692), could not agree more with such considerations: To give credence to what is true or to what is false – the former being to know, the latter to err – is nothing but the consciousness or memory of certain perceptions or reasons and so does not depend upon will except insofar as we may be brought by some oblique device to the point where we seem to see what we wish to see, even when we are actually ignorant.29

92  Stephan Schmid As Leibniz explains, we come to believe something (for instance, that there is still milk in the fridge) because we are conscious of certain perceptions or remember them (we see or remember that there is milk there) or are aware of other reasons that provide evidence for what we come to believe (maybe our housemate tells us that she bought four bottles of milk today). We do not form our beliefs just because we want to have them, at least not usually, and in the very rare cases where we do, we do this by “some oblique device,” as Leibniz puts it: by voluntarily bringing ourselves into a position where we think we have evidence for what we want to believe (e.g., by recalling situations where our housemate bought milk in the past such that we come to find it probable that she also bought milk today). But even in cases where we indirectly bring ourselves to believe something by will, doing so requires the perception of (at least apparent) evidence for what we want to believe. Thus, even in such indirect cases, where we manage to believe what we want to believe, our beliefs depend immediately only on our (apparent) evidence for what we come to believe, and not on our will. Accordingly, Leibniz finds Descartes’s doxastic voluntarism is untenable.30 But this means that the will cannot be for Leibniz a faculty of affirming or denying something, the exercise of which precisely results in doxastic states. There is yet another reason why Descartes’s conception of will is untenable for Leibniz. This reason can be brought out from a passage in which Leibniz elaborates on his rejection of doxastic voluntarism: [Suspending one’s action or belief] always takes place in determinate ways and never without reasons – never by the fictitious principle of total indifference or equilibrium. Some people would claim the latter to be the essence of freedom. … ‘Without reasons’, I say, i.e. without other inclinations going the opposite way, without being already in the process of turning the mind to other matters, and without any other such intelligible means. If we allow this, we are having recourse to such chimeras as the Scholastics’ bare faculties [facultés nues] and occult qualities, in which there is neither rhyme nor reason.31 As Leibniz emphasizes here, beliefs (and also actions) cannot arise from a “principle of total indifference or equilibrium,” that is, a mere capacity to adopt a belief or not (or perform an action or not). In fact, Leibniz claims in this passage that assuming such a capacity to simply adopt a belief or not (or perform an action or not) amounts to assuming a “bare faculty” of the kind maintained by the scholastics, which Leibniz considers a “chimera” in the postulation of which there is “neither rhyme nor reason.” Unfortunately, Leibniz does not tell us what he had in mind when he wrote about the bare faculties of the scholastics, or in what sense he took

Descartes and Leibniz  93 them to be “bare” or “naked.” Given that many of Leibniz’s contemporaries were acquainted with scholastic philosophy through treatises and textbooks, which often relied on Francisco Suárez’s encyclopaedic Metaphysical Disputations, it is natural to return to Suárez (who, Leibniz explicitly acknowledges, provided “substantial discussions … of the soul and its faculties”32). Indeed, Suárez – who, as we have seen earlier, construes faculties as instruments to be employed by the soul they belong to – makes a formidable target of Leibniz’s critique. There are at least two reasons why Leibniz must have considered such faculties to be problematic. First, they enjoy a certain type of indifference, due to the fact that they need to be activated by the soul they belong to. The Suárezian intellect, for instance, will not give rise to any act of understanding by itself, but only when it is employed by the soul. Moreover, the specific nature of acts of the intellect is determined by the way the soul makes use of the intellect. Whether my intellect gives rise to a thought about dogs, or instead to a thought about (for instance) their barking, depends on the sensory input to which my soul applies it. Accordingly, scholastic faculties are bare or naked in the sense that they are indifferent with respect to their specific operations. This makes them insufficient to explain the operations that they are supposed to explain: the fact that I think about dogs rather than their barking, or whether I think at all, is not due to my intellect alone, but primarily to the way my soul makes use of it.33 Second, conceiving of faculties as instruments that are somehow used by the soul runs the risk of an infinite regress. For if the activation of faculties requires the soul to make use of these faculties by exercising them, it seems that the soul needs an additional capacity to exercise its faculties since making use of or exercising a faculty (which would otherwise remain inert) seems also to be an activity of the soul. But if other activities of the soul, such as intellections and volitions, require a corresponding faculty or capacity, the instrumental activation of a faculty (i.e., making use of it) seems also to require a corresponding capacity. To avoid any arbitrary treatment of activities, then, we should attribute to the soul the additional capacity of making use of or exercising its faculties. But if we do so, we have strong reasons to attribute to the soul the further capacity of exercising this additional capacity of exercising its faculties, and so on ad infinitum.34 Now, these criticisms, though they are directed against scholastic (or Suárezian) conceptions of faculties, seem to affect Descartes’s conception of the will as well. As a faculty that the soul or mind can make (correct or incorrect) use of, the Cartesian will bears remarkable similarities to Suárez’s faculties. By Leibniz’s light, there is no more rhyme or reason in assuming a Cartesian will, which is employed by the soul it belongs to, than in postulating the bare faculties of the scholastics. For not only does Descartes’s conception of the will involve the view that the soul has some executive

94  Stephan Schmid power over the exercise of its will, which seems to invite an infinite regress of the sort just mentioned, but also Descartes maintains that we have the capacity to exercise our will in a state of indifference, in which we are not determined by clear and distinct perceptions. And even though Descartes emphasizes that in such situations we are less free than “when a clear perception impels us to pursue some object,”35 he seems to allow for situations of indifference, and in such situations the exercise of our will seems to lack a sufficient reason. 4.4 Leibniz’s Conception of the Will As the previous section has shown, accepting a Cartesian conception of the will was not an option for Leibniz. How, then, should we instead conceive of the will? We can make progress in answering this question by getting clear about how Leibniz conceives of faculties in general, before addressing how he conceives of the will in particular. With respect to his conception of faculties in general, the following passage is particularly revealing, where Leibniz again criticizes the “pure powers [pure puissances] of the Schoolmen”: Inactive faculties – in short, the pure powers of the Schoolmen – are also mere fictions, unknown to nature and obtainable only by abstraction. For where will one ever find in the world a faculty consisting in sheer power without performing any act? There is always a particular disposition to action, and towards one action rather than another. And as well as the disposition there is an endeavour towards action – indeed there is an infinity of them in any subject at any given time, and these endeavours are never without some effect.36 We have already seen that Leibniz takes the scholastic faculties, which are not intrinsically active, to be “bare” powers insofar as they are by themselves indifferent with regard to whether they will give rise to an operation, and if they do, to what operation in particular they will give rise. In this passage Leibniz explains why he takes such intrinsically indifferent faculties to be mere fictions that are “unknown to nature and obtainable only by abstraction”: for “bare,” or intrinsically indifferent, faculties are similar to mathematical objects such as points, perfect lines, or geometrical space, which also enjoy a type of indifference. A mathematical point, for instance, is indifferent as to being a part of a line, a square, or a circle; a perfect line is indifferent as to being a part of a rectangle or square; and mere geometrical space is indifferent as to the bodies it contains. In Leibniz’s view, however, reality is infinitely complex, such that “things which are uniform, containing no variety, are always mere abstractions: for instance, time,

Descartes and Leibniz  95 space, and the other entities of pure mathematics.”37 Similarly, the bare, or intrinsically indifferent, scholastic faculties must also be mere abstractions. A scholastic will (or, for that matter, a Cartesian one) can equally give rise to a volition for going to the pool, say, or for playing the piano, or to no volition at all; it all depends on how the soul makes use of it. Instead of being such uniform capacities which are indifferent as to how they are employed by the soul, faculties for Leibniz always involve a determinate tendency or endeavour towards a specific action. To produce a specific operation, they need not be employed by the soul; they tend toward these operations by themselves. Accordingly, they should not be construed as (instrumental) causes of operations or activities, but as constituted by such activities, or more properly, as constituted by an infinity of dispositions and endeavours towards particular actions which are never without some effect. Leibnizian faculties are nothing over and above (or rather, under and below) the activities attributed to them; they are simply collections of such activities or endeavours. Acknowledging Leibniz’s conception of faculties in general helps in understanding the nature of the Leibnizian will in particular. The Leibnizian will is not a capacity that the soul can (or cannot) employ in order to form a particular volition; rather, it is constituted by volitions. But if volitions are not acts caused by an underlying faculty of will, as Descartes and his scholastic forerunners would have had it, what are they? Leibniz provides the following characterization: I shall say that volition is the effort or endeavour [conatus] to move towards what one finds good and away from what one finds bad, the endeavour arising immediately out of one’s awareness of those things. … There are other efforts, arising from insensible perceptions, which we are not aware of; I prefer to call these “appetitions” rather than volitions, for one describes as “voluntary” only actions one can be aware of and can reflect upon when they arise from some consideration of good and bad; though there are also appetitions of which one can be aware.38 A volition, Leibniz suggests in this passage, is a special sort of appetition or striving: it is a conscious striving or endeavour to pursue or avoid X which immediately arises out of one’s awareness of the goodness or badness perceived in X that we gain through a consideration of the goodness or badness involved in X. As such, volitions are distinguished from two other kinds of strivings: (1) unconscious strivings and (2) conscious strivings that do not arise from perceptions that result from considerations of the goodness or badness involved in an envisaged option, let alone presuppose to ability to reflect on them.39 Examples of (1) unconscious strivings are the appetitions that Leibniz postulates in order to explain the emergence of

96  Stephan Schmid perceptions, with respect to which we are merely passive, such as the sudden feeling of pain we experience when stung by a wasp.40 Examples of (2) conscious strivings that do not arise from considering the goodness or badness of options are the sensory desires, or “passions,” which result from perceptions of pleasure and pain, such as the desire to soothe one’s pain after having being stung by a wasp. Unlike such unconscious or merely sensory appetites or strivings, volitions involve and require rational activities such as the consideration of the goodness or badness of options and the ability to reflect on the actions suggested by these options. We can therefore characterize Leibnizian volitions as rational strivings,41 that is, as strivings that arise from the intellectually perceived goodness or badness of a considered option. With this in mind, we can finally spell out Leibniz’s conception of the will. As Leibniz succinctly put it in a table of definitions (drafted 1702– 1704): “The will is the striving of the one who understands [conatus intelligentis].”42 This view is in perfect harmony with the view suggested by Leibniz’s remarks on the will and volitions in his New Essays (discussed earlier): to have a will is just to have rational strivings or appetitions. The Leibnizian will therefore is simply the tendency to be motivated (or moved) by what one intellectually perceives to be good or bad.43 This conception of the will crucially differs from that of Descartes, who construed the will as the capacity to make judgements (i.e., to assent to or dissent from ideas proposed by the intellect), or to refrain from judging altogether. For one, the Leibnizian will is no faculty by which the soul causes its volitions and of which it can make better or worse use (and for which it can then be praised or blamed). Unlike a kind of an instrument which a rational being can put to various uses, the Leibnizian will is simply the rational being’s tendency to exhibit a (defeasible) striving for (or against) objects which she intellectually perceives to be good (or bad). The Cartesian will and the Leibnizian will are thus very differently related to their corresponding acts or volitions. Descartes, we have seen earlier, described the will as a cause of volitions: it is by means of its will that the soul brings about its volitions. For Leibniz, by contrast, the will is constituted by volitions: to have a will, for Leibniz, is simply to have strivings or inclinations with regard to what one intellectually perceives to be good or bad. They also had remarkably different conceptions of volitions: for while Descartes construes volitions as propositional acts of the form “I assent/deny that p” (where p is, in practical cases, of the form “a is good/ bad (to this or that degree)”), Leibniz characterizes volitions as strivings or inclinations arising from the intellectually perceived goodness or badness of a considered option, and while such strivings result from propositional acts (i.e., intellectual perceptions of what is good or bad), they are not themselves propositional acts.

Descartes and Leibniz  97 4.5 Conclusion: Some Consequences of Descartes’s and Leibniz’s Different Conceptions of the Will As I hope it has become clear, Descartes and Leibniz had two very different views on the nature of the will. Descartes conceived of the will as a faculty by which we can assent to or deny ideas presented by the intellect (or refrain from judging altogether) and whose exercise is up to our soul. For Leibniz, such a conception of the will is untenable, for by identifying volitions with doxastic states (such as believing or disbelieving something), Descartes accepted a form of doxastic voluntarism, which Leibniz strongly opposed. According to Leibniz, our judgments are not up to our will (at least not directly), but are due instead to our intellect: we take that to be true for which we perceive the best evidence. Moreover, Descartes conceived of the will as a faculty which we can use in better (or worse) ways; and even though our will (as a rational capacity) provides us with the inclination to assent more readily – or “more freely,” as Descartes put it – to ideas that we perceive more clearly and distinctly, it leaves us indifferent in cases in which we have no clear and distinct ideas of the options under consideration. Leibniz rejected both elements of this conception of the will. First, he denied that our will is ever really indifferent, since he took our will to be composed of a myriad of strivings which are completely determined by the antecedent perceptions from which they arise (be they clear and distinct or not). And second, he rejected Descartes’s view of the will as a faculty that somehow causes our volitions and over which we have some executive power (so that it would make sense to say that we use or employ the will); rather, the will for Leibniz is constituted by volitions, and unlike Descartes, Leibniz conceived of these volitions not as propositional acts of assent or dissent, but as rational strivings or appetites that arise from (and are thus influenced by) what we intellectually perceive to be good or bad. These are two very different conceptions of the will, and though many scholars seem to have been aware of these two conceptions of the will in Descartes and Leibniz individually, hardly anyone has articulated the huge difference between them. This is especially surprising in light of the consequences that acknowledging these different conceptions of the will would have on notoriously debated topics in these two authors. One of these is their respective theories of freedom or free agency, which are often discussed against the backdrop of the medieval debate between intellectualism and voluntarism, focusing on questions such as whether the will is determined by the intellect’s judgement and whether that would be detrimental to its freedom.44 Though these are questions worth asking and trying to settle, doing so without a clear picture of Descartes’s and Leibniz’s different conceptions of the will misses the fact that the question of free agency takes entirely

98  Stephan Schmid different forms in their respective frameworks. In endorsing an instrumental conception of faculties, Descartes took it for granted that minds have a primitive capacity to act. He was particularly clear on this with respect to the mind’s ability to act on the body: he declared this to be “one of those self-­evident things which we only make obscure when we try to explain them in terms of other things.”45 What requires explanation for Descartes, then, is not agency in general, but how we are able to engage in the specific activities we do engage in. In order to provide such an explanation, he was happy to assume some fundamental faculties which the mind employs to perform these activities. Accordingly, the question about free agency, for Descartes, is less a question about agency (which he takes to be a fundamental feature of mental substances, and therefore not explicable in terms of anything more fundamental) than about freedom. The question is simply: Under what conditions is an act of a primitively acting substance free? Leibniz, on the other hand, sought a reductive explanation of agency, that is, one that would go deeper than merely postulating a subject which can perform some basic actions, such as employing or making use of its faculties. To that end, he conceived of the acting subject as a kind of force that unfolds over time, or as an “immaterial automaton.”46 In line with this, he avoided postulating faculties that would figure as (intermediary) causes of a substance’s actions, but construed them as bundles of various states and strivings resulting from the substance’s primitive force. Accordingly, the question about free agency, for Leibniz, is as much about freedom as about agency. It is the question of how we can understand a free agent as a “spiritual or formal automaton, but free in the case where it has a share of reason.”47 Simply comparing Descartes’s and Leibniz’s conceptions of freedom in terms of the scholastic distinction between voluntarism and intellectualism risks obscuring the very different conceptions of the will and intellect held by these two philosophers, and the different forms that the question about free agency takes within their respective frameworks. Another question in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind which deserves to be reconsidered in light of his non-­Cartesian conception of the will is that of the mark of the mental. In her intriguing article “Changing the Cartesian Mind: Leibniz on Sensation, Representation and Consciousness,” Alison Simmons argues that, unlike the Cartesians, Leibniz maintained that “representationality of some sort is the mark of the mental.”48 While Simmons is surely right to emphasize the importance of representationality when it comes to understanding Leibniz’s theory of perception (i.e., his theory of the cognitive side of our mind), her reconstruction of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind leaves out almost entirely his theory of the appetitive or conative side of our mind, which he spells out in terms of appetitions or strivings.49 Yet it is precisely these appetitions or strivings, which Leibniz characterizes as the substance’s “tendencies to go from one perception to another,”50 that seem to undermine

Descartes and Leibniz  99 Simmons’s claim that for Leibniz, representationality is the mark of the mental. In fact, not even volitions – the cognitively most demanding form of striving that Leibniz acknowledges – are representational for Leibniz. For unlike Cartesian volitions, Leibnizian volitions do not include representational states (whether we call them “ideas” like Descartes, or “perceptions” like Leibniz) – in other words, they are not representational in themselves. To be sure, as “tendencies to go from one perception to another,” Leibnizian volitions arise from perceptions and give rise to other perceptions, but this seems to make them just as non-­representational as a printer which produces an analogue text based on an electronic document. Thus, appreciating that Leibniz construes volitions as rational strivings allows us to understand that he should not be seen as defending a thoroughly representational conception of the mind according to which all mental states are representational states: Leibnizian volitions are mental states, but unlike Cartesian volitions, they are not representational. Acknowledgements I am grateful for the comments I received from participants in the online conference on “Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Ethics,” organized by Sonja Schierbaum in July 2021, as well as from the audience at a talk I gave at the Groningen Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Thought in December 2022. In particular, I thank Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller for their meticulous (and often challenging) comments on a first draft of this chapter, as well as Ian Drummond for his excellent and incredibly helpful editorial suggestions. They helped me a lot to improve this chapter. I am also grateful for the generous support of the Maimonides Centre for Advanced Studies (MCAS) – Jewish Scepticism research group (DFG FOR 2311), which made it possible for me to write this chapter. Notes 1 Alison Simmons (2001) has famously argued that, unlike Descartes and the Cartesians, Leibniz did not accept consciousness as the mark of the mental, but maintained that it is representationality or intentionality. Christian Barth (2017, 33–40) has challenged this view. As will become clear, my comparison between Descartes’s and Leibniz’s conceptions of the will puts pressure on Simmons’s claim from a different angle. 2 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40, translation modified). 3 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:56/CSM 2:39). 4 See his Replies to the Fifth Set of Objections (AT 7:356/CSM 2:246). For a discussion of Descartes’s general strategy to relegate all operations except those involving “thought” to the body, see Rozemond 1998. 5 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40, translation modified). 6 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:56/CSM 2:39).

100  Stephan Schmid 7 For helpful discussions of the most prominent of these views, see Bakker 2018; Perler 2013, 2015. 8 See William of Ockham, Rep. II, q. 20 (OTh 5:436): “There is one single substance of the soul that is able to have distinct acts for which there can be different denominations. Insofar as it produces (or is able to produce) an act of thinking it is called ‘intellect,’ and with respect to an act of wanting it is called ‘will.’” 9 Perler 2015, 119. 10 Aristotle, De anima 2.1, 412a27. 11 See Francisco Suárez, Commentaria una cum questionibus in libros Aristotelis De anima, disp. 3, q. 1, §6 (ed. Castellote, 2:62). For a discussion of this and further arguments, see Heider 2021, 51–58. 12 John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, bk. 2, chap. 21, §20 (ed. Nidditch, 243); see also bk. 2, chap. 21, §6 (236–237). 13 See Francisco Suárez, Disputationes metaphysicae [= DM] 18, sect. 5, §§2–3 (Opera Omnia 25:628a–629a). For a discussion of Suárez’s theory of the soul as the principle of vital operation, see Heider 2021, 28–35. 14 See Suárez, DM 18, s. 5, §4 (Opera Omnia 25:629a). 15 Suárez, DM 18, sect. 5, §2 (Opera Omnia 25:628b). 16 Suárez, DM 18, sect. 6, §3 (Opera Omnia 25:630b); my emphasis. See also Commentaria disp. 3, q. 3, §2 (ed. Castellote, 2:116–118): “Even though the powers [of the soul] are essentially directed towards their operations, they are still primarily directed towards the operations of a subject because they are at the same time the instruments of this subject and thus do not engage in any naked operations, but occur by means of a subject of which they are instruments and virtues.” 17 Descartes, Sixth Meditation (AT 7:86/CSM 2:59). Cf. The Passions of the Soul, part 1, art. 47 (AT 11:364–365/CSM 1:345–346); part 2, art. 68 (AT 11:379/ CSM 1:352). Perler (2013, 23–25) discusses Descartes’s criticism of a reificationist conception of faculties. 18 This raises the question of the relation between the will and intellect themselves, and it seems that transitivity of identity commits Descartes to accepting that they are identical. Indeed, Alan Nelson (1997, 174) has argued that Descartes accepted only a “rational distinction between will and intellect,” thus holding that they are really the same thing – the soul – described or conceived in different ways. 19 This analogy is borrowed from Descartes’s follower Nicholas Malebranche, who deploys it in his Search after Truth, bk. 1, chap. 1, §1 (trans. Lennon and Olscamp, 2). 20 Perler 2013, 33. 21 Descartes, Comments on a Certain Broadsheet (AT 8B:358–359/CSM 1:304). 22 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:59–60/CSM 2:41). 23 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:54/CSM 2:37–38). Descartes also employed instrumental language with respect to other faculties than the will. As quoted earlier, in his Comments on a Certain Broadsheet, he described the intellect as the faculty “by means” of which I form ideas (AT 8B:359/CSM 1:304). With regard to the “faculty of imagination,” he explains in the Sixth Meditation that he is “aware of using it, when I turn my mind to material things” (AT 7:71/CSM 2:50). 24 Note that Descartes does not mention the will’s capacity to refrain from engaging in such an activity in this context, presumably because refraining from engaging in an activity is not an activity for Descartes. Many thanks to Jörn Müller for pressing me on this issue.

Descartes and Leibniz  101 5 Descartes, Discourse on Method (AT 6:28/CSM 1:125). 2 26 Descartes, letter to Mersenne, end of May 1637 (AT 1:366/CSMK 56). 27 What about akratic actions, that is, actions against our better judgement, by which we seem to pursue something which we have judged precisely not to be good? Descartes was aware of this difficulty and tried to solve it by pointing out that “the intellect often represents different things to the will at the same time; and that is why they say ‘I see and praise the better, but I follow the worse,’ which applies only to weak minds” (letter to Mersenne, end of May 1637, AT 1:366/ CSMK 56). Thus, even in akratic actions, we purse things that we have judged to be good, according to Descartes: what makes weak minds perform akratic actions is that they affirm an option in virtue of its being good in some respect, even though they perceive that the affirmed option is less good than an alternative. For further discussion of Descartes’s account of akrasia, see Williston 1999. 28 See Descartes, Replies to the Sixth Objections (AT 7:432/CSM 2:292), and his letter to Mesland of 9 February 1645 (AT 4:175/CSMK 246). 29 Leibniz, “Critical Thoughts on the Principles of Descartes” (G 4:361/L 387). For Leibniz’s account of how we can indirectly determine our beliefs by turning our attention to reasons that support what we want to believe, see again “Critical Thoughts” (G 4:356–357/L 384–385), and New Essays, bk. 4, chap. 20, §16 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 517); for examples of means by which we can direct our attention, see New Essays, bk. 2, chap. 21, §23 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 182). 30 Note that Leibniz’s rejection of doxastic voluntarism is also politically and theologically significant, as it lies at the heart of his doctrine of religious toleration. For more on this, see Antognazza 2018. 31 Leibniz, New Essays, bk. 2, chap. 21, §47 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 196). 32 Leibniz, New Essays, bk. 4, chap. 8, §9 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 431). For a discussion of Leibniz’s reception of Suárez, especially with respect to his theory of individuation, see Ariew 2012, 46–53. 33 Note that Suárez’s faculties are only indifferent with respect to their specific operations, and not with respect to the general type of operation they can give rise to. This is because faculties are individuated by their operations. The will, for instance, is the power to produce volitions, and as such it can only give rise to volitions. 34 To be sure, I have not found a passage where Leibniz explicitly spells out this objection. However, it might well be what he had in mind when he complained that scholastic contenders of bare faculties owe us “a somewhat clearer explanation of what this faculty consists in and how it is exercised” (New Essays, bk. 2, chap. 10, §2, trans. Remnant and Bennett, 140). 35 Descartes, Replies to the Sixth Objections (AT 7:433/CSM 2:292); see also his letter to Mesland of 9 February 1645 (AT 4:173/CSMK 245). 36 Leibniz, New Essays, bk. 2, chap. 1, §2 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 110). 37 Ibid. 38 Leibniz, New Essays, bk. 2, chap. 21, §5 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 172–173). 39 It is not entirely clear, however, whether Leibniz can plausibly allow for conscious appetitions that do not require reflection; for a discussion, see Jorati 2018, 256–257. 40 Leibniz discussed cases of involuntary and yet spontaneous perceptions, which we form due to unconscious appetites, repeatedly in his comments on Bayle’s Dictionary article “Rorarius” (see, e.g., G 4:547/PT 236–237).

102  Stephan Schmid 41 Leibniz emphasizes repeatedly that only rational beings can reflect on their states; see for instance his “Considerations on Vital Principles and Plastic Natures” (G 6:542–543/L 588), and his letter to Arnauld of 28 November/8 December 1686 (G 2:75/AG 79); and New Essays, bk. 2, chap. 9, §§13–14 (trans. Remnant and Bennett, 139). 42 Leibniz, “Table of Definitions” (C 498); see also Theodicy §22 (G 6:115/H 139), where he writes that “taking it in the general sense, one may say that will consists in the inclination to do something in proportion to the good it contains”; and §311 (G 6:301/H 317–318), where he points out that “the effort to act in accordance with the judgement … forms the essence of the will.” 43 Two things are to be noted here. First, volitions for Leibniz are strivings that are constituted by rational strivings, but they need not be exclusively constituted by rational strivings. On the contrary, very often our volitions are constituted by sensory strivings or passions as well, and in akratic actions these non-­rational strivings even determine our complete volitions. Second, according to Leibniz, the intellectual perceptions with respect to which we exhibit our rational strivings need not take the form of explicit judgements. Leibniz emphasizes both these points by maintaining that “we always follow, in our willing, the result of all the inclinations that come from the direction both of reasons and passions, and this often happens without an express judgement of the understanding” (Theodicy §51, G 6:130/H 154). 44 See Kenny 1998; Wee 2006; Davidson 2005. 45 Descartes, letter to Arnauld, 29 July 1648 (AT 5:222/CSMK 358). 46 See Leibniz, “Unpublished Comments on Bayle’s Note L (1705)” (G 4:549/WF 104); New System (G 4:485/WF 18/AG 144). 47 Leibniz, New System (G 4:485/WF 18/AG 144); emphasis is in the original. 48 Simmons 2001, 32; emphasis is in the original. 49 Simmons (2001, 40n18 and 41–42n19) acknowledges that apart from perceptions, Leibniz also takes appetitions to be essential to the mind. It remains unclear, however, why appetitions do not undermine her view that for Leibniz, representationality is the mark of the mental, unless one conceives of these appetitions as Cartesian volitions that somehow contain perceptions. 50 Leibniz, Principles of Nature and Grace, Based on Reason §2 (G 6:598; AG 207).

Bibliography Primary Sources Aristotle. De anima. Edited by W. D. Ross. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956. Descartes, René. Œuvres de Descartes. Edited by Charles Adam and Paul Tannery. 12 vols. Paris: Cerf, 1897–1910. [= AT] ———. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vols. 1–2. Edited and translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984–1985. [= CSM] ———. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. 3, The Correspondence. Edited and translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. [= CSMK] Leibniz, Gottfried W. Leibniz’s “New System” and Associated Contemporary Texts. Edited and translated by R. S. Woolhouse and Richard Francks. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. [= WF]

Descartes and Leibniz  103 ———. New Essays on Human Understanding. Translated by Peter Remnant and Jonathan Bennett. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. ———. Opuscules et fragments inédits de Leibniz: Extraits des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque royale de Hanovre. Edited by Louis Couturat. Paris: F. Alcan, 1903. [= C] ———. Philosophical Essays. Edited and translated by Roger Ariew and Dan Garber. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1989. [= AG] ———. Philosophical Papers and Letters: A Selection. Edited and translated by Leroy E. Loemker. Dordrecht: Reidel, 1965. [= L] ———. Philosophical Texts. Edited by R. S. Woolhouse and R. Francks. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. [= PT] ———. Die philosophischen Schriften von Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. Edited by C. I. Gerhardt. 7 vols. Berlin: Weidmann, 1875–1890. [= G] ———. Theodicy. Translated by E. M. Huggard. La Salle: Open Court, 1985. [= H] Locke, John. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Peter Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975. Malebranche, Nicolas. The Search after Truth. Translated by Thomas M. Lennon and Paul J. Olscamp. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Suárez, Francisco. Commentaria una cum questionibus in libros Aristotelis De anima. Edited by S. Castellote. 3 vols. Madrid: Labor and Fundación Xavier Zubiri, 1978–1991. ———. Disputationes metaphysicae. Vols. 25–26 of Opera Omnia, editio nova, edited by Charles Berton. Paris: Vivès, 1866. William of Ockham. Quaestiones in librum secundum Sententiarum: Reportatio. Edited by Gedeon Gál and Rega Wood. Opera Theologica 5. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1981. Secondary Literature Antognazza, Maria Rosa. 2018. “Ecclesiology, Ecumenism, and Toleration.” In The Oxford Handbook of Leibniz, edited by Maria Rosa Antognazza, 756–769. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Ariew, Roger. 2012. “Descartes and Leibniz as Readers of Suárez: Theory of Distinctions and Principle of Individuation.” In The Philosophy of Francisco Suárez, edited by Benjamin Hill and Henrik Lagerlund, 38–53. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bakker, Paul. 2018. “The Soul and Its Parts: Debates about the Powers of the Soul.” In Philosophy of Mind in the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance, edited by Stephan Schmid, 63–82. London: Routledge. Barth, Christian. 2017. Intentionalität und Bewusstsein in der frühen Neuzeit. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann. Davidson, Jack. 2005. “Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor: Leibniz on the Intellectual Source of Sin.” In Leibniz: Nature and Freedom, edited by Donald Rutherford and J. A. Cover, 234–252. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Heider, Daniel. 2021. Aristotelian Subjectivism: Francisco Suárez’s Philosophy of Perception. Cham: Springer.

104  Stephan Schmid Jorati, Julia. 2018. “Leibniz on Appetitions and Desires.” In Philosophy of Mind in the Early Modern and Modern Ages, edited by Rebecca Copenhaver, 245– 265. London: Routledge. Kenny, Anthony. 1998. “Descartes on the Will.” In Descartes, edited by John Cottingham, 132–159. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nelson, Alan. 1997. “Descartes’s Ontology of Thought.” Topoi 16, no. 2: 163–178. Perler, Dominik. 2013. “What Are Faculties of the Soul? Descartes and His Scholastic Background.” In Continuity and Innovation in Medieval and Modern Philosophy, edited by John Marenbon, 9–39. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ———. 2015. “Faculties in Medieval Philosophy.” In The Faculties: A History, edited by Dominik Perler, 97–139. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Rozemond, Marleen. 1998. “Descartes’s Dualism.” In A Companion to Descartes, edited by Janet Broughton and John Carriero, 372–389. Malden: Blackwell. Simmons, Alison. 2001. “Changing the Cartesian Mind: Leibniz on Sensation, Representation and Consciousness.” Philosophical Review 110, no. 1: 31–75. Wee, Cecilia. 2006. “Descartes and Leibniz on Human Free-­Will and the Ability to Do Otherwise.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 36, no. 3: 387–414. Williston, Byron. 1999. “Akrasia and the Passions in Descartes.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 7, no. 1: 33–55.

5 Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria Christophe Grellard

5.1 Introduction The assent of faith, and the faculties it implies, is one of the main questions where reflections on the links between the intellect and the will developed in the Middle Ages, and where different forms of voluntarism were elaborated.1 Faith is by definition voluntary, since the intervention of a free will in the assent of faith – that is, adherence to the propositional content of dogma – is the basis of its being meritorious. From the twelfth century onwards, when the Summa sententiarum attributed to Hugh of Saint-­ Victor labelled faith a voluntary certitude,2 most theologians were voluntarists (apart from a few exceptional cases, such as Robert Holcot, to be discussed in this chapter), in the sense that they accepted that the will plays a predominant role in the assent of faith. Indeed, since the object of the assent of faith is largely inaccessible to complete intellectual understanding in a natural way, the intellect needs to be helped in order for it to accept these non-­obvious dogmas. It is precisely the role of the will to provide this help, which cannot be cognitive. Nevertheless, not every theologian attaches the same importance to the role of the will. There are two main questions that arise in relation to the assent of faith. First, at what point in the process of assent does the will intervene? Does it intervene at the beginning of the process, so that the whole chain leading to assent is voluntary, albeit possibly in a derivative way? Or does it intervene at the end of a largely natural process, to help the intellect to make the final leap into the inevitable? Second, can the will compel the intellect to assent, in other words, to decide to believe? And if so, can it do so without any reason? The answers given by theologians are varied and allow for different forms of doxastic voluntarism.3 Beyond this variety, however, two premises are accepted by most medieval theologians. First, the object of the assent of faith is not neutral: it has a soteriological value. In other words, assent to such objects, that is, the dogma of the Christian religion, involves the salvation of the faithful’s

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-7

106  Christophe Grellard soul.4 The question of voluntarism does not arise (or not in the same way) in relation to objects that are soteriologically neutral. This means that religious prescriptions should not be confused with mere moral prescriptions, even though religious prescriptions do have a moral dimension. Secondly, the assent of faith depends, in one way or another, on divine help in the form of grace and the infusion of the theological virtues, or possibly by direct intervention. To varying degrees, then, most medieval theologians accepted that the assent of faith is in part supernatural, in the sense that the natural faculties alone cannot explain the production of an assent of faith. However, we must be careful of the ambiguity of the term “natural” in this context. “Natural” has two main meanings: (1) that which belongs to the common course of nature, as opposed to that which is supernatural; and (2) that which is the product of a chain of unfree causes, as opposed to the free production of effects.5 According to the first sense, the natural is that which is not supernatural (that is, produced directly by a divine cause) and according to the second sense, the natural is that which is not caused by a free cause. The will is natural in the first sense, since it is a created faculty that produces its effects within the normal course of nature; although it may be taken out of the normal course of nature, for example, when God directly causes the assent of faith. However, it is not natural in the second sense, since it is free and capable of producing effects that are not determined by other causes. This pair of oppositions – natural vs. supernatural on the one hand, natural vs. free on the other – must therefore be kept in mind when considering the role of the will in the act of faith. The aim of this chapter is to examine an example of a way of answering to the two main questions: that given by the Dominican Francisco de Vitoria (1486–1546), active in Salamanca in the second quarter of the sixteenth century, after an initial training at the University of Paris between 1507 and 1522, when he graduated in theology.6 What is interesting in Vitoria’s work is his elaboration of a theory of the assent of faith in connection with the new socio-­ecclesiological problem of the evangelization of the Indians.7 In this respect, Vitoria attaches particular importance to the question of preaching in the production of faith, and to the role of witness. Although he develops his account mainly in his commentary on the Secunda Secundae of the Summa theologiae of Thomas Aquinas, it in fact owes little to Aquinas and depends much more on the debates that took place in Paris in the first quarter of the sixteenth century around John Mair. This double theoretical and historical context gives Vitoria’s voluntarism a new dimension. Vitoria developed a twofold voluntarism that considers the two dimensions of faith in the Middle Ages: the fiduciary (trust) and the cognitive (conviction). It is the articulation of these two levels that made it possible to justify the evangelizing activity of the Dominican Order in the New World.

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  107 5.2 The Regular Functioning of the Act of Faith Vitoria’s account of the assent of faith, prompted by Aquinas’s question “Is the object of faith the first truth?,”8 is developed mainly in the context of the problem of the resolutio fidei, or foundation of faith. This foundation, which is in divine revelation, leads Vitoria to question the role of testimony in the production of the act of faith. Answering the question “Why do we believe revealed dogma?” ultimately amounts to considering adherence to a cognitive content which goes beyond our reason and is known only indirectly through the report of the experiences of a third party (namely, the testimony of the Apostles and the apostolic succession that followed, warranted by the church).9 Vitoria’s problem is therefore, first, why and how a third party can be considered a credible authority. To solve this problem, Vitoria examines the regular functioning of the act of faith in order to identify the difference between opinion and faith and to explain the role of the will in the assent of faith. 5.2.1 The Cognitive Process of the Act of Faith

Vitoria begins with a classic problem about the foundation of authority.10 If we start from the principle that we must believe revelation because it is revealed by God, we are confronted with either an infinite regress in the order of warrants of belief, or a circularity between the warrant of Scripture and that of the church. As a last resort, therefore, one must stop at a foundation of faith that is a matter of human authority.11 To solve this problem, Vitoria examines the regular production of faith, putting aside the divine illumination directly granted to certain chosen ones and to the prophets.12 Normally, every act of faith begins with human authority, namely, the authority of a teacher, in a relationship that at the beginning is necessarily asymmetrical: “Speaking according to a regular process, nobody can give assent to and believe what belongs to faith without it being proposed to him by a human authority.”13 What justifies the need for a human authority is the Pauline motto of fides ex auditu (Rom. 10:17), which emphasizes the necessity of preaching and hearing. Vitoria mentions (though does not develop) the classic example of the child who has been baptized and therefore has infused faith, but has been brought up outside a Christian environment (in a forest, for example) and cannot access the dogmatic content of faith without teaching: “No one believes without the movement of a man’s authority, namely a preceptor. Thus, a baptized child has faith, and yet if he is brought up in the forest, he will not believe unless he is taught by someone.”14 According to the ordo regularis credendi, then, I begin by hearing preached the articles of faith, to which I give assent because of a human authority, and this assent is then strengthened when I discover that these articles have been revealed. The

108  Christophe Grellard warrant of the church and the apostolic tradition strengthen the initial authority of the preacher: The regular order of belief is this: first I hear from a Father the articles of faith and believe them, without knowing anything about revelation; then I see by the preacher's explanation that it is in the Gospel, and I believe more.15 As Vitoria says, this is how most of the faithful generally believe (ita credunt omnes communiter).16 But clearly, this is a pattern that works especially for Indians who encounter preachers before they discover the Gospel and the institution of the church. This is a point that Vitoria makes explicit in his relectio “De Indis” (to which he refers several times in his commentary on the Summa). Indians who have never heard of revelation are not responsible for not adhering to Christian dogma. Moreover, they cannot be expected to believe immediately upon hearing of the revelation; instead, they must be taught and acculturated through preaching so that their belief is based on arguments. Such a process presupposes not only that rational or probable arguments are given, but that the one who gives them must be morally excellent. The messenger, at this point, is as important as the message (and we will see the importance of this point later): The barbarians are not bound to believe from the first announcement of the faith of Christ, so that they would sin mortally in not believing, merely because the announcement was made to them absolutely, without miracles, without proof, and without persuasion, and they were told that the true religion is the Christian one, and that Christ is the Saviour and Redeemer of the world. … Moreover, as Cajetan says (2.2, q. 1, art. 4), one would believe rashly and unwisely in what concerns salvation, unless he knew from a trustworthy man who affirms what the barbarians do not know, since they do not know who those are who propose a new religion to them.17 As we can see, Vitoria is keen to insist not only on the role of teaching, and the relationship of transmission based on rational explanations in the production of the assent of faith, but also on the exemplarity of the teacher. Reason remains a necessary starting point for the act of faith, but if we leave it at that, faith is nothing more than an opinion based on trust in a human warrant (be it an individual or an institution). A leap is therefore needed from opinion to faith, which consists in reaching the firmness of assent and the certainty of faith. It is at this point that the will intervenes, but it is a will that is moved by God (a motione interiori qua Deus movet

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  109 voluntatem ad hoc quod credat).18 We must therefore turn to the functioning of this strengthened will. 5.2.2 The Movement of the Will

The act of faith is a voluntary assent, in the sense that the will reinforces the assent of the intellect to propositions that are the province of opinion (which is accompanied by the “fear of the opposite,” that is, hesitation about the truth of the proposition and the possibility that its contradictory could be true19): Even if I believe first by a movement of human authority, nevertheless firmness and certainty do not come from human authority, namely because such a one preaches that Christ is a man and that this is revealed by God. For firmness comes from an inner movement by which God moves the will to believe.20 Authority provides a starting point for faith, but this starting point is deeply transformed in the assent of faith. That arguments alone cannot suffice to produce, naturally, an assent of faith is evident from the fact that, when confronted with the same preacher, some will believe and others will not: Neither preaching, nor persuasion, nor human authority is sufficient to believe what is required for our faith. This is easily proved: consider two persons who hear preachers of equal authority, and yet the one believes and the other does not.21 This difference in the reception of different authorities is explained by the will, according to Vitoria: According to Augustine (On the Gospel of John, c. 6, vol. 26), no one believes without wanting to. Believing depends on the will and on free decision. Therefore, pious affection is required to believe, especially in the case of supernatural objects.22 More precisely, we can see that three elements are employed in Vitoria’s explanatory scheme: the will (voluntas), free decision (liberum arbitrium), and pious affection (pia affectio). These three elements take us from a natural process to a supernatural one, in the sense that, in the natural course of things, the assent produced by the natural faculties could not go beyond the level of opinion. The assent of faith therefore implies a break with the normal epistemic order. Let us take up each of these elements.

110  Christophe Grellard In his thirteenth Relectio, Vitoria defines free decision as a joint process of reason (which is here taken as equivalent to intellect) and will that produces an act of deliberation followed by an act of choice (actus eligendi).23 Free decision thus allows for deliberation about the means of salvation so as to choose the most effective path. Vitoria immediately points out, however, that free decision left to its natural state (i.e., diminished by original sin) is not sufficient to produce an act of faith: Free decision, left to its own natural forces, even with human authority, is not sufficient to believe what belongs to faith and which ought to be believed. On this point, below, q. 6, art. 1, where we shall deal with the cause of faith, we shall see whether anyone can believe without special help from God, and we shall answer negatively. This is evident from John 6:44: No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws them. Therefore, there must be a special help from God.24 For the assent of faith to occur, a special assistance from God (auxilium speciale Dei) is needed. In fact, the movement of the will that perfects the intellect (which is the subject of the act of faith) presupposes a form of divine intervention. This intervention, though it is supernatural in the sense that it breaks with the natural order of the faculties, is nonetheless regular (i.e., it follows a rule). Vitoria does not deal here with an extraordinary intervention of God – we have seen that he has excluded from his discussion cases of direct illumination – but with the movement that God imparts to a faithful person by the infusion of the theological virtues. Indeed, Vitoria repeatedly states that the assent of Christian faith requires both infused faith and acquired faith.25 Now, the infusion of faith does not take place without the infusion of hope and charity as well, since these virtues are connected. In particular, it is caritas, as the forma fidei, which makes possible this movement of the will.26 Thus, the will moved by infused charity makes it possible for the intellect to go beyond the level of opinion by introducing a subjective certainty, a firmness of assent. It is the role of pia affectio to remove the fear that is proper to opinion, and to introduce firmness: I assent to an authority with fear [of the opposite], but since there is a pious affection afterwards, firmness is caused in the assent that follows. Thus, I believe at first moved by a human authority, but because I have a godly affection, a greater firmness is caused than all human authority. … From this it is clear that we would not believe if we were not moved by human authority, but when God moves the will to believe, we believe more firmly than by human authority alone.27 To understand the role and nature of this pia affectio, we must return to the scholastic background of Vitoria’s thought.

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  111 5.3 The Scholastic Background of Vitoria’s Theory Despite the general framework of his commentary on Aquinas’s Summa theologiae, Vitoria’s discussion of the assent of faith is made in a context shaped by the Parisian theology of the end of the fifteenth century and its revival by John Mair at the beginning of the sixteenth, when Vitoria was a student at the Faculty of Theology in Paris. It is necessary to recall here the main elements of these debates in order to fully understand the notion of pia affectio, which is used by Vitoria as self-­evident, and to bring to light the twofold nature of his voluntarism. Vitoria’s theory of faith, which has been rarely noted, depends largely on a hermeneutical scheme developed by Peter of Ailly and taken up by John Mair. This scheme consists of constructing two extreme positions and seeking a middle ground.28 The two extremes are, on the one hand, a radical voluntarism attributed to William of Ockham and, on the other hand, a strict naturalism attributed to Robert Holcot. Between the two, Peter of Ailly proposes a middle way based precisely on the idea of pia affectio voluntatis. For the historian of philosophy, it is certain that Mair’s reconstruction of Ockham’s and Holcot’s positions does only partial justice to the complexity of their theories. In the case of Ockham in particular, it is based exclusively on a single text, question 5 of his Quaestiones variae, which deals with the act of faith only at the margin and as an exception in a naturalistic (non-­voluntary) system of producing assent. But this question, very early annexed to his commentary on book 2 of the Sentences, in manuscripts as well as in the first printed editions, came to be considered the synthesis of Ockham’s theory of faith.29 The text of Ockham’s question 5 insists that the authority of testimony plays an important role in belief. In the context of a discussion of the natural causality of terms and propositions with respect to the intellect and the production of assent, Ockham reserves a special place for contingent neutral propositions, the assent to which presupposes the intervention of an additional cause, either the authority of a guarantor or an act of the will.30 It is within this framework that the assent of faith is explained. In this text, therefore, by analysing the authority of a warrant, Ockham clarifies the role of testimony in belief. Assent is caused jointly by some propositions and the authority of a witness endowed with a particular epistemic status: If anyone believes that a man is always truthful in what he says and does, and this by an acquired faith, if then that man assertively and in good faith tells him that something is certainly true, something which before he did not believe to be true, thus believing the first proposition, he cannot refuse his assent to the second proposition. For if he believes and thinks that this man is firmly truthful in his words and deeds, and then rejects the second proposition, then he thinks that the second

112  Christophe Grellard proposition is false. Therefore, he does not believe that the one who states this proposition is generally truthful in his words, and thus there follows a contradiction.31 Generally speaking, faith depends on an act of trust in a witness who conveys cognitive content and whose testimony serves as a further premise for the inference that takes the following form: John can be trusted (in general); John says that p; therefore, p is credible. At this level, assent remains natural. But if we question the foundations of the epistemic authority of the witness, Ockham believes that we are confronted with an infinite regress in the order of warrants, which can be stopped only by an act of will.32 There is therefore an act of will, a decision to believe in the witness, a logically (but not chronologically) primary act, that founds the assent of faith: Where then does the cause of the act of assent to such a proposition come from? I answer that it is from an incomplete knowledge of the terms, an apprehension of the proposition and an act of willing by which someone wants to give assent to this proposition even though he has no evidence.33 In this text, Ockham says no more, and the reconstruction of his theory of the act of faith is beyond the scope of this chapter.34 What is important is that, on the basis of this text, there will be attributed to Ockham, by Peter of Ailly and John Mair after him, a strict voluntarism in which the efficient cause of the act of faith is the will alone. The opposite position is attributed to Robert Holcot, on the basis of the first question of his commentary on the Sentences.35 Among other things, Holcot probably intended to respond to the infinite regress objection. While conceding that a primum creditum is indeed necessary to stop an infinite regress in the warrants of testimony, he rejects the idea that this founding moment can be voluntary (i.e., free) and argues for a strictly natural (i.e., unfree) production of belief: I concede that one must grant a first proposition believed by every man both in the temporal order and in the order of inferences, so that this proposition is believed not because it follows from another, but for itself. Therefore, a conceived proposition must be granted that a man believes because reality appears to him in such a way. And another man will not believe the same proposition. And if the man who believes it is asked whether he believes such a proposition, he would answer that he does. If he is asked for the cause, he will not know how to give any other than that he believes because it seems to him that it is in reality as denoted by this proposition. But it is experienced that he does not believe freely, or by the command of the will alone.36

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  113 Holcot’s radical position was very quickly (and critically) replied to in Paris by Hugolin of Orvieto, Henry Totting of Oyta, and Peter of Ailly and became an object of debate even by John Mair. Francisco de Vitoria himself attacks this position by name. Finally, the third, middle position, which Peter of Ailly argued for, is based precisely on the idea of voluntas pie affectata, or pia affectio voluntatis, expressions which Peter of Ailly seems to have invented.37 His thesis consists in maintaining that the will alone cannot produce the assent of faith, any more than can strictly natural arguments (i.e., arguments produced in a natural way, without any supernatural help). There must therefore be a natural movement due to probable arguments, the uncertainty of which will be overcome, with the help of divine inspiration, by means of this pious affection of the will. As Ailly puts it: The fourth thesis is that it is possible for the pilgrim, by means of the command of the will and pious affection, in a convergent manner with this testimony, or this authority, or even a dialectical or probable argument, to acquire faith. This is clear from experience.38 Pious affection is what gives the will the strength to compel the intellect to go beyond the uncertainty of opinion produced by natural arguments. Though neither Peter of Ailly nor John Mair, who took up his arguments a century later,39 really specifies what is meant by pious affection, there is no doubt that both are the source of Francisco de Vitoria’s discussion. Vitoria’s position on faith thus adopts three central elements from the Parisian debate of the fourteenth century: the notion of pious affection as the motor of the will, Robert Holcot’s naturalism as a repellent, and the problem of an infinite regress in the order of the guarantees of testimony. 5.4 Francisco de Vitoria’s Twofold Voluntarism Vitoria’s voluntarism poses a double challenge: on the one hand, to explain what this pia affectio that moves the will consists of; on the other hand, to indicate at what point in the process of assent the piously affected will can intervene. Vitoria is not much clearer than Peter of Ailly or John Mair on the nature of the pia affectio. Nevertheless, his position is quite close to what we can read in these two theologians. As we have seen, he stresses the supernatural character of this pious affection and links it to infused faith: In the same way in the Posterior Analytics it is said that from premises which are objects of opinion, accompanied by pious affection, a certain assent pertaining to faith can be caused. Thus, he who wishes to be a Christian, and has this opinion from a preacher, with pious affection can believe at once by infused faith.40

114  Christophe Grellard Pious affection thus accompanies opinion to strengthen it. The important aspect here, especially from a pastoral point of view, is the willingness to be Christian, and to be saved, which links pious affection to infused faith. Because of the connection between faith and charity (noted earlier), we can assume that pious affection is the disposition of the will to love God and to turn towards Him, a disposition that is infused with the theological virtues, which are habits. Once it is admitted that in the assent of faith, the will has a supernatural dimension insofar as it is moved by God through the infused habits, it remains to be seen how this affected will acts. Following Capreolus, Vitoria considers that, in this process, God captures the intellect in the obedience of faith.41 Schematically, then, we can think of the affection of the will in the assent of faith as a form of desire (although Vitoria does not use this term): a desire to believe, aroused by a set of infused habits. These general dispositions are acted upon when confronted with an object. This leads us to the second challenge, namely, the moment when the will intervenes. At first sight, Vitoria seems to assign to the will the role of intervening with the intellect to transform a natural assent, produced by arguments but which remains uncertain or hesitant, into firm and certain assent. As we have seen, this is the scheme defended by Peter of Ailly and John Mair. In addition, such a scheme is compatible with a certain reading of Thomas Aquinas’s Quaestiones disputatae de veritate, even if on this precise question Vitoria seems to care little about marking his agreement with Aquinas.42 On the other hand, Vitoria seems on a few occasions, notably in his reply to Holcot, to adopt a different solution that brings him curiously close to Ockham. Responding to the Holcoti dubium, Vitoria admits that frequently (multoties), our belief is not free, and that we believe “in spite of ourselves” (inviti). In general, the production of assent is a natural process in which the will cannot intervene: I say first that believing is frequently not in our power. This is obvious, since we believe many things despite ourselves, like the stories of the Romans. Indeed, it is certain that I could not disbelieve that Alexander and Caesar existed. And not only in human affairs, but also in divine ones, Christians cannot disbelieve the articles of faith, for there are great signs and testimonies.43 In a second step, however, Vitoria argues that, often and regularly (saepe et regulariter), our belief depends on us, “especially in the beginning” (maxime in principio). He then gives as an example believing the words of a preacher: if some believed the words of the Apostles and others did not, it is because free decision plays a role in the assent of faith, at least in deciding to place general trust in a witness.

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  115 This confidence in one witness rather than another depends on pious affection: I say that believing, often and regularly, is immediately in our power, especially at the beginning. This is proved against Holcot, since many heard the Apostles at the same time, and yet one believed and the other did not. And this did not come from the motives and signs since they were identical. So, it came from the freedom of the will. So, it was in the power of the believer to believe or not to believe.44 In response to Holcot, Vitoria gives a solution similar to Ockham’s. Faith may well be a generally natural process brought about by adherence to a witness, but the fact remains that avoiding an infinite regress in the warrants of testimony requires a first act of will, the decision to trust that witness. Moreover, because of the role of the infused virtues, this initial act of will is an act that breaks with the naturalness of assent in two ways: (1) with the natural in the sense of that which is unfree (subject to the chain of natural causes and effects) and (2) with the natural in the sense of that which is ordinary. The first break comes from the fact that the will is free; the second comes from the fact that it can exercise this freedom thanks to the help that God gives it.45 The role of pious affection is thus to bring the will not towards a dogmatic content, but towards someone who is recognized to speak the truth. Here again, the role of the will is to transform, with the help of this affect, the opinion I have of a person (I believe him to be good and truthful, but I may be wrong) into firm and certain confidence (I trust this man firmly): I suppose that someone has, not a faith, but an opinion about a preacher who is a true and honest man, and who affirms that God is one and triune. And he has also a pious affection. Therefore, he believes when this one begins to preach. And this is by nothing other than infused faith.46 Summing up Vitoria’s position, it is clear that the function of the will is to transform an assent of opinion, naturally produced by arguments, into an assent of faith, in which hesitation has been removed and certainty introduced. This transformation is a supernatural phenomenon insofar as the will is moved by God through the infused theological virtues of faith, hope, and love, and through pious affection. The will to believe is thus limited to a precise object, namely, the truth of revelation, and through it the primary Truth, which is God. It makes no sense to ask whether such a model could be transposed to other areas. It is not explicitly ruled out that the will could be affected in a natural way, and so be moved by the desire to believe

116  Christophe Grellard this man rather than that man. Such an affected will could, in a process akin to self-­deception, reinforce natural confidence in a man (as happens with heretics), but probably would not produce a certainty equivalent to that of the assent of faith. The intervention of the will can occur at two levels, in each case producing an act of a somewhat different nature. If we follow the regular order of the production of faith, which begins with hearing a preacher or teacher, the first role of the will is to produce not an act of belief (in the sense of assent to a cognitive content) but an act of confidence: it is a question of recognizing the credibility of a witness who transmits cognitive content, and this recognition is based not so much on cognitive qualities as on affective and moral qualities. However, these moral qualities are not sufficient to produce faith (understood as firm and assured confidence) unless an act of will moved by God intervenes. The morality of the witness is a necessary condition to produce trust, but when this trust is aided by a supernatural will, it leaves the realm of opinion and enters the realm of Christian faith. When defining the meanings of fides at the beginning of the article in question 1, Vitoria indeed distinguishes between fides as credulitas (cognitive assent) and as trust. But within trust, he again distinguishes the virtue of fidelitas, as defined by Cicero,47 which is a moral virtue located in the will, from confidentia, which also exists in the will and defines the Christian, supernatural form of trust.48 The assent of faith thus begins with the trust voluntarily placed in a witness, with the help of God. Although Vitoria does not say it explicitly, he seems to hold that, in general, once this first act of supernatural trust has been made, all the acts of adherence that follow and that relate to cognitive contents (the dogma taught by the witness I trust) could be produced in a natural way (as Holcot says), without the intervention of the will, by a simple chain of natural causes. It happens, however, that despite the initial act of trust, acts of adherence require additional support in order to move from opinion to faith, especially in the case of objects that are especially difficult to understand (such as the Trinity). In this case, the will moved by God acts directly on the intellect to command its adherence to a specific cognitive content that has been the object of an initial rational analysis. Vitoria thus defends a twofold voluntarism that echoes the twofold meaning of fides, as confidentia and as credulitas. 5.5 Conclusion Vitoria posits that there are two ways in which the will intervenes in the assent of faith, both of which result in increased certainty by forcing the intellect to exceed its own limits. This intervention is possible only through a break in the natural order, which is reflected in the idea that in such a

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  117 case it is God who moves the will. The divine motion is based on the infusion of the theological virtues and the introduction of an affective dimension (which can be linked with charity, though Vitoria does not say this explicitly). This supernatural shift makes it possible both to base confidence in testimony, which constitutes the necessary starting point of faith, and to justify going beyond natural proofs alone. In so doing, Vitoria restores to faith the double dimension it always had in the Middle Ages: a fiduciary dimension that involves trusting a third-­party guarantor, and a cognitive dimension that accounts for the alethic ambition of the Christian religion. Because of this alethic dimension, Vitoria strives to preserve the place of reason in the production of the act of faith. In a sense, the moving of the will by God reinforces the effort of reason to know God. This is clear in the case of the pagans, whose ignorance of God was invincible until revelation was preached to them.49 Those who did their best (facere quod est in se) received divine grace, the prelude to salvation.50 In fact, Vitoria’s theory of faith seems to be, to a large extent, designed to account for the action of the Dominicans in the new mission territories across the Atlantic. The recovery of the schema of Peter of Ailly and John Mair makes it possible to defend the idea that faith cannot be received if it is not accompanied by probable motives which set reason in motion. Similarly, given the key role of the preacher as the initial witness of faith, which sets the whole process in motion, it is indispensable that preachers be distinguished by their good character and give proof of credibility. These two aspects justify the mode of evangelization adopted by the Dominicans, based on education and a rejection of coercion. Ultimately, however, it would be up to the Indians to make the effort required to be touched by grace and attracted to God. Once revelation has been sufficiently preached, an Indian who rejects Christianity would be mortally sinning, since this would mean that he is voluntarily resisting the truth.51 Finally, throughout the Middle Ages, voluntarism remained the surest way to put the burden of his error on the heretic, infidel, or pagan, according to a model fully developed by William of Auxerre: he who does not receive the grace to believe is responsible for his own sinful state.52 Notes 1 This question was long neglected except for the pioneering studies of Lang (1930) and Aubert (1948), but it has received more and more attention this last decade: see Grellard 2014; Faucher 2019; Piché 2022. 2 See Pseudo-­ Hugh of Saint-­ Victor, Summa sententiarum tract. 1, c. 1 (PL 176:43). Moreover, the idea that faith cannot rely only or even mostly on reason is grounded in Gregory the Great’s motto that if faith depends on reason, it has no merit. See Gregory the Great, Homiliae in evangelia, lib. 2, hom. 26 (CCSL 141:218).

118  Christophe Grellard 3 A heuristic classification of the varieties of medieval voluntarism with regard to faith is proposed in Piché 2022, 103–154. 4 As I have argued elsewhere (Grellard 2020, 16–18), medieval Christianity can be labelled alethic, soteriological, and universalist, since it claims that individual salvation is attained by assent to the revealed truth as known through Scripture and the apostolic tradition, and is secured by the church. Moreover, the church has the duty to put every human being in a position to be saved by leading them to assent to this truth. 5 This medieval classification of the natural, as presented here, relies on Buridan’s distinctions in Quaestiones super Metheorum, lib. 1, q. 8 (ed. Bagès, 117–118), but of course it was widely accepted in the Middle Ages prior to Buridan. 6 The seminal study of Vitoria remains Villoslada 1938. I give a short overview in Grellard 2022. 7 There is a vast scholarly literature on this topic, mainly from the point of view of the “birth of international law.” For a seminal (though critical) study, see Pagden 1982; for a recent approach, see Garcia-­ Salmones Rovira, 2017, 443–463. 8 Thomas Aquinas, ST IIa-­IIae, q. 1, art. 1. 9 Francisco de Vitoria, Comentarios a la Secunda secundae q. 1, art. 1, §24 (ed. Beltrán, 1:15). 10 This question has recently been addressed in depth by Yardley 2021. 11 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §25 (ed. Beltrán, 1:15–16). The expression “speaking according a regular process” is a translation of the Latin regulariter loquendo, which implies that we are in a natural process following the common laws or rules of nature, and that any supernatural divine action (i.e., a direct illumination by God) is put aside. 12 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §27 (ed. Beltrán, 1:17). 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. On this casus, see Lottin 1949; Grellard 2020b. 15 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §37 (ed. Beltrán, 1:20). 16 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §24 (ed. Beltrán, 1:19). 17 Francisco de Vitoria, Relectio 5 (“De indis”), 198. Vitoria is citing the commentary on the Secunda secundae by the Dominican Thomas Cajetan (1469– 1534). Cajetan’s authority is also appealed to in the Comentarios in order to criticize hasty and unargued assent; see Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 4, §7 (ed. Beltrán, 1:40–41). 18 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §37 (ed. Beltrán, 1:20). 19 On the “fear of the opposite” (formido de opposito) as the key property of opinion, see Porro 2015. As far as I know, a complete study on the Latin vocabulary of doubt in medieval epistemology is still lacking, though some general observations can be found in Flanagan 2008, 91–124; Evans 1998, 167–173. Schematically, mere doubt (expressed by the words dubium, dubitatio, ambiguitas, etc.) is a state of indecision about the truth of a proposition. The canonical example is the sentence “The number of the stars is odd,” where doubt leads to suspension of judgement. In contrast, fear of the opposite, which is a kind of hesitation, reveals the incompleteness and epistemological insecurity of opinion. 20 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §37 (ed. Beltrán, 1:20). 21 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §28 (ed. Beltrán, 1:17). 22 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §28 (ed. Beltrán, 1:17). Vitoria is citing Augustine, In Evangelium Ioannis, tract. 6, c. 26 (PL 35:1607).

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  119 3 Vitoria, Relectio 13 (“Eo ad quod tenetur veniens ad usum rationis”), 493. 2 24 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §29 (ed. Beltrán, 1:17). 25 See, e.g., Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §31 (ed. Beltrán, 1:18). 26 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 4, art. 2, §3 (ed. Beltrán, 1:89–90). The idea that caritas is the forma fidei is connected with the idea that the act of faith is completed and made perfect through the love of God. The question is addressed by Thomas Aquinas, ST IIaIIae, q. 4, art. 1–3. 27 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §27 (ed. Beltrán, 1:20). 28 On this topic, see Grellard 2014. 29 This early editorial decision of the first readers of Ockham highlights the theoretical effects that can result from a contingent arrangement of texts: a minor text in Ockham’s intellectual production reached a high level of visibility. 30 For Ockham, a neutral proposition (also called a doubtful proposition) is a proposition the truth value of which is not immediately apparent to us. The usual example is “The number of the stars is odd.” 31 William of Ockham, Quaestiones variae, q. 5 (OTh 8:184–185). 32 William of Ockham, Quaestiones variae, q. 5 (OTh 8:186). For the sake of brevity, I summarize the three pages where Ockham develops his argument. The infinite regress argument is explicitly mentioned on 187, as well as the way to put an end to it by an act of will (see the next footnote). 33 William of Ockham, Quaestiones variae, q. 5 (OTh 8:187). Undoubtedly, Ockham’s argument is very disturbing. It is hard to understand why an assent to the trustworthiness of a witness should be an act of will; on the contrary, it should be an act of intellect, grounded in my experience of this witness. This is why some scholars have tried to link this act of will with an act of right reason (recta ratio); I and others claim, however, that this act of will has no rational motivation but is moved by the infused virtue of love (see the next footnote). Moreover, it is important to note that Ockham here is not looking for mere probable assent, as is typically produced in the case of testimony (where certain compelling factors, such as the morality of the witness, incline the intellect to assent to what is said by the witness). Any rational motivation should be evident, but the infinite regress argument shows how such evidentness cannot be found in the case of testimony. It is therefore necessary to introduce an unmotivated act of will. Nevertheless, in this text (known by theologians of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as a part on the second book of his Sentences), faith is only a specific case of a more general theory of assent, and Ockham is not interested in giving a complete account of the assent of faith. His aim is rather to give a logical analysis of acts of assent, and the application of the infinite regress argument leads him to introduce an act of the will as a logical foundation rather than as a real first psychological act. This act of will is necessary, since any rational evaluation by itself will remain inadequate to provide the certainty required by the assent of faith (a certitude which excludes doubt). 34 I proposed an interpretation of this theory in Grellard 2014, 65–86, which was challenged by Faucher and Roques (2015, 219–239), but defended and developed by Piché (2017, 201–216). I see no reason to change my interpretation of Ockham. 35 Robert Holcot, QQ. super Sent., lib. 1, q. 1, art. 1 (fol. a2r). On Holcot, see Grellard 2014, 88–109; and more recently, Boespflug 2018, 617–636. 36 Robert Holcot, QQ. super Sent., lib. 1, q. 1, art. 6 (fol. a6r). 37 On Peter of Ailly, see Grellard 2014, 112–120. 38 Peter of Ailly, QQ. super Sent., lib. 1, q. 1, art. 2 (ed. Brinzei, 176).

120  Christophe Grellard 39 For example, John Mair, In tertium Sent., d. 23, q. 11 (fol. 46rab). On John Mair, see Wood 1997, 125–143; Grellard 2014, 120–131; Witt 2015. 40 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §33 (ed. Beltrán, 1:19). 41 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §37 (ed. Beltrán, 1:20). As is well known, the idea that the intellect is capture in the obedience of faith comes from 2 Cor 10:5, where the intellect is said to be captured in obedience to Christ (obsequium Christi). The idea of the captivatio intellectus in obsequium fidei is very common in Gerson’s work. 42 See, e.g., Thomas Aquinas, Quaestiones disputatae de veritate, q. 14, art. 10 (Leonina 22:467). 43 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 2, art. 9, §13 (ed. Beltrán, 1:80). 44 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 2, art. 9, §3 (ed. Beltrán, 1:80). 45 In another version of his commentary on this same question, Vitoria seems to want to explicitly distance himself from Ockham, to whose position he must realize he has come very close, since he assigns to the nominalists a position that reduces all faith to acquired faith, without the intervention of infused faith. See the text of Vitoria’s commentary on the Summa theologiae transcribed in Mori 1953, 191: “Ad hoc dicunt nominales quod ultima resolutio sistit in fide acquisita quia scilicet ideo credo hoc ‘Deus revelavit’ quia ecclesia vel predicator hoc asserit, cui assentio et credo fide acquisita.” 46 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §33 (ed. Beltrán, 1:19). 47 Vitoria is quoting rather freely from the first book of De officiis and the fourth book of De Republica, but I have not been able to find the exact passages. Concerning the De officiis, he could have in mind the well-­known definition of fides at Off. 1.23. 48 Vitoria, Comentarios, q. 1, art. 1, §§2–4 (ed. Beltrán, 1:6–7). 49 See Toste 2018. 50 See Oberman 1962. 51 Vitoria, Relectio 5 (“De Indis”), 199. 52 On William of Auxerre, see Grellard 2020, 33–44. Conversely, philosophers and theologians who defend a partially naturalistic model are those who go furthest in legitimizing religious diversity. Apart from the case of Holcot (who is careful not to deviate too far from orthodoxy), this is especially clear in Blasius of Parma; see Grellard 2019.

Bibliography Primary Sources Aquinas, Thomas. Quaestiones disputatae de veritate. Edited by Antoine Dondaine. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P. M. edita 22. Rome: ad Sanctae Sabinae, 1970–1976. Buridan, John. Quaestiones super Metheorum. Edited by Sylvie Bagès. Unpublished dissertation, École des Chartes, 1986. Gregory the Great. Homiliae in evangelia. Edited by Raymond Etaix. CCSL 141. Turnhout: Brepols, 1999. Holcot, Robert. Quaestiones super Sententiarum. Lyon: Jean Treschel, 1497. Mair, John. In tertium Sententiarum. Paris: Jean Petit, 1517.

Faith and Will in Francisco de Vitoria  121 Peter of Ailly. Quaestiones super Sententiarum. Edited by Monica Brinzei. Turnhout: Brepols, 2013. Pseudo-­ Hugh of Saint-­ Victor. Summa sententiarum. In Hugonis de S. Victore Opera omnia, edited by J.-P. Migne, vol. 2, cols. 42–174. Patrologia Latina 176. Paris: Migne, 1880. de Vitoria, Francisco. Comentarios a la Secunda secundae de Santo Tomas. Edited by Vincente P. Beltrán de Heredia. 6 vols. Salamanca: Apartado 17, 1932–1952. ———. Relectiones theologicae. Lyon: Petrus Landry, 1586. William of Ockham. Quaestiones variae. Edited by Girard J. Etzkorn, Francis E. Kelley, and Joseph C. Wey. Opera Theologica 8. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1984. Secondary Literature Aubert, Roger. 1948. “Le rôle de la volonté dans l’acte de foi d’après les théologiens de la fin du XIIIe siècle.” In Miscellanea moralia in honorem Arthur Janssen, 281–307. Leuven: Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium. Boespflug, Mark. 2018. “Robert Holcot on Doxastic Voluntarism and the Ethics of Belief.” Res Philosophica 95, no. 4: 617–636. Evans, Gillian R. 1998. Getting It Wrong: The Medieval Epistemology of Error. Leiden: Brill. Faucher, Nicolas. 2019. La volonté de croire au Moyen Âge: Les théories de la foi dans la pensée scolastique du XIIIe siècle. Turnhout: Brepols. Faucher, Nicolas, and Magali Roques. 2015. “L’épistémologie de la croyance d’après Guillaume d’Ockham.” Freiburger Zeitschrift 62: 219–239. Flanagan, Sabine. 2012. Doubt in an Age of Faith: Uncertainty in the Long Twelfth Century. Turnhout: Brepols. Garcia-­Salmones Rovira, Monica. 2017. “The Disorder of Economy? The first Relectio de Indis in a Theological Perspective.” In System, Order and International Law: The Early History of International Legal Thought from Machiavelli to Hegel, edited by Stefan Kadelbach, Thomas Kleinlein, and David Roth-­Isigkeit, 443–463. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grellard, Christophe. 2014. De la certitude volontaire: Débats nominalistes sur la foi à la fin du Moyen Âge. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. ———. 2018. “Une histoire naturelle des religions: Blaise de Parme, les astres et les sectes.” In Blaise de Parme: Physique et psychologie, edited by Joël Biard and Aurélien Robert, 59–82. Florence: SISMEL–Edizioni del Galluzzo. ———. 2020a. La possibilità dell’errore: Pensare la tolleranza nel Medioevo. Rome: Aracne. ———. 2020b. “Que m’est-­il permis d’ignorer? La foi, l’ignorance et les limites acceptables de l’hétérodoxie.” In Genèses antiques et médiévales de la foi, edited by Christophe Grellard, Philippe Hoffmann, and Laurent Lavaud, 429–449. Paris: Études Augustiniennes. ———. 2022. “Theology.” In A Companion to the Spanish Scholastics, edited by Harald Braun, Erik de Boom, and Paolo Astorri, 31–56. Leiden: Brill.

122  Christophe Grellard Lang, Albert. 1930. Die Wege der Glaubensbegründung bei den Scholastikern des 14. Jahrhunderts. Münster: Aschendorff. Lottin, Odon. 1949. “Le problème de l’ignorantia iuris de Gratien à Saint Thomas d’Aquin.” In Psychologie et morale aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles, vol. 3, Problèmes de morale, 56–62. Leuven; Gembloux: Abbaye du Mont César; J. Duculot. Mori, Elios. 1953. Il motive della fede da Gaetano a Suarez: Con appendice di fonti manoscritte. Rome: apud aedes Universitatis Gregorianae. Oberman, Heiko. 1962. “Facientibus quod in se est Deus non denegat gratiam: Robert Holcot O.P. and the Beginnings of Luther’s Theology.” Harvard Theological Review 55, no. 4: 317–342. Pagden, Anthony. 1982. The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Piché, David. 2017. “Raisons de croire et vouloir croire: Le débat entre Durand de Saint-­Pourçain, Gauthier Chatton et Guillaume d’Ockham.” In The Language of Thought in Late Medieval Philosophy: Essays in Honor of Claude Panaccio, edited by Jenny Pelletier and Magali Roques, 201–216. Cham: Springer. ———. 2022. Épistémologie et psychologie de la foi dans la pensée scolastique: 1250–1350. Paris: Vrin. Porro, Pasquale. 2015. “Il timore dell’altra parte: Il ruolo della formido nei dibattiti scolastici sull’assenso (da Tommaso d’Aquino a Pietro Aureolo).” Archivio di filosofia 83: 209–220. Toste, Marco. 2018. “Invincible Ignorance and the Americas: Why and How the Salamancan Theologians Made Use of a Medieval Notion.” Rechtsgeschichte/ Legal History 36: 284–297. Villoslada, Ricardo. 1938. La Universidad de Paris durante los estudios de Francisco de Vitoria OP (1507–1522). Rome: apud aedes Universitatis Gregorianae. Witt, Jeffrey. 2015. “Acquired Faith and Mair’s Theological Project.” In A Companion to the Theology of John Mair, edited by John Slotemaker and Jeffrey Witt, 41–73. Leiden: Brill. Wood, Neil. 1997. “John Mair: The Human Dimension of Faith.” Innes Review 48: 125–143. Yardley, Brett A. 2021. “When to Trust Authoritative Testimony: Generation and Transmission of Knowledge in Saadya Gaon, Al-­Ghazālī and Thomas Aquinas.” PhD dissertation, Marquette University and KU Leuven.

Part II

Ethical Voluntarism

6 The Blind Will Is No King Henry of Ghent’s Voluntarism and the Act of Choice Michael Szlachta

6.1 Introduction One theme of Raymond Macken’s doctrinal studies of Henry of Ghent, in particular his philosophy of human freedom and the will, is that, although the Solemn Doctor was indeed a voluntarist, his voluntarism must not be overstated. According to Macken, it would be misleading to follow scholars like Antonio San Cristóbal-­Sebastián in characterizing Henry’s voluntarism as if it were simply the opposite of Godfrey of Fontaines’s extreme intellectualism.1 Although Henry does argue that the will is the noblest power of the soul, by no means does he lessen the intellect’s importance in explaining psychological phenomena. I am sympathetic to Macken’s thesis: Henry’s voluntarism is nuanced.2 However, I think that the extent to which Henry’s voluntarism is nuanced, particularly in explaining how human choices are caused, has yet to be truly appreciated. My aim in this chapter is modest. I begin by motivating a puzzle that emerges in Henry’s Quodlibet I, question 16, concerning the possibility of the will being influenced by the intellect in willing “through choice” (per electionem). I then explore two seemingly non-­voluntarist aspects of Henry’s voluntarism, and draw on them in an attempt to solve the puzzle. These are, first, the non-­ostensive role played by the intellect in willing through choice, and second, the “cognitivity” of the will. If my interpretation of Henry’s voluntarism is correct, then I will have shown that in fact he is much more moderate in his thinking about human freedom and the will than many of his contemporaries. 6.2 Choosing on the Basis of a Judgement Question 16 of Henry’s first Quodlibet (Christmas 1276) concerns whether it is possible for the will to choose the lesser of two goods proposed to it by the intellect – a question at the heart of the dispute between intellectualists and voluntarists.3 The tota vis of the question, as Henry explains in the

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-9

126  Michael Szlachta course of presenting his solutio, turns on whether free decision, liberum arbitrium, belongs principally to the intellect or the will.4 He prefaces his own answer with that of quidam, who hold a position similar to that of Thomas Aquinas in question 24 of his Quaestiones disputatae de veritate. Henry explains the view of these quidam as follows: The whole [power] of liberum arbitrium belongs to reason [penes rationem] and not at all to the will, except insofar as the will depends on reason, such that the will can only will what has been cognized and in the manner according to which it has been judged by reason [modo quo est a ratione iudicatum].5 As Aquinas himself argues in De veritate: “Appetite follows cognition, since appetite is only of a good that has been proposed to it by a cognitive power.”6 Aquinas’s claim is about animals in general; in brutes, sensitive appetite follows the natural judgement of estimation, but in humans, rational appetite (i.e., will) follows the judgement of reason.7 Of course, rational appetite sometimes seems not to follow cognition, as in instances of weakness of will. However, this is explained by the fact that rational appetite concerns some “particular doable” (de particulari operabili) and reason’s judgement (iudicium) sometimes concerns something universal, as in the judgement that fornication is prohibited, “which is sometimes contrary to appetite” (quandoque contrarium appetitui).8 When rational appetite and reason’s judgement both concern some “particular doable,” however, the two can never be contrary.9 Accordingly, if the will, a rational appetite for the good, follows reason’s judgement, and reason judges that, of two particular goods proposed to the will, one is greater than the other, then it is not possible for the will to choose the lesser good; “necessarily, it has to choose the greater good,” as Henry puts it, explaining the view of the quidam.10 And because the will so follows reason’s judgement, liberum arbitrium belongs principally to reason. Conceiving of liberum arbitrium as belonging principally to reason, however, these quidam arrive at a conclusion that, according to Henry, plainly contradicts the authority of Bernard of Clairvaux and Augustine.11 Indeed, that it must rather be conceived of as principally belonging to the will is easily shown. Consider what it means to say that we have liberum arbitrium: when two things are proposed, we can accept the one and reject the other, which is simply to make a choice.12 Accordingly, as Henry explains, liberum arbitrium principally belongs to that power to which choice (electio) principally belongs. Now, reason and the will both play a role in choice: reason proposes some objects worthy of choice, and the will prefers one of them to the other (or others).13 Choice is therefore not simply an act of reason or simply an act of the will; it is rather a mixing

The Blind Will Is No King  127 together of the two. And yet the will has a kind of (non-­temporal) priority with respect to reason, for choice is completed by the will (completive sit actus voluntatis).14 Assuming that an act principally belongs to that power by which it is completed, choice therefore principally belongs to the will; it is a “mixing together” precisely because it is per se of the will, but not without some preceding cognition of reason.15 Henry draws an important corollary about freedom: Therefore, if choice principally depends on the will, then it is free from its nature, and what is principal in it is its freedom. Freedom, then, principally belongs to the will, so that, if it wishes, it may act through choice by following the judgement of reason [iudicium rationis], or against it by following its own appetite, so that, for willing at all [ad volendum simpliciter] reason does nothing but propose objects of volition, but for willing through choice [ad volendum per electionem] it is necessary that the judgement of reason come first [praecedere rationis sententiam], because otherwise the appetite of the will would not be elective, properly rational or properly a will.16 Henry thinks that, although the will has freedom by its nature, reason nonetheless has a role to play in the will’s exercising that freedom.17 First, since every willing must be the willing of something, for there to be willing at all, reason has to propose objects to the will for it to will; this is a condition for willing in general.18 Second, for there to be willing “through choice,” reason also has to make a judgement (sententia);19 this is a condition for choice in particular. It is worth observing that although reason has a role to play in the will’s exercise of its freedom, Henry, unlike Aquinas, does not say that reason actualizes a potency of the will.20 As we learn in question 14 of Quodlibet I, the only sense in which reason “moves” the will to exercising its act is metaphorical: reason “moves” the will not as an agent but rather by showing it possible ends.21 Properly speaking, however, the will moves itself by itself.22 On the one hand, what Henry says is plausible. Choice is not simply willing something; it is willing that follows upon the deliberation and judgement of reason: I think about the means to my end, judge that I ought to will some means in particular, and then will according to that judgement (or not). Appropriately, Henry explains that, in willing through choice, reason’s judgement comes first (i.e., before the willing). On the other hand, although it makes sense that reason’s judgement comes first in willing through choice, it sometimes does more than simply precede willing. Suppose I have an end and apprehend two means to that end, but make no judgement about them, and am therefore indifferent between the two. Having been presented with these means to my end, I could will one or the

128  Michael Szlachta other, for my will is free. I could just pick one, the way I might pick a card out of a deck (i.e., randomly). However, if I were to deliberate about these means and judge that I ought to will one rather than the other, and then will that means, I would not be picking it the way I might pick a card. Instead, I would be willing it on the basis of a judgement that I ought to will it. Suppose I do judge that this means is better than the other in some respect, and therefore have a reason to will it in particular. Here, I do not just make a judgement that I ought to will something and then will it. My judgement does not simply precede my willing in time; it somehow makes my willing intelligible.23 But making sense of how my judgement could make my willing intelligible is a challenge for Henry’s voluntarism. For if reason does not really move the will, then in what sense is willing on the basis of the judgement of reason possible? Henry’s voluntarism, as presented in Quodlibet I, does not tell us the whole story about willing through choice; it is difficult to see how the will could both have freedom, moving itself by itself, and sometimes choose on the basis of the judgement of reason.24 Fortunately, borrowing Roland Teske’s expression, Quodlibet I is only Henry’s “opening salvo.”25 Let us examine some of his later treatments of human freedom and the will. 6.3 Choice and the Influence of Reason on the Will In the course of presenting his solutio to question 5 of Quodlibet IX, Henry of Ghent addresses a curious position that Teske speculates “may reflect the tenor of some of the objections that were orally posed” at his disputation.26 Henry reports the opinion of these alii: The will, inasmuch as it is free, inclines itself to the known good insofar as it is known, which is a certain willing [velle], albeit imperfect, as is clear from what we have already said following Augustine, in such a way that it is moved by itself with a certain necessity of immutability to the known good that has the most weight [ad bonum cognitum praeponderans], especially after the determination of reason [determinationem rationis], but not with such great adhesion to it that it cannot by itself, as it has free decision [est liberi arbitrii], reject or pursue that act.27 Henry takes issue with the view of these alii. Although they claim that the will elicits its act of willing freely, that act nonetheless happens “with a certain immutability of necessity” (cum quadam necessitatis immutabilitate).28 And this immutability of necessity is inconsistent with moral praise and blame, for an act so elicited is not praiseworthy or blameworthy but

The Blind Will Is No King  129 rather indifferent.29 However, this consequence is unacceptable, for some willings are blameworthy (in particular) without qualification. Accordingly, the view of these alii must be dismissed. Henry does not explain the nature of this “immutability of necessity” and why it is supposed to be inconsistent with moral praise and blame.30 However, his concern seems to be that, according to these alii, although the will has liberum arbitrium and is therefore indifferent to pursuing the act of willing “the known good that has the most weight” (i.e., pursuing it to completion), it cannot but incline itself to that act. The will’s so inclining itself might not be a “perfect” (i.e., complete) willing, but it is nonetheless a willing – if the will were to pursue the act to completion, then it would be willing “perfectly.” The view of these alii, then, implies that the will cannot avoid some willings, and accordingly that these willings can be neither praiseworthy nor blameworthy. It must therefore be dismissed. Although he denies that the will inclines itself with any “immutability of necessity” to the known good that has the most weight, Henry does claim that when the intellect, as practical, shows a “doable good as doable” (bonum operabile sub ratione operabilis) to the will, something happens to it that does not when the intellect, as speculative, shows it a “non-­doable truth as true” (verum non operabile sub ratione veri).31 (Henry simply means to draw a distinction between the intellect “saying” to the will that eating this bread is a means to satisfy hunger and its “saying” that man is mortal, for example.) He explains as follows: I claim that, though the will, in terms of the act of willing, is not moved by practical intellect [ab intellectu practico] in any manner, changing it from not willing (I do not say “from nilling”) to willing, it is nonetheless moved by it in terms of some passion [secundum passionem aliquam], which is like a weight [pondus] in the will, which is still free, inclining it to will in the manner of a habit [ad modum habitus], the way that, in sensitive animals, passions cause appetites in terms of heat and cold. But since those appetites are acted upon more than they act, and brute animals are similarly acted upon in accord with them, a better example would be a grace from God in the will inclining it to will like a weight, which nonetheless does not elicit the act of willing nor compel the will to elicit it, for the act of willing can only be elicited by the free will [ab ipsa voluntate libera], though it frequently would not elicit that act without such a weight inclining it, and in matters that pertain to the ground of merit [ad rationem meriti] it could in no way elicit it meritoriously without that weight.32 The difference between Henry’s view and that of the alii is subtle but important, and it primarily concerns the inclination of the will. On the one

130  Michael Szlachta hand, for the alii, the will inclines itself with necessity to a known good; and since the will’s so inclining itself is a willing, there are willings that the will cannot but elicit. On the other hand, for Henry, “the act of willing can only be elicited by the free will”; and since it can only be elicited by the will, which is free, willing in general is not elicited with necessity. Yet it is possible for the will to be inclined, though not in a way that elicits willing (or compels the will to elicit it). This is what happens when practical intellect shows the will a “doable good as doable.” Practical intellect “moves” the will, but not in the sense that the will’s potency to willing is actualized. Henry rather describes it as moving the will “in terms of some passion,” like a weight inclining the will “in the manner of a habit.”33 What does this mean? Henry seems to have difficulty finding a good analogue. Practical intellect moving the will “in terms of some passion” cannot be exactly like what happens in brute animals when passions (e.g., love and hate) cause appetites in terms of heat and cold; the will, moved by practical intellect, is supposed to be free, but sensitive appetite is not, regardless of how it is moved. God’s grace is the better analogue, since grace neither elicits willing nor coerces the will to elicit willing, and yet the will cannot freely elicit its willing in a particular manner (namely, meritoriously) without grace. Grace is also the example Henry uses when discussing similar themes in Quodlibet XIII, question 11. The question concerns whether “the presentation of an object alone” is sufficient for eliciting the act of volition, or whether “some influence or affection” is also necessary.34 Henry’s solutio is worth our attention, for it expands upon his remarks in Quodlibet IX, question 5. He summarizes as follows: Therefore, for the act of willing without qualification, the will only requires the mere presentation of an object. Indeed, the mere presentation of an object is sufficient for the will’s exercising the act of willing by the power of its freedom, which it has in itself, inasmuch as it is an appetite. And the presentation of a determinate object is sufficient for a determinate volition, without any influx in the will from the object. … However, if we are speaking about requiring something for eliciting the act of willing easily and promptly, I do concede that, for eliciting the act of willing in such a manner, the mere presentation of the object is not sufficient, just as it is not sufficient for eliciting perfectly moral acts or (especially) for eliciting gratuitous and meritorious acts, according to what will soon be shown. Rather, something more is required: either a certain impetus from God, about which we spoke elsewhere, namely, in the question about good fortune, or a certain influx from the cognized object [influxus quidam ab obiecto cognito], or a habit of temperance in

The Blind Will Is No King  131 the concupiscible appetite, or of fortitude in the irascible appetite, or of justice in the rational appetite, or even of some passion in either the irascible or the concupiscible appetite, each of which passions some call an “affection,” as will soon be seen.35 Henry claims that, although the presentation of a good alone is sufficient for the will’s simply eliciting the act of willing, it is not sufficient for its eliciting that act “easily and promptly” (faciliter et expedite); something more is required. Henry’s claim is not implausible. Habits, in general, make the doing of some actions easier: as performing a song is difficult if one has not practised, so doing something courageous is easier for someone who has a habit of acting that way. Passions likewise make the doing of some actions easier: even if I am not courageous, it is easier for me to act that way when I am morally indignant compared to when I am calm. Henry’s reference to “a certain influx from the cognized object” is curious, however. As we know, in Quodlibet IX, question 5, Henry claims that practical intellect moves the will “in terms of some passion,” which he likens to a weight inclining the will “in the manner of a habit.” Here, in Quodlibet XIII, question 11, he takes care to separate passions, habits, and influxes from the object cognized by practical intellect. Passions and habits are familiar; it is influxes that I wish to consider more carefully. Henry is likely borrowing the language of influx from John of Murro (or Morrovalle), whom Henry is targeting in Quodlibet XIII, question 11.36 According to John, the object cognized by the practical intellect causes something in the will – which he variously calls an “influx” (influxus), “inflection” (inflexus), “influence” (influentia), or “affection” (affectio) – which does not necessitate the will to some act but only makes a determinate volition possible.37 Of course, Henry disagrees with John because he denies that the object cognized by practical intellect has to cause anything in the will for it to have a determinate volition. However, if we are concerned not with the will’s eliciting of its act, but the manner in which the will elicits it, then Henry admits that the object causes something in the will, which he also calls an “influx.” This concession does not compromise his voluntarism, however, for the will is still the one and only efficient cause of the eliciting of the act of willing simpliciter. Moreover, it seems consistent with the will’s freedom that it does not elicit each and every act of willing with the same facility. (Compare: I can move my body freely, but not all possible movements of my body are similarly easy. Some do become easier with training.) Although Henry does not explain how an influx makes eliciting the act of willing easier, the following story might be helpful: when practical intellect shows the will some good, it is showing the will something that it has

132  Michael Szlachta a reason to will. If one’s end is to get to the other side of the harbour, and practical intellect shows taking the ferry to the will, then one has a reason to will taking the ferry, namely, that it will get one to the other side of the harbour. (Similarly, if practical intellect shows taking the ferry to the will as preferable to walking over the bridge because it is quicker, then one has a reason to will taking the ferry rather than walking over the bridge.) Practical intellect’s showing of taking the ferry to the will does not elicit the act of willing to take the ferry; the will elicits that act by itself. But having a reason to will taking the ferry makes eliciting the act of willing to take the ferry easier than eliciting the act of willing some other means of getting to the other side of the harbour that one might have intellectually cognized, like swimming, since it is easier to choose those things one has a good reason to choose. Although the will can will whatever known good, practical intellect nonetheless has some influence on it, for like habits and passions, its showing the will some good disposes the will to willing some ways rather than others. However, the disposing of the will by practical intellect showing it some good, which is supposed to cause an “influx” in the will, does not seem to be the same as the disposing of the will by passions and habits; practical intellect showing the will some good implies neither some change in the sensitive appetite nor some habitual action. One shortcoming of this story is that it fails to explain what an influx is, precisely. How does an influx differ from a habit or a passion? And when practical intellect causes an influx, what kind of causality does it have over the will? If Henry could answer these questions, then I think he would have a plausible answer to the puzzle I motivated earlier. He might explain how it is possible for the will both to have freedom and sometimes to choose on the basis of reason’s judgement as follows: when reason judges that some good ought to be willed, presenting that good to the will, it causes an influx in the will, which disposes the will to willing that good. Although this influx makes choosing that good easier, the will could will it without being so influenced, for the will is free and can move itself to the act of willing by itself. The will chooses “on the basis” of reason’s judgement, but not in the sense that reason’s judgement explains that the will chooses some good; instead, it explains how the will chooses that good, namely, easily. While eliciting the act of willing belongs to the will’s freedom, the manner in which that act is elicited does not. 6.4 The Cognitivity of the Will I wish to make a further observation about Henry’s voluntarism that is relevant to the theme of choosing on the basis of reason’s judgement. Here, I begin with his use of the popular image of the will as the king of the powers of the soul in Quodlibet I, question 14. In the course of presenting an

The Blind Will Is No King  133 argument for the absolute superiority of the will over the intellect, Henry says the following: The will is the universal and first mover in the whole kingdom of the soul, superior to and first mover of all other things to their end, as will be seen below. … Hence, the will commands reason to consider, to reason, and to deliberate when it wills and about what it wills, and it likewise makes it stop. The intellect does not command or move the will in any such way.38 The image of the will as king of the kingdom of the soul is naturally attractive to voluntarists: it suggests not only that the will is sovereign, the first mover of itself and the other powers of the soul, but also that the other powers of the soul, particularly the intellect, nonetheless play a role in how the will exercises its sovereignty.39 As Teske has shown, one antecedent to Henry’s use of the image of the will as king of the kingdom of the soul is found in the De anima of William of Auvergne’s Magisterium divinale et sapientiale.40 In chapter 3 of his De anima, William anticipates a question that naturally arises when one compares the human soul to a kingdom: Because you have heard that the intellective or rational power holds the place and function of counselor in the kingdom of the human soul and that the will has the place of one who reigns or commands, whether as king or emperor, there arises a good question most suited to the present topic, namely, whether the will itself is by itself apprehensive or apprehends or knows something or does not. But if the will does not apprehend or know something through itself, but the intellective power, so to speak, both sees and looks out for it because it does not see anything itself, then it is true that in this respect the will is naturally blind and no less fallible. For nature acts most foolishly if it has made a blind man emperor or king in so noble a kingdom and empire. But you have heard so many times and from so many philosophers that nature works better and more wisely than every art. Hence, since this stupidity cannot be found even in foolish human beings, namely, that they make a blind man king or emperor in any kingdom or empire, for much stronger reason it cannot be found in nature.41 Does the will apprehend or know anything by itself? Suppose that it does not, that it cannot “see” anything by itself and reason “sees” for it. The will, then, being dependent on reason, is naturally “blind,” and no less likely to err than it would have been if it were able to apprehend or know anything by itself. But this is absurd. Nature is supposed to act more wisely

134  Michael Szlachta than any art. And if foolish human beings would never make someone who is blind the king of a kingdom, then nature would never make a “blind” will the king of the soul, a king who could never be persuaded or dissuaded by the advice of his counsellors because he never apprehends or knows what they advise. Accordingly, William concludes that the will “is in itself apprehensive and cognitively aware of the things that it commands and of its commands.”42 The will, then, does not simply have appetites; it also has cognitions. Indeed, the king of the soul “sees” for himself. What consequences does such a conception of the will have for how we think about choice? Earlier, I claimed that what is characteristic of choice is the close relationship it has to acts of reason, and in particular, deliberation and judgement. For when a human being chooses, she is willing something that she judges she should will, and indeed, she wills it because she thinks she should will it; choosing is willing on the basis of reason’s judgement.43 But explaining how it is possible to will on the basis of reason’s judgement is difficult, especially for a voluntarist. Consider that, in a voluntarism where the will simply has appetites, reason simply has cognitions, and the will is not moved by reason but instead moves itself, there is no obvious sense in which the will could will on the basis of reason’s judgement. (I am assuming that there is a difference between the will’s willing something that reason judges should be willed and its willing something on the basis of reason’s judgement that it should be willed. Compare: if you think that I should choose A rather than B but do not tell me, or you do tell me but I fail to hear you, and I choose A, I would be choosing what you think I should choose without choosing on the basis of your thinking that I should choose it.) But if the will has cognitions, then it seems possible for it to apprehend reason’s judgement prior to making its choice, as a king apprehends the advice of his counsellors and then makes his ruling. For the moment, I wish to bracket the potential problems of attributing cognitivity to the will for one’s psychology, and focus on the theoretical advantages that such an attribution seems to have for explaining how reason and the will interact in choice. Are these advantages to which Henry can help himself? That is, does he attribute cognitivity to the will?44 On the one hand, some passages challenge the attribution of cognitivity to the will. In particular, Henry concludes his solutio to Quodlibet IX, question 5, by arguing that if reason and the will were not powers of one and the same soul, but two things separate from one another, one of which is per se and principally understanding and the other per se and principally willing, then the will would in no way move itself.45 For the will only wills what is cognized, and cognizing is not proper to the will.46 Cognizing is proper to reason, however. Therefore, reason has to propose objects to the

The Blind Will Is No King  135 will for it to will. But reason’s proposing of objects to the will is not possible if the two powers are not powers of one and the same soul. That the will only wills what is cognized, and that cognizing is not proper to the will, are what justify Henry’s claim that reason is a necessary (but not per se) cause of the will’s act.47 It might seem that attributing cognitivity to the will would undermine this claim; reason would seem to be superfluous. I am not convinced, however. Cognition, after all, happens in many ways. For example, that sight is a cognitive power does not make taste or touch superfluous; each power has its own proper object. Similarly, attributing cognitivity to the will does not necessarily make reason superfluous, supposing that it is not cognitive of exactly those objects of which reason is cognitive (and in the same way). Indeed, Henry could consistently claim that reason cognizes goods, that the will cannot cognize those goods by itself, and that the will nonetheless cognizes reason’s own cognitive acts. (Compare: the king’s counsellors deliberate about some matter. The king does not concern himself directly with that matter but rather with the result of the deliberations of his counsellors; he apprehends the advice of his counsellors without duplicating their cognitive efforts.) Of course, the difficult question here is: Would Henry affirm this (or a similar) claim about the cognitivity of the will? In question 4 of article 45 of his Summa, taking up the topic of God’s will, in particular whether there is freedom of decision in God’s will, Henry begins by explaining what it means to decide: It must be known that deciding [arbitrari] is when two or more things have been proposed, and being indifferent with respect to some matter, one prefers one to the other with respect to that matter.48 Arbitrari so understood is exemplified by the arbiter who settles a dispute between two parties quarrelling about the ownership of some property. The arbiter’s power of settling the dispute one way rather than another is what we call decision (arbitrium).49 By this definition, however, decision is really twofold, and there are two modes of deciding.50 For the arbiter’s exercising his power consists both in (1) discerning (in diiudicando) what is justly owed to each party and also (2) choosing (in praeeligendo) what to grant the one and the other.51 While the first pertains to the arbiter’s reason, which deliberates and judges, the second pertains to his will, which can either follow reason or not; the just arbiter chooses (by the arbitrium voluntatis) in a way that is consistent with what he discerns (by the arbitrium rationis) is owed according to justice, while the unjust arbiter does not. But Henry is not primarily concerned with how disputes are settled. The arbiter’s settling a dispute between parties is a model for rational and

136  Michael Szlachta intellectual natures “in each of their arbitral actions.”52 Every rational and intellectual nature has in itself a twofold arbiter, reason and will: Reason discerns through judgement [iudicium] what is to be preferred to what, which is what it means for it to decide [arbitrari]. And with reason having made its decision, it still remains for the will to make its own decision, by which it can follow the decision of reason [arbitrium rationis] or oppose it by free choice.53 The decision of reason and the decision of the will are indeed decisions, for each involves some indifference being determined; reason, indifferent to whether one thing or another should be willed, discerns through judgement which of them should be preferred, and the will, indifferent to whether it follows reason or not, either wills what reason discerns should be preferred or wills otherwise. The difference, as the passage suggests, is that the will’s decision is free; it is not “determined to one” by anything, including the decision of reason.54 Indeed, according to Henry, the will’s free decision is simply its power to choose: Therefore, regarding free decision [de libero arbitrio] inasmuch as it pertains to the will, we say that it is nothing other than the free power of the will to choose, that is, to prefer one thing to another, in such a way that the term “decision” signifies nothing but the will’s power ordered to the act of choosing, so that over and above the aspect of power that is signified by the term “will” as ordered to the act of willing without qualification, “decision” adds the determination of the act.55 At first glance, Henry’s remarks seem similar to those of Aquinas in the Prima pars. Both thinkers agree that free decision is the power to choose, that is, the power to will “those things which are for the end” (ea quae sunt ad finem).56 But they disagree about how particular acts of choice are determined. According to Aquinas, reason deliberates about the means to some end, judges that some means in particular should be willed, and then moves the will to willing that means; in the language of the De malo, reason actualizes the will’s potency to the “specification” of its act.57 The will itself does not determine what it chooses. However, according to Henry, when reason deliberates about the means to some end and judges that some means in particular is best in the present circumstances, it does not thereby determine what the will chooses; the will is indifferent to following reason or not, and therefore has to determine its own act by making a decision (arbitrium voluntatis). That the will has to determine its own act by making a decision is evidence that Henry does not conceive of the will as simply having appetites; it

The Blind Will Is No King  137 must also have cognitions. (And the cognitivity of the will seems to go hand in hand with denying the Thomistic doctrine that reason actualizes the will’s potency to the specification of its act.58) Consider that the will’s decision is a decision about whether to follow reason’s own decision (arbitrium rationis). The will could not be making a decision about whether to follow reason’s own decision if it had no cognition of that decision. (Compare: the king cannot decide whether to follow the advice of his counsellors if he is ignorant about what they are advising. Indeed, if he is ignorant, he might make a ruling that happens to be the one his counsellors advise, but this does not mean that he thereby decides to follow their advice.) I claimed that Henry’s Quodlibet I, question 16 does not tell us the whole story about willing through choice. Indeed, the cognitivity of the will is evidently a part of that story. Supposing that reason does not really move the will, explaining the possibility of the will’s sometimes choosing on the basis of the judgement of reason is difficult only if we think that the will is “blind.” However, if the will “sees,” then it chooses on the basis of reason’s judgement in a way analogous to how a king rules on the basis of the advice of his counsellors: with some awareness of that judgement, it decides whether to follow reason or not. 6.5 Conclusion I have explored two aspects of Henry’s voluntarism that I think are important for understanding how the will sometimes chooses on the basis of reason’s judgement, namely, the non-­ostensive role of reason in choice and the cognitivity of the will. Although both are aspects of Henry’s voluntarism, neither is thoroughly discussed by Henry himself. This is unfortunate, for there is much to discuss. For example, we might ask whether the sense in which the will can choose on the basis of reason’s judgement in Henry’s voluntarism is too weak. In particular, consider that it does not necessarily follow from the will’s having some cognition of reason’s judgement that it is motivated by that judgement; compare the will to a stubborn king who hears the advice of his counsellors but never takes that advice into consideration when determining how he rules. There is a difficult question here about whether the will making a choice implies that it is motivated by reason’s judgement. More than that, any attribution of cognitivity to the will naturally invites the charge that it is a homunculus. But these are concerns that I will have to pursue in another study. For now, it is enough to have shown that Henry’s voluntarism is indeed nuanced. In fact, there is surprising agreement between Henry and his intellectualist contemporaries. Above all, both parties affirm that practical intellect causes something in the will. But for Henry, this “something” is not necessary for eliciting the act of willing itself, since the will determines itself to some act

138  Michael Szlachta and elicits that act by itself. Instead, this “something” disposes the will to willing some ways and not others. Although we might criticize the intellectualists because we think they attribute too much influence over the will to the practical intellect, I do not think we could fairly criticize Henry for making the opposite mistake. There is no “gap” between the will and the practical intellect. Acknowledgements I wish to express my gratitude to Sonja Schierbaum, Jörn Müller, and all the participants in the “Varieties of Voluntarism” conference for their stimulating questions and comments on an earlier version of this chapter. Notes 1 See Macken 1977, 138 and 182; 1986, 808. Cf. San Cristóbal-­Sebastián 1958, 157. Teske 2011, 315. 2 Scholars such as Jörn Müller have expressed a similar sentiment; see Müller 2018, 112–116; cf. 2009, 610–617. See also Dominik Perler’s contribution in this volume (Chapter 1). 3 For some details about Henry’s writings, including the dating of his Quodlibeta, see Wilson 2011. 4 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 98). For an overview of Henry’s Quodlibet I, see Alliney 2009, 8–38. For more on choice and the judgement of reason, see Hoffmann 2008, 118–126. 5 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 100–101). Translations of Latin texts are mine unless otherwise indicated. Although question 16 is about the possibility of the will choosing the lesser of two goods proposed to it by the intellect (ab intellectu), Henry’s solutio mostly discusses the relationship between the will and reason (ratio). In the context of Henry’s analyses of choice and the will, his shift between intellectus and ratio does not seem to be significant. The intellect does present goods to the will, but inasmuch as the intellect apprehends these goods through a process of reasoning and not intuition, it can be called ratio. For some remarks about how the intellective power (potentia intellectiva) is both intellectus and ratio, see Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 1, q. 4, ad 3 (ed. Wilson, 109–112). For similar remarks, see Thomas Aquinas, ST I, q. 79, art. 8, co. (Leonina 5:274). See also Brown 1975, esp. 697–705. 6 Thomas Aquinas, Quaestiones disputatae de veritate [= QDV], q. 24, art. 2, co. (Leonina 22:685). 7 Thomas Aquinas, QDV, q. 24, art. 1, co. (Leonina 22:680–681). 8 Thomas Aquinas, QDV, q. 24, art. 2, co. (Leonina 22:685). 9 Ibid. 10 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 101). See further Macken 1975, 45–47. 11 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 101). 12 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 104). 13 Ibid. 14 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 105). Cf. Walter of Bruges, Quaestio disputata 5 (ed. Longpré, 52–53).

The Blind Will Is No King  139 5 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 105). 1 16 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 16 (ed. Macken, 105–106). 17 For more on Henry’s understanding of freedom, see Pickavé 2012, 91–104. 18 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 15 (ed. Macken, 91). Cf. Quodl. IX, q. 6 (ed. Macken, 146). 19 The reader will have noticed that Henry refers both to the iudicium rationis and to the sententia rationis. To my knowledge, Henry never clearly distinguishes between iudicium and sententia. I will assume that, in the present context, the two are interchangeable. It could be that sententia is a species of iudicium related to practical inquiry, as Aquinas says; see Thomas Aquinas, QDV, q. 22, art. 15, ad 2 (Leonina 22:649); ST I, q. 83, art. 3, ad 2 (Leonina 5:311). Curiously, Henry does sometimes refer to the iudicium et sententia rationis; see, e.g., Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 125). 20 Thomas Aquinas, ST IaIIae, q. 9, art. 1, co. (Leonina 6:74). Cf. Quaestiones disputatae de malo [= QDM], q. 6, co. (Leonina 23:148–149). 21 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 14 (ed. Macken, 89). Cf. Quodl. XIII, q. 11 (ed. Decorte, 105); Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 123). 22 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 17 (ed. Macken, 127). Cf. Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 131, 137). 23 For a comprehensive, contemporary analysis of reasons and action, see Alvarez 2010, esp. 27–30 on the roles played by reasons. 24 For a discussion of similar issues in the voluntarism of Peter of John Olivi, see Szlachta 2021, 155–177. 25 Teske 1993, 6. 26 Teske 1993, 60n96. 27 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 133; trans. Teske 1993, 60, with some modifications). 28 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 133). 29 Ibid. 30 Cf. Godfrey of Fontaines, Quodl. VI, q. 11 (ed. De Wulf and Hoffmans, 220). Interestingly, Godfrey posits a “necessity by supposition and of a certain immutability” (necessitatem ex suppositione et cuiusdam immutabilitatis) which he argues does not diminish the will’s freedom. 31 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 133). 32 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 133–134; translation from Teske 1993, 61, with some modifications). 33 Accordingly, as Müller (2018, 109) argues, “die Rede vom Vernunfturteil als bloßer causa sine qua non für den Willensakt verschleiert zumindest teilweise, dass die Vernunft im bzw. am Willen eben doch unmittelbar etwas bewirkt.” 34 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. XIII, q. 11 (ed. Decorte, 87). 35 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. XIII, q. 11 (ed. Decorte, 94–95). 36 For John of Murro’s intermediary position between intellectualism and voluntarism, and Henry’s criticism of it, see Hoffmann 2021, 103–105. 37 See John of Murro, Quaestio disputata “utrum objectum voluntatis moveat ipsam ad actum volendi finem” (ed. Longpré, 488–492). 38 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. I, q. 14 (ed. Macken, 85–86; translation from Teske 1993, 26, with some modifications). 39 It is therefore unsurprising that the image can be found in the Franciscan tradition, notably in the Quaestiones disputatae of Walter of Bruges, who likely had an influence on Henry. See Decorte 1983, 215–216. In particular, Decorte argues that Henry agrees with Walter on the psychology and phenomenology

140  Michael Szlachta of willing freely, but not on its metaphysics. On Walter’s voluntarism, see Stadter 1971, 33–85; Wippel 1981, 190–191. 40 Teske 1994, 64; see also Müller 2018, 99–103. On the dating and structure of William’s De anima, see Teske 2000, 15–40. For a discussion of William’s understanding of the relationship between the will and the intellect, see Laumakis 1999. 41 William of Auvergne, De anima, c. 3, pars 9 (ed. Hotot and Le Feron, 96; translation from Teske 2000, 129, with some modifications). Teske conjectures non in place of cum in the last sentence of the passage. 42 William of Auvergne, De anima, c. 3, pars 9 (ed. Hotot and Le Feron, 97; translation from Teske 2000, 131). 43 As Henry explains, according to Aristotle, liberum arbitrium concerns “those things which are for the end” only insofar as its choice depends (dependet) on the judgement and determination of reason. Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 135). 44 This question is anticipated in Müller 2018, 116. 45 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 137–138). 46 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 138). 47 Henry of Ghent, Quodl. IX, q. 5 (ed. Macken, 123). 48 Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 122). For some analysis of this question, see Teske 2011, 326–329. 49 Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 122). 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid. 52 Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 123). 53 Ibid. 54 Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 123–124). 55 Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 124). 56 Thomas Aquinas, ST I, q. 83, art. 4, co. (Leonina 5:311). Cf. Henry of Ghent, Summa, art. 45, q. 4 (ed. Hödl, 125). 57 Thomas Aquinas, QDM, q. 6, co. (Leonina 23:148). 58 But cf. Thomas Aquinas, ST I, q. 83, art. 3, ad 3 (Leonina 5:311).

Bibliography Primary Sources Aquinas, Thomas. Quaestiones disputatae de malo. Edited by Pierre-­Marie Gils. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P.M. edita 23. Rome; Paris: Commissio Leonina; Vrin, 1982. ———. Quaestiones disputatae de veritate. Edited by Antoine Dondaine. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P.M. edita 22. Rome: ad Sanctae Sabinae, 1970–1976. ———. Summa theologiae. Edited by Commissio Leonina. 9 vols. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P.M. edita 4–12. Rome: ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1888–1906. Godfrey of Fontaines. Les Quodlibets cinq, six et sept de Godefroid de Fontaines. Edited by Maurice De Wulf and Jean Hoffmans. Les Philosophes Belges 3. Leuven: Institut Supérieur de Philosophie de l’Université, 1914. Henry of Ghent. Quodlibet I. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 5. Leuven; Leiden: Leuven University Press; Brill, 1979.

The Blind Will Is No King  141 ———. Quodlibet IX. Edited by Raymond Macken. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 13. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1983. ———. Quodlibet XIII. Edited by Jos Decorte. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 18. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985. ———. Summa (Quaestiones ordinariae) art. XLI–XLVI. Edited by Ludwig Hödl. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 29. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1998. ———. Summa (Quaestiones ordinariae) art. I–V. Edited by G. A. Wilson. Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 21. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2005. John of Murro. Quaestio disputata “utrum objectum voluntatis moveat ipsam ad actum volendi finem.” Edited by Éphrem Longpré in “L’œuvre scolastique du cardinal Jean de Murro, O.F.M. (†1312),” in Mélanges Auguste Pelzer: Études d’histoire littéraire et doctrinale de la Scolastique médiévale offertes à Monseigneur Auguste Pelzer à l’occasion de son soixante-­dixième anniversaire, 467–492. Leuven: Bibliothèque de l’Université, Bureaux du “Recueil,” 1947. Walter of Bruges. Quaestiones disputatae. Edited by Ephrem Longpré. Les Philosophes Belges 10. Leuven: Institut Supérieur de Philosophie de l’Université, 1928. William of Auvergne. De anima. In Guilielmi Alverni episcopi parisiensis Opera omnia, edited by F. Hotot, vol. 2, supplementum, edited by Blaise Le Feron. Orléans and Paris: apud Dionysium Thierry, 1674. Reprint, Frankfurt am Main: Minerva, 1963. Secondary Literature Alliney, Guido, trans. 2009. Il nodo nel giunco: Le questioni sulla libertà di Enrico di Gand. Bari: Edizioni di Pagina. Alvarez, Maria. 2010. Kinds of Reasons: An Essay in the Philosophy of Action. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brown, J. V. 1975. “Intellect and Knowing in Henry of Ghent.” Tijdschrift voor Filosofie 37: 490–512 and 692–710. Decorte, Jos. 1983. “Der Einfluß der Willenspsychologie des Walter von Brügge OFM auf die Willenspsychologie und Freiheitslehre des Heinrich von Gent.” Franziskanische Studien 65: 215–240. Hoffmann, Tobias. 2008. “Henry of Ghent’s Voluntarist Account of Weakness of Will.” In Weakness of Will from Plato to the Present, edited by Tobias Hoffmann, 115–137. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. ———. 2021. Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laumakis, John A. 1999. “The Voluntarism of William of Auvergne and Some Evidence to the Contrary.” Modern Schoolman 76: 303–312. Macken, Raymond. 1975. “La volonté humaine, faculté plus élevée que l’intelligence selon Henri de Gand.” Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 42: 5–51. ———. 1977. “Heinrich von Gent im Gespräch mit seinen Zeitgenossen über die menschliche Freiheit.” Franziskanische Studien 59: 125–182. ———. 1986. “L’interpénétration de l’intelligence et de la volonté dans la philosophie d’Henri de Gand.” In L’homme et son univers au Moyen Âge: Actes du

142  Michael Szlachta septième congrès international de philosophie médiévale (30 août–4 septembre 1982), edited by Christian Wenin, vol. 2, 808–814. Philosophes Médiévaux 27. Louvain-­la-­Neuve: Éditions de l’Institut Supérieur de Philosophie. Müller, Jörn. 2009. Willensschwäche in Antike und Mittelalter: Eine Problemgeschichte von Sokrates bis Johannes Duns Scotus. Leuven: Leuven University Press. ———. 2018. “Der Herr und sein Diener mit der Lampe: Heinrich von Gent über Wille und Intellekt.” In Freiheit und Geschichte: Festschrift für Theo Kobusch zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by Jörn Müller and Christian Rode, 95–120. Münster: Aschendorff. Pickavé, Martin. 2012. “Que signifie ‘être libre’? Le cas Henri de Gand.” Médiévales 63: 91–104. San Cristóbal-­Sebastián, Antonio. 1958. Controversias acerca de la voluntad desde 1270 a 1300: Estudio histórico-­doctrinal. Madrid: Editorial y librería co. Stadter, Ernst. 1971. Psychologie und Metaphysik der menschlichen Freiheit. Munich: Schöningh. Szlachta, Michael. 2021. “Why Did You Choose That? Choice and Reasons in Peter of John Olivi’s Summa.” In Peter of John Olivi: Construction of the Human Person; Anthropology, Ethics, and Society; Acts of the Colloquium of Rome (4–6 October 2018), edited by Stève Bobillier and Ryan Thornton, 155–177. Rome: Editiones Collegii S. Bonaventurae ad Claras Aquas. Teske, Roland, trans. 1993. Henry of Ghent: Quodlibetal Questions on Free Will. Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press. ———. 1994. “The Will as King over the Powers of the Soul: Uses and Sources of an Image in the Thirteenth Century.” Vivarium 32, no. 1: 62–71. ———, trans. 2000. William of Auvergne: The Soul. Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press. ———. 2011. “Henry of Ghent on Freedom of the Human Will.” In A Companion to Henry of Ghent, edited by Gordon A. Wilson, 315–335. Leiden: Brill. Wilson, Gordon A. 2011. “Henry of Ghent’s Written Legacy.” In A Companion to Henry of Ghent, edited by Gordon A. Wilson, 3–23. Leiden: Brill. Wippel, John F. 1981. The Metaphysical Thought of Godfrey of Fontaines. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press.

7 Descartes’s Conception of Freedom Between Voluntarism and Intellectualism Ariane Cäcilie Schneck 7.1 Introduction Even after roughly 370 years of scholarly discussion, Descartes’s conception of freedom is still a matter of debate. One reason why interpreters have not agreed on how to understand Descartes’s view is that his statements on human freedom appear to be inconsistent. In some passages he seems to advocate an account that emphasizes the will’s power to do one thing or another, apparently free from determination external to the will; in others he stresses that human beings are more free the more their intellectual insight into the truth of a proposition or the goodness of a potential action makes them assent to a proposition or act in a particular way. In the first group of passages, human freedom appears to be strongly connected to having an undetermined will, whereas in the second, freedom seems to be a matter of intellectual understanding that determines human assent and action. This apparent tension is often spelled out in terms of the question whether Descartes holds an incompatibilist “libertarian” account of freedom or a compatibilist “spontaneity” account.1 Proponents of the first line of interpretation think that what is essential for human freedom is that the agent is undetermined and thus able to do otherwise.2 Defenders of the second interpretation think that an action is free when it is “up to us” or caused solely by the agent,3 independently of whether the agent can act otherwise (or could have acted otherwise) than they do act. Determinism is per se compatible with spontaneous freedom, but it has to be determination of the right kind. Historically, the question of the compatibility or incompatibility of freedom and determination has often been framed, as it is in Descartes, in terms of the roles of intellect and will. Especially in the later Middle Ages, the will was “conceived as a distinct power of the soul” and distinguished from the intellect.4 Given this distinction, medieval thinkers were interested in the question of whether freedom consists in the presence or absence of intellectual determination – in other words, “whether intellect or will is ultimately responsible for their freedom.”5 Depending on how they answered

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-10

144  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck this question, medieval philosophers are now often categorized as proponents of intellectualism (the view that freedom is rooted in the intellect) or of voluntarism (the view that freedom is rooted in the will). Not only in medieval discussions, but also, as Thomas Lennon has shown,6 in sixteenth­and seventeenth-­century discussions about freedom, the question of the compatibility or incompatibility of freedom and determination was thus intertwined with the question of “whether primary importance is placed on the intellect or the will in human agency.”7 For most historical thinkers, including Descartes, the question is thus not the twentieth-­century concern of whether we have free will, but how we can spell out in greater detail what human freedom consists in.8 At least one famous historical interpreter, Ernst Cassirer, saw Descartes’s thinking as a turning point from intellectualism to voluntarism.9 In what follows, however, I will argue that Descartes’s conception of human freedom cannot easily be classified along the lines of voluntarism vs intellectualism (or libertarianism vs spontaneity); I will contend, rather, that there are voluntarist and intellectualist strains in Descartes’s thinking about freedom, both of which have to be taken into account. In so doing, I will not only look at Descartes’s theory of judgement as presented mainly in the Fourth Meditation, but also highlight the approach to freedom in his later, more ethically oriented writings such as the Passions of the Soul. I argue that taking this more comprehensive approach enables us to offer a reading that can reconcile Descartes’s seemingly contradictory statements about human freedom. As a result, his view emerges as a unique conception of freedom that successfully incorporates intellectualist and voluntarist elements. In what follows, I will first present some of Descartes’s statements about freedom (§2). I will then very briefly discuss some interpretative strategies that deal with the apparent inconsistencies (§3) and present my own interpretive approach, the “two-­aspect model of Cartesian freedom” (§4). This model aims to show that the seemingly inconsistent elements in Descartes’s conception of freedom can be reconciled. I then argue that the model’s application to Descartes’s moral-­ practical thinking provides additional support for this interpretation (§5). 7.2 The Puzzle of Freedom in Descartes When Descartes defines “the will, or freedom of choice” (voluntas, sive arbitrii libertas) in the Fourth Meditation, he writes: The will simply consists in our ability to do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid); or rather, it consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  145 or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we do not feel we are determined by any external force.10 Regarding the importance of will and intellect for human freedom, we can make several observations. First, Descartes identifies the will with “freedom of choice,” or “free choice” (liberum arbitrium). Second, the will, or free choice, is described as consisting in being able to do one thing or its opposite (“to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid”); that is, it appears to involve some sort of indetermination. Third, in the second clause (“or rather …”) Descartes seems to describe a relation between the will, which affirms or denies, and the intellect, which delivers the object for the will to act upon. This relation can be described in the following way: when the intellect puts forward a mental object for the will to affirm or deny, this affirmation or denial feels undetermined “by any external force.” Passages like this – and similar ones in, for example, the Principles11 – seem to support the interpretation of Descartes’s account of freedom as libertarian. Free will is presented as what is often called in the contemporary debate a “two-­way power.” Having this power seems to involve being able to exercise it either way, that is, either to do or not to do the same thing in a given situation. Harry Frankfurt famously called this the “Principle of Alternate Possibilities” (PAP for short).12 In line with this, Descartes characterizes the exercise of the will’s two-­way power upon an insight provided by the intellect as free from external determination. That is, it looks as if the will’s power can be exercised either way, since there is no external obstacle that “blocks” one of the options. This seems to support the libertarian interpretation that sees freedom as incompatible with determinism. If having free will consists in being able to do one thing or another (to affirm or deny, pursue or avoid), and the exercise of this ability is described as being free from external determination, it seems justified to conclude that Descartes (1) conceives of freedom as incompatible with determinism, (2) assumes freedom, and is thus (3) a libertarian. But it is not only the label “libertarian” that fits Descartes’s account of freedom as given in the passage from the Fourth Meditation just quoted, but also the description “voluntarist.” After all, it seems to be the will that is the source of freedom; the intellect merely puts forward the “material” to judge about, but it is the will that appears to be responsible for freely and actively assenting or denying the proposition at stake.13 However, Descartes’s statement a couple of lines later seems to be inconsistent with the definition of free will he has just given: In order to be free, there is no need for me to be inclined in both ways; on the contrary, the more I incline in one direction – either because I clearly understand that reasons of truth and goodness point that way,

146  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck or because of a divinely produced disposition of my inmost thoughts – the freer is my choice. Neither divine grace nor natural knowledge ever diminishes freedom; on the contrary, they increase and strengthen it. But the indifference I feel when there is no reason pushing me in one direction rather than another is the lowest grade of freedom; it is evidence not of any perfection of freedom, but rather of a defect in knowledge or a kind of negation. For if I always saw clearly what was true and good, I should never have to deliberate about the right judgement or choice; in that case, although I should be wholly free, it would be impossible for me ever to be in a state of indifference.14 In this passage and similar ones, Descartes explicitly rejects the claim that being free requires being able to decide either way.15 Instead, he introduces degrees of freedom: a choice can be more free or less free. These degrees of freedom correlate with an inclination to one particular option caused by the intellectual recognition of the truth or goodness of that option.16 Descartes asserts that knowledge about what is true or good does not diminish freedom but rather increases it, despite the fact that this knowledge makes one lean towards one option more than to the other. Seemingly contrary to what he writes in his definition of the will, he even considers a state in which one can do one thing as well as the other (because one lacks the relevant knowledge and is thus “indifferent” to either option) the “lowest grade” of freedom. That is, in situations of choice in which I am wholly undetermined by any insight into which option is more likely to be good or true, and hence can do one thing as well as another, I am not most free; rather, due to my intellectual ignorance, I am free only to a minimal degree. In line with this, Descartes states that even if I saw what is true or good so clearly that I could no longer “deliberate” or be “indifferent,” I would still be “wholly free.”17 These statements seem to contradict what Descartes writes in his definition of the will, and so the following puzzle unfolds. Free will for Descartes is the ability or power to assent or deny, pursue or avoid; that is, it is an apparently undetermined two-­way power. However, I am most free when I cannot but assent to a proposition that I clearly intellectually perceive as true. The first claim appears to support a libertarian or voluntarist account of freedom in which the locus of freedom is the will, not the intellect. However, the second claim appears to assert exactly the opposite: that there are degrees of freedom that are correlated with the degree of intellectual insight available in a particular situation, and that the degree of freedom is higher the more clearly one option is understood to be better than the other. Thus, intellectual insight seems to be a determining force, but one that increases instead of decreases the freedom of the agent in a particular situation of choice, and the locus of freedom appears to be the intellect, not the will.

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  147 7.3 Interpretive Strategies In response to Descartes’s seemingly contradictory statements about freedom, interpreters have found different strategies to deal with the resulting tension. One strategy consists in acknowledging the apparent inconsistencies and assuming either an evolution in Descartes’s thinking from one account to the other,18 or suspecting dishonesty,19 or concluding that Descartes might simply have had an incoherent account of freedom.20 Another strategy is to decide for one of the interpretive options and try to find a way to integrate the passages that support the opposite reading. That is, one can either argue that Descartes was in fact a libertarian or voluntarist about freedom and find a convincing way to explain why he sounds like a compatibilist intellectualist in many of the central passages21; or one can claim that he held a spontaneity account and find a way to integrate those statements in which he writes about free will as undetermined two-­way power.22 In what follows, I will briefly discuss some examples of these two interpretive strategies, before introducing my own approach to a viable interpretation of human freedom in Descartes. One scholar who adopts the first strategy, of acknowledging the apparent inconsistencies in Descartes’s thinking and finding a way to deal with them, is Michelle Beyssade. Beyssade claims that a comparison between the earlier Latin version of the Meditations and the later French version (in combination with her own, new translation of a central passage in the Latin version) proves that Descartes first leaned more towards an intellectualist or compatibilist conception of freedom, and later changed his view to a libertarian account as a result of his exchanges with Jesuit thinkers. Other scholars who choose the first interpretive strategy suspect that the reason for Descartes’s seemingly contradictory statements was dishonesty or “dissimulation.”23 The basic idea is that Descartes in fact held a compatibilist spontaneity account but occasionally feigned agreement with the Jesuits’ “libertarian” approach in order to make his work acceptable to this influential and powerful order. Another example of someone who acknowledges the apparent inconsistencies, but ends up with a rather pessimistic result, is Anthony Kenny, who concludes that Descartes’s view on human freedom is simply incoherent. Kenny distinguishes two accounts of freedom in Descartes: “liberty of indifference” and “liberty of spontaneity,” as well as various subtypes of both.24 He argues that Descartes attempted to measure the two very different concepts of freedom on “a single scale of freedom.”25 The main problem with both of the first two readings is that they do not fit the textual evidence. The seemingly contradictory statements are to be found throughout Descartes’s published works and his correspondence over at least a decade. They cannot be sorted by periods in his thinking

148  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck (nor by specific parts of his work, as even Beyssade herself admits26), nor can they be assigned to special audiences that Descartes might have wanted to please, such as the Jesuits. Moreover, I think one can show that the incoherence that Kenny attributes to Descartes derives from Kenny’s own reconstruction of the textual evidence. If one does not follow Kenny in his assumption that Descartes tries to fit two different accounts of freedom on the same “scale,” the alleged incoherence disappears. Interpretations that try to avoid ascribing incoherence and instead argue for either a libertarian or a spontaneity account face different problems, and they often have a hard time integrating the passages that speak for the other available interpretive option. Scott Ragland, for instance, tries to incorporate what he calls “clear and distinct determinism” (CDD) by assuming a prior, undetermined decision to always assent to truths that one clearly and distinctly perceives as such.27 However, two main points speak against this reading. First, Descartes never mentions a prior undetermined decision like the one Ragland has in mind. Second, Ragland’s interpretation can explain only why one is free in assenting to a clear and distinct idea despite being determined; it cannot explain why for Descartes the highest degree of freedom consists in not being able not to assent to truths clearly perceived as such. On the other hand, readings such as those of Lennon and Christofidou, who emphasize the positive role of intellectual insight for Descartes’s conception of human freedom, often have problems in integrating his strong statements on the will’s two-­way power.28 7.4 The Two-Aspect Model of Cartesian Freedom My approach to Descartes’s conception of freedom tries to avoid the difficulties of the readings just mentioned. In doing so, it relies on three distinctions. In what follows, I will first make a distinction between internal and external determination and examine whether both kinds of determination are freedom-­threatening for Descartes. I will then take a closer look at the free agent in Descartes and distinguish the soul from its two main powers of will and intellect. Finally, I will make a distinction between having a power and exercising it, and I will apply this distinction to the Cartesian will and intellect. In regard to the first distinction, Descartes writes in the Fourth Meditation that in a situation of judgement or decision, having free will implies that “we do not feel we are determined by any external force.”29 But what exactly does “external” mean in this context? One can find in contemporary and historical debates at least three ways of understanding “external.” First, following twentieth-­and twenty-­first-­century intuitions about acting freely, one could assume that what it means to say that a judgement or decision is not determined by an external force is that no other person and

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  149 no external circumstances force the agent in question to choose one option over the other (or to avoid one specific action). The absence of external forces in this sense could mean that no other person and no particular situation determines my decisions. Understood this way, external determination is a determination that is external to the whole human being or person, and external pressure or force would have to be absent for a judgement or action to be free. Second, the external determination could be external not to the whole human being, but merely to the soul. According to Descartes’s dualism, soul and body are united in the human being and form a composite; however, they are nevertheless really distinct, that is, they are separable and metaphysically not “intermingled.”30 In Descartes’s dualist metaphysical framework, the body is external to the soul and thus could be a source of external determination, if “external” is understood as “external to the soul.” In this case, the determination that has to be absent in a situation of free choice would be one that stems from the body the soul is united with. Third, the potential determination whose absence is required for acting freely could be external to the will. In fact, many libertarian interpreters, such as Lilli Alanen and C. P. Ragland, who argue for the will’s power of self-­determination, take the externality in question to be referring to what is external to the will.31 On this line of reasoning, what Descartes is endorsing in his definition of free will in the Fourth Meditation is the view that when we assent to or deny a proposition, or pursue or avoid an action, we feel that we are not determined by any force external to the will. Such external forces could include the intellect, as a faculty of the soul that is distinct from the will. Fortunately, in the Fourth Meditation, Descartes says a bit more about how he does not conceive of external forces, using the Cogito as an example. He writes: I could not but judge that something which I understood so clearly was true; but this was not because I was compelled so to judge by any external force, but because a great light in the intellect was followed by a great inclination in the will, and thus the spontaneity and freedom of my belief was all the greater in proportion to my lack of indifference.32 In passages like this, Descartes describes a situation of intellectual determination and explicitly states that the understanding that determines him to judge in one particular way is not an “external force.” He claims instead that the will’s inclination “follows” the intellectual insight in a way that increases “spontaneity and freedom.” Moreover, the inclination caused by intellectual understanding increases freedom by decreasing “indifference,” which is the state in which we can go either way because we do not know

150  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck which option is likely to be better (or more likely to be true) and are thus “indifferent” to either option. The “great light” passage brings us to the second distinction I want to make, namely, that between the soul and its powers. Since Descartes clearly writes that the intellectual insight that inclines the will is not an external force, it seems unconvincing to treat “external” as meaning external to the will. Intellect and will are two distinct powers of the soul, or the “thinking thing” (res cogitans).33 According to Descartes’s theory of judgement, the intellect is the soul’s passive power, the faculty by which the soul has ideas, about which the will, the soul’s active power, can then judge. Without the intellect providing ideas, the will would not have any material about which to judge; and without the will, the soul could not take an affirmative or negative stance towards the material provided by the intellect.34 The activities of the intellect and the will, intelligere and velle respectively, are both forms or modes of thinking (cogitare), understood broadly. Hence, the agent in question is not the will, but the soul as a whole, or the thinking thing with its two powers. This leads to the last distinction I want to make, namely, that between having a power and exercising it. As we have seen, Descartes defines the will as a two-­way power: it is the power to affirm or deny and to pursue or avoid. However, having this power does not automatically mean that one is always able to exercise it either way. What Descartes writes about the determining, but not external, force of the intellect is that the exercise of the two-­way power is more free the more it is intellectually determined by an insight into what is true or good, even though this (internal) determination “blocks” one way of exercising the power (or makes one way of exercising it much more likely than the other). There is also some minimal freedom in decisions or judgements that one makes when one is “indifferent” and thus able to go either way. However, in order for a judgement or decision to be free to any higher degree, it has to be determined by an intellectual insight. The reason for this is, again, that the agent in question is the whole soul with both its main powers. As we will see in the next section, the soul for Descartes is a unified agent whose powers do not act against each other. In cases in which it feels like a part of ourselves wants something that is not in line with our intellectual insight, this is due to the influence of our body. (More on this to come.) At this point, we can see that there are two important aspects of Descartes’s conception of freedom that lead me to adopt a “two-­aspect” model in order to make sense of his seemingly inconsistent remarks. First, the will as the soul’s two-­way power enables the soul to assent or deny, pursue or avoid (the voluntarist aspect). Second, the exercise of this power by the soul as the agent has to be guided by the intellect’s insight in order to be free to any higher degree (the intellectualist aspect). Cartesian freedom

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  151 thus emerges as an account of freedom which combines two aspects that at first glance appear to be inconsistent but can be reconciled if one takes a closer look at the metaphysical background, especially Descartes’s theory of judgement and theory of the soul. In accordance with the two aspects just mentioned, I think Descartes’s conception of freedom should be understood as consisting in what I call “rational self-­determination.” Cartesian freedom involves self-­determination because the soul actively determines itself, by its two powers of intellect and will, to assent to or deny a proposition, or to pursue or avoid an action; and this self-­determination is rational because for Descartes, the degree of freedom increases in proportion to the degree of intellectual insight into the truth or goodness of a proposition or a potential action. The reason for this is that we are essentially thinking things, and thinking (cogitare) for Descartes entails using one’s will and intellect. 7.5 Taking Descartes’s Ethics into Account Nonetheless, one might still want to ask what this active self-­determination actually amounts to. So far, it looks as if the intellectualist element in Descartes’s conception of freedom is more closely linked with what makes a judgement or action free than the voluntarist element. If the will tends to follow the intellectual insight in its inclinations, why does Descartes emphasize the importance of the will in his theory of freedom? The crucial role of the will becomes apparent at several places in the Meditations and the Principles. For example, Descartes’s method of doubt requires that the meditator be able to decide voluntarily to withhold assent even from his hitherto most certain convictions. Moreover, Descartes makes it clear that, according to his theory of judgement, there is no assent or denial that the soul can perform merely with its intellect. However, the importance of the will in Descartes’s theory of judgement, especially in relation to his conception of freedom, becomes most apparent if one takes his ethical thinking into account. The background of Descartes’s considerations in his so-­ called “later ­writings” – that is, his later correspondence and The Passions of the Soul – is once more his mind-­body dualism.35 The difficulty that human beings face in their actual life (as opposed to their activities as philosophers or mathematicians) is that one almost never deals with ideas that are clear and distinct. Hence, one is almost never in a situation like those described in the Meditations, in which one’s will is so determined by the intellect’s insight that one cannot but make a specific judgement (e.g., that one exists, or that 2 + 3 = 5). When one has to make a decision in circumstances that come with incomplete information, confusing sensual input, or pressing time constraints, there is always some degree of uncertainty.

152  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck In such situations, we do not have clear and distinct perceptions of truth or goodness, and so it is possible for us to decide or act one way or the other. Our will is thus, to varying degrees, “indifferent” in the sense of being not, or not completely, intellectually determined. Yet according to Descartes, we still should act in accordance with what our intellect presents us as most probably the right insight or the best thing to do.36 He even thinks that we are more free when we do so (instead of deciding against our intellectual insight).37 The challenge in situations in which we could go either way is thus to act in accordance with what the intellect has determined to be more probably good or true, instead of deciding, for example, for what might feel better. The reason for this Cartesian claim is that any action that is not determined by intellectual insight must be determined by the body that the soul is united with. In The Passions of the Soul, Descartes writes: There is within us but one soul, and this soul has within it no diversity of parts: it is at once sensitive and rational too, and all its appetites are volitions. It is an error to identify the different functions of the soul with persons who play different, usually mutually opposed roles – an error which arises solely from our failure to distinguish properly the functions of the soul from those of the body. It is to the body alone that we should attribute everything that can be observed in us to oppose our reason.38 If the soul is the agent at stake in potentially free decisions and judgements (as I have argued earlier in this chapter), and if the body is internal to the human being that it is part of but external to the soul as the agent, its influence can be freedom-­threatening. The body could thus be an external force that brings the soul to act or decide in a way it would not act or decide if it followed the insight of its intellect. In such cases, the soul would not be internally, rationally self-­determined, but would be externally determined by something other than itself. Two points should be noted here. First, since the body is part of the whole human being, there is some sense in which the body is internal to the whole person as such.39 Second, Descartes usually conceives of the influence of the body as something valuable and important. He thinks that the body often shows the soul what it needs (e.g., food, water, shelter) and thus is essential for the self-­preservation of the whole human being.40 However, the body is still external to the soul as the agent at stake in judging and deciding, and its influence can be freedom-­threatening if it is not reflected on critically and rationally, and can thus “oppose our reason,” as Descartes writes in the Passions.41 A closer look at two central elements of Descartes’s ethics, the conception of his key virtue of “generosity” and the related account of “weak”

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  153 and “strong” souls, will clarify what Descartes thinks about the relation between mind and body in this context, and also underline the crucial role of the will for his conception of human freedom. 7.5.1 Generosity: The Key Cartesian Virtue

In article 41 of the Passions of the Soul, Descartes writes about “the power of the soul with respect to its body,” and states that, with respect to the body, “the will is by its nature so free that it can never be constrained.”42 That is, even the body that the soul is united with cannot (externally) determine and constrain the will’s two-­way power. This strong affirmation of the soul’s power of choice is the basis of Descartes’s key virtue, which he calls générosité. Cartesian générosité does not have much in common with the modern-­ day sense of the English word “generosity,” but rather describes a kind of virtuous “nobility,” or excellence of the soul that is connected to self-­mastery.43 This kind of self-­mastery would not be possible if the soul had no free will (in addition to a well-­functioning intellect). As Descartes writes: I believe that true generosity, which causes a person’s self-­esteem to be as great as it may legitimately be, has only two components. The first consists in his knowing that nothing truly belongs to him but his freedom to dispose his volitions, and that he ought to be praised or blamed for no other reason than his using this freedom well or badly. The second consists in his feeling within himself a firm and constant resolution to use it well – that is, never to lack the will to undertake and carry out whatever he judges to be best. To do that is to pursue virtue in a perfect manner.44 In this passage, the two aspects described earlier as essential for freely willing and deciding again become apparent. The first, voluntarist aspect is having free will (and being aware of the fact of having free will as well as being able to use this power in different ways, e.g., “well or badly”); the second, intellectualist aspect consists in resolutely following the intellect’s insights into what the best course of action would (probably) be. If we do so, we pursue, according to Descartes, “virtue in a perfect manner”; but the precondition for being able to do so is having free will, which, “by making us masters of ourselves,” even “renders us in a certain way like God.”45 7.5.2 Weak and Strong Souls

What Descartes means by “making us master of ourselves” is again connected with the relation between mind and body. Since we have free will and thus can always do otherwise than as the body inclines us to do (e.g., by causing bodily

154  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck desires in us), we are in some sense potentially always masters of ourselves. That is, if we use the two-­way power of our free will correctly, and resolutely determine ourselves in accordance with what our intellect perceives as the (most probably) best thing to do, we end up acting not only most freely but, for Descartes, also most virtuously. Descartes calls people who have succeeded in mastering themselves – and have thus acquired “generosity” – “strong souls.” About them he writes: “Those who are generous … have complete command over their passions. In particular, they have mastery over their desires.”46 For Descartes, then, strong, generous souls use their free will to master themselves, that is, to determine themselves in accordance with what they conceive of as most probably the best thing to do. As we have seen, everything in us that opposes this rational self-­determination can be traced back to our body. Thus, mastering ourselves means mastering the bodily side of our existence and having control over the desires in ourselves that are caused by our bodies. Contrary to the generous “strong souls,” Descartes calls human beings who fail to acquire generosity “weak souls.” He describes them in the following, rather dramatic fashion: The weakest souls of all are those whose will is not determined in this way … but constantly allows itself to be carried away by present passions. The latter, being often opposed to one another, pull the will first to one side and then to the other, thus making it battle against itself and so putting the soul in the most deplorable state possible … and since the will obeys first the one and then the other, it is continually opposed to itself, and so it renders the soul enslaved and miserable.47 The problem of weak souls is that they do not exhaust the potential of their free will the way they could and should do. Instead of using their will’s two-­way power in order to actively determine themselves in accordance with their intellectual insight, they “allow” their wills to be passively “carried away” by changing, even contradictory bodily passions. The result is a state not only of vice, but also of inner conflict, unhappiness, and “enslavement.” These characterizations clearly show that Descartes’s normative assessment of a lack of internal determination also includes the freedom of the human being at stake. Weak souls are not internally self-­ determined by their will and intellect, but rather let themselves be externally determined by their bodies. Their behaviour is not in line with their rational nature, but with that in them which is opposed to their reason: conflicting, irrational, and changing bodily desires that “enslave” them, that is, take away their freedom. Again, the importance of the will, that is, the voluntarist aspect of Descartes’s conception of freedom, becomes apparent. If the will were not

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  155 a two-­way power that is essentially undetermined by external influences (including by one’s own body), human beings could not determine themselves rationally; that is, they could not act against the potentially harmful desires caused by the body and align themselves with what their intellect presents as the best decision or judgement to make.48 Once more, one can see how the voluntarist and intellectualist aspects of Descartes’s conception of freedom both contribute to what he conceives of as acting and deciding freely. 7.5.3 The Freedom of the Embodied Thinking Thing

Because of the miserable and unhappy condition of weak souls, one could ask why they let themselves be governed by their bodily passions instead of exercising self-­mastery as strong souls do. Descartes’s diagnosis is that weak souls suffer from a “feeling of weakness or irresolution, together with an incapacity to refrain from actions which [they] know [they] shall regret later on, as if [they] lacked the full use of [their] free will.”49 It is significant that he does not say that weak souls lack the full use of their will, but rather that they act “as if” they had no full control over their volitions. This fits with what was stated in Section 7.5.2: the problem is not that the will of weak souls is worse or defective, but that they do not use it well. Instead of actively using their will’s two-­way power to master their bodily passions, they passively let the bodily passions take over. However, Descartes thinks that, at least in theory, every human being can become a strong soul and acquire generosity. For “there is no soul so weak that it cannot, if well-­directed, acquire an absolute power over its passions,” and “even those who have the weakest souls could acquire absolute mastery over all their passions if we employed sufficient ingenuity in training and guiding them.”50 Unfortunately, Descartes does not say more about why some people struggle with exercising their will in the way required for acquiring virtue. By mentioning the importance of “training and guiding,” he hints at an educational aspect, but he never elaborates on what the education or training he sees as helpful would actually look like. What Descartes’s assessment of strong, generous souls and weak, miserable souls shows clearly is the crucial importance of the will for his ethics, and especially for his closely related conceptions of freedom and virtue. The will’s two-­way power is the basis of Descartes’s key virtue of generosity, and it grounds human freedom in situations in which the person does not have clear and distinct ideas by enabling self-­determination in accordance with the best intellectual insight available. In particular, it does so by making it possible for the soul to avoid external determination by the body, that is, by bodily desires that are not in line with what would be reasonable for that human being to do. So in the Passions as well as in the Meditations,

156  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck it is external determination, mostly by the body, that is freedom-­threatening. Internal determination by one’s own intellect, on the other hand, is not freedom-­threatening but freedom-­enhancing, since it means that one acts in accordance with the thinking nature of one’s soul. 7.6 Conclusion The aim of this chapter has been to show that Descartes’s conception of freedom is a unique account that successfully integrates intellectualist and voluntarist aspects. We have seen that the puzzle of freedom in Descartes results from the presence of seemingly inconsistent statements in his works, so that it sometimes sounds as if he is a libertarian and voluntarist and sometimes as if he is a compatibilist and spontaneity theorist. My objective has not been to adopt one of the available interpretive options, but to take both strands of Descartes’s thinking seriously. It turns out that the two kinds of statement that can be found in his works – about free will as a two-­way power free from external determination, and about the determining, yet freedom-­enhancing, role of the intellect – can be reconciled if one makes three crucial distinctions: (1) between internal and external determination, (2) between the soul and its powers, and (3) between having a power and exercising it. I have aimed to show that the passages where Descartes writes about the will’s power to go either way are about the power per se. However, this description of the power does not entail that the exercise of the power is more free if it is undetermined by any kind of influence; on the contrary, Descartes makes a distinction between internal and external forces that can influence the will, and sees determination by the intellect as an internal, freedom-­enhancing influence, while determination by the body (or other forces external to the soul) is seen as external and freedom-­threatening. What emerges from my “two-­aspect” model of Cartesian freedom is an account of freedom as rational self-­ determination. The will’s two-­ way power is crucial for Cartesian freedom, for it allows the soul to act against potentially harmful and freedom-­threatening external influences in situations of uncertainty (the voluntarist aspect). But the intellect’s insights are just as crucial for human freedom according to Descartes, for the soul must rationally determine its will in accordance with its thinking nature in order to be fully free (the intellectualist aspect). It thus becomes clear that Descartes’s conception of freedom is the result of his essentialist definition of the self as a “thinking thing,” or res cogitans, and his broad understanding of cogitare as encompassing both mentally perceiving, or understanding (intelligere), and willing (velle). I have argued that what led him to claim that both the will’s two-­way power and the intellect’s insight are crucial for human freedom was not a change in his thinking, nor dishonesty, nor

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  157 incoherence; rather, a comprehensive reading of his texts, including his more ethically oriented writings, reveals that he assigned essential roles to both of the soul’s two main faculties of will and intellect in the process of judging and deciding freely as a thinking self. Notes 1 See, for example, the debate between C. P. Ragland (2006c) and Thomas Lennon (2015). See also Ragland 2006a, 2006b. 2 In contemporary discussion, “determinism” usually means physical-­ causal determinism, that is, the view that the laws of nature and the preceding states of the universe together determine all subsequent states of the world. Three main positions are commonly taken in regard to the problem of freedom and determinism: compatibilism (also sometimes called “soft determinism”: see Lewis 2011, 122), libertarianism, and scepticism about freedom (also sometimes called “hard determinism”: see Kane 2005, 32–33; Watson 2011, 2). The basic question in the debate is whether freedom and physical-­causal determinism can be reconciled, and if so, how. Descartes himself had no concept of physical-­causal determinism, but in the secondary literature on Descartes, the term “determinism” is nevertheless often used when scholars discuss the relation between human freedom and other kinds of (potential) determination, e.g., divine preordination or determination by the intellect. See, e.g., Ragland’s (2006c, 63) conception of “clear and distinct determinism” (CDD). 3 “Spontaneity” derives from the Latin sua sponte, which means “of one’s own accord” or “of one’s self.” See Lewis and Short, A Latin Dictionary, s.v. “sponte.” 4 Hoffmann 2014, 414. In earlier medieval conceptions there is no “concept of the will as power of the soul distinct from the intellect” (ibid.); however, a notion of willing or wanting as a kind of desire was already available. 5 Hoffmann 2014, 414. 6 See Lennon 2013b, 230–236; 2014, 177–181; 2015, 62–67. 7 Hoffmann 2014, 414. 8 For Descartes, see Principles (AT 8A:19/CSM 1:205–206); on the scholastics, see Hoffmann 2014, 414. For Descartes’s works, I refer to the standard edition by Adam and Tannery (= AT), and to the standard English translations by Cottingham, Stoothoff, Murdoch, and Kenny (= CSM, CSMK). 9 See Cassirer (1939) 1995, 93, quoted and translated in Böhm 2014, 720. 10 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40). 11 See Descartes, Principles (AT 8A:19/CSM 1:205–206). 12 Frankfurt 1969, 829. 13 See, e.g., Descartes, Principles (AT 8A:18/CSM 1:204); see also Perler 2004, 466. 14 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57–58/CSM 2:40). 15 See, e.g., Descartes, Second Replies (AT 7:166/CSM 2:117), and his letter to Mesland, 2 May 1644 (AT 4:117/CSMK 234). 16 Since this chapter does not focus on theological questions, I will leave aside the role of divine grace. For more information on this topic, see Lennon 2013a. 17 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57–58/CSM 2:40). 18 See, e.g., Beyssade 1994. Another example of an attempt to solve the puzzle of Cartesian freedom by diagnosing a shift towards libertarianism in Descartes’s thinking is the interpretation of Lilli Alanen. According to Alanen (2002),

158  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck Descartes in the end conceives of the will as completely undetermined – “Nothing beyond the will itself determines which of the two [contraries] will be pursued” (280) – and even as “free to act against reason’s dictate” (281). 19 See, e.g., Gilson (1913) 1982, 417–421; Loeb 1986, 243. More recently, Ragland (2013, 244), referring to Gilson, also questions Descartes’s honesty in some of his statements on freedom in his exchanges with Jesuits. 20 See Kenny 1972. 21 See, e.g., Alanen 2002; Ragland 2006c; Wee 2014. 22 See Christofidou 2009; Lennon 2015. 23 E.g., Gilson (1913) 1982; Loeb 1986; Ragland 2013. 24 Kenny 1972, 17. 25 Kenny 1972, 31. 26 See Beyssade 1994, 203. 27 Ragland 2006c, 63. 28 See Christofidou 2009; Lennon 2015. 29 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40). 30 Descartes writes in the Sixth Meditation that they are quasi permixtum, i.e., “as if intermingled” (AT 7:81/CSM 2:56). 31 See Alanen 2002; Ragland 2006c. 32 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:58–59/CSM 2:41, my emphasis). 33 On the soul as an indivisible “thinking thing,” see, e.g., Descartes, Sixth Meditation (AT 7:86/CSM 2:59). 34 See the Fourth Meditation, as well as the Principles (e.g., AT 8A:18/CSM 1:204). See also Perler 2004, 466. 35 What Descartes claims in his later writings (with which this chapter is primarily concerned), can also be found in some of his earlier letters, and to some extent in his Discourse from 1637. 36 See Descartes, Discourse on Method (AT 6:25/CSM 1:123): “Since in everyday life we must often act without delay, it is a most certain truth that when it is not in our power to discern the truest opinions, we must follow the most probable.” 37 See Descartes, Sixth Replies (AT 7:432/CSM 2:292): “For man, since he finds that the nature of all goodness and truth is already determined by God, and his will cannot tend towards anything else, it is evident that he will embrace what is good and true all the more willingly [libentius], and hence more freely [liberius], in proportion as he sees it more clearly.” 38 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:364–365/CSM 1:346, my emphasis). 39 See Brown 2002, 2006, and esp. 2014. 40 See Simmons 2001. 41 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:365/CSM 1:346). 42 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:359/CSM 1:343). 43 In German translations of Descartes’s works, the French générosité is rendered as Edelmut (noble-­mindedness or noble spirit), which I think fits Descartes’s use of the term better than the modern-­day English “generosity.” 44 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:445–446/CSM 1:384, my emphasis). 45 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:445/CSM 1:384). And further (ibid.): “I see only one thing in us which could give us good reason for esteeming ourselves, namely, the exercise of our free will and the control we have over our volitions. For we can reasonably be praised or blamed only for actions that depend upon this free will. It renders us in a certain way like God by making us masters of ourselves.” For more detailed discussion of Cartesian generosity, see Shapiro 1999; Böhm 2014.

Descartes’s Conception of Freedom  159 6 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:447–448/CSM 1:385). 4 47 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:366–367/CSM 1:347). 48 See Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:364–366/CSM 1:345–347). 49 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:450/CSM 1:386). 50 Descartes, Passions of the Soul (AT 11:368–370/CSM 1:348).

Bibliography Primary Sources Descartes, René. Œuvres de Descartes. Edited by Charles Adam and Paul Tannery. 12 vols. Paris: Cerf, 1897–1913. [= AT] ———. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vols. 1–2. Edited and translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984–1985. [= CSM] ———. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. 3, The Correspondence. Edited and translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. [= CSMK] Secondary Literature Alanen, Lilli. 2002. “Descartes on the Will and the Power to Do Otherwise.” In Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes, edited by Henrik Lagerlund and Mikko Yrjönsuuri, 279–298. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Beyssade, Michelle. 1994. “Descartes’s Doctrine of Freedom: Differences between the French and Latin Texts of the Fourth Meditation.” In Reason, Will, and Sensation: Studies in Descartes’s Metaphysics, edited by John Cottingham, 191– 206. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Böhm, Omri. 2014. “Freedom and the Cogito.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 22, no. 4: 704–724. Brown, Deborah. 2002. “The Rationality of Cartesian Passions.” In Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes, edited by Henrik Lagerlund and Mikko Yrjönsuuri, 259–278. Dordrecht: Kluwer. ———. 2006. Descartes and the Passionate Mind. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2014. “The Sixth Meditation: Descartes and the Embodied Self.” In The Cambridge Companion to Descartes’ Meditations, edited by David Cunning, 240–257. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cassirer, Ernst. (1939) 1995. Descartes: Lehre – Persönlichkeit – Wirkung. Hamburg: Felix Meiner. Christofidou, Andrea. 2009. “Descartes on Freedom, Truth, and Goodness.” Nous 43, no. 4: 633–655. Frankfurt, Harry. 1969. “Alternate Possibilities and Moral Responsibility.” Journal of Philosophy 66, no. 23: 829–839. Gilson, Étienne. (1913) 1982. La liberté chez Descartes et la théologie. Paris: Vrin.

160  Ariane Cäcilie Schneck Hoffmann, Tobias. 2014. “Intellectualism and Voluntarism.” In The Cambridge History of Medieval Philosophy, 2nd ed., edited by Robert Pasnau and Christina Van Dyke, vol. 1, 414–427. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kane, Robert. 2005. A Contemporary Introduction to Free Will. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kenny, Anthony. 1972. “Descartes on the Will.” In Cartesian Studies, edited by R. J. Butler, 1–31. New York: Barnes & Noble. Lennon, Thomas. 2013a. “Descartes and Pelagianism.” Essays in Philosophy 14, no. 2: 194–217. ———. 2013b. “Descartes’s Supposed Libertarianism: Letter to Mesland or Memorandum Concerning Petau?” Journal of the History of Philosophy 51, no. 2: 223–248. ———. 2014. “The Fourth Meditation: Descartes’ Theodicy avant la lettre.” In The Cambridge Companion to Descartes’ Meditations, edited by David Cunning, 168–185. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2015. “No, Descartes Is Not a Libertarian.” Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy 7: 47–82. Lewis, David. 2011. “Are We Free to Break the Laws?” In Free Will, edited by Gary Watson, 2nd ed., 122–129. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Loeb, Louis E. 1986. “Is There Radical Dissimulation in Descartes’ Meditations?” In Essays on Descartes’ Meditations, edited by Amelie Oksenberg Rorty, 243– 270. Berkeley: University of California Press. Perler, Dominik. 2004. “La théorie cartesiénne du jugement: Remarques sur la IVe Méditation.” Les Études Philosophiques 4, no. 71: 461–483. Ragland, C. P. 2006a. “Alternative Possibilities in Descartes’s Fourth Meditation.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 14, no. 3: 379–400. ———. 2006b. “Descartes on the Principle of Alternative Possibilities.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 44, no. 3: 377–394. ———. 2006c. “Is Descartes a Libertarian?” Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy 3: 57–90. ———. 2013. “Descartes on Degrees of Freedom: A Close Look at a Key Text.” Essays in Philosophy 14: 239–268. Shapiro, Lisa. 1999. “Cartesian Generosity.” In Norms and Modes of Thinking in Descartes, edited by Tuomo Aho and Mikko Yrjönsuuri, 249–275. Acta Philosophica Fennica 64. Helsinki: Philosophical Society of Finland. Simmons, Alison. 2001. “Sensible Ends: Latent Teleology in Descartes’ Account of Sensation.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 39, no. 1: 49–75. Watson, Gary, ed. 2011. Free Will. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wee, Cecilia. 2014. “The Fourth Meditation: Descartes and Libertarian Freedom.” In The Cambridge Companion to Descartes’ Meditations, edited by David Cunning, 186–204. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

8 Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium Thomas Pink

8.1 The Problem of Self-Determination In The Questions Concerning Liberty, Necessity and Chance (1656), Thomas Hobbes defends the consistency of freedom with necessity against the Anglican bishop John Bramhall. According to Hobbes, freedom does not entail contingency, the absence of necessity, but consists rather in the absence of constraint. And human action is performed freely because an absence of constraint follows from the fact that human action is voluntary; whenever we act, we do so voluntarily or willingly. We are morally responsible for our wrongdoing even if we are causally necessitated so to act, because we nevertheless act willingly. Hobbes appealed to a tradition of what he took to be sound Protestant theology running from Luther and Calvin to their more recent followers, such as the Heidelberg Reformed theologian Girolamo Zanchi (or Zanchius). This tradition sided with Hobbes in regarding freedom as consistent with necessity, and as excluding only compulsion or constraint: Luther says we act necessarily, necessarily by necessity of immutability, not by necessity of constraint, that is in plain English necessarily, but not against our wills. Zanchius says Tract. Theol. cap. 6. Thes. 1. The freedom of our will doth not consist in this, that there is no necessity of our sinning; but in this, that there is no constraint. Bucer Lib. de Concordia. Whereas the Catholicks say, man has Free Will, we must understand it of freedom from constraint, and not freedom from necessity. Calvin Inst. Cap. 2. §. 6. And thus shall man be said to have Free Will, not because he hath equall freedom to do good or evill, but because he does the evill he does not by constraint but willingly. … I could add more. For all the famous Doctors of the Reformed Churches, and with them St Augustine are of the same opinion.1

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-11

162  Thomas Pink Who claimed that freedom requires contingency? Hobbes took this to be the view of post-­Tridentine Catholicism, but also, within Protestantism, of Arminius and his followers, who included Bramhall. The Catholics and their Arminian allies within Protestantism sought erroneously to exempt the human will from God’s providential direction of all that happens: But for some ages past, the Doctors of the Roman Church have exempted from this dominion of God’s Will, the Will of Man; and brought in a Doctrine that not onely Man, but also his Will is Free, and determined to this or that action, not by the Will of God, nor necessary causes, but by the power of the Will it Self. And though by the reformed Churches instructed by Luther, Calvin and others, this opinion was cast out, yet not many years since it began again to be reduced by Arminius and his followers, and became the readiest way to Ecclesiastical promotion.2 Human freedom, on this mistaken view, is a freedom of the will itself. Freedom applies not only to the human agent, but specifically to a psychological capacity within the agent – to the will as a capacity for decision and choice. Humans are supposed to possess liberum arbitrium – a freedom of decision or choice. As free, the will is supposedly capable of operating independently of external causes by determining its operation for itself. Freedom as excluding necessity was linked by Hobbes to a mistaken idea of freedom as a will-­based power of self-­determination. But this raises a problem. The non-­Arminian Protestants whom Hobbes cites with such approval did indeed view freedom as consistent with necessity, and as excluding only constraint or compulsion, but in other respects they were no different from the Catholics and Arminians. These non-­ Arminian Protestants also understood human freedom to be what Hobbes denies it to be – a power of self-­determination located in the will. These Protestants too defended liberum arbitrium, and even used that very term. They did so because they retained the idea that we have the power to determine for ourselves what we decide or choose to do, and they viewed our moral responsibility as dependent on this power to determine our own decisions and choices. The power is indeed, in their view, consistent with necessity, but it constitutes a self-­determining freedom of will nonetheless. Hobbes was proposing something much more radical. He was proposing a theory of freedom that not only taught the consistency of freedom with necessity, but even denied its very character as a power of self-­ determination. Why did Hobbes go further and deny the very possibility of self-­determination? And why did he still claim to be in agreement with Protestants such as Zanchi, even though they believed in liberum arbitrium, and to oppose only the Catholics and Arminians?

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  163 Hobbes was hostile to the very idea of self-­determination, we shall see, because he took it not only to involve absurdity but to be the true source of the error that freedom is opposed to necessity. Misunderstanding freedom as a power of self-­determination makes it intellectually possible to oppose freedom and necessity. To vindicate the Protestant view that freedom and necessity are consistent, it would therefore be necessary to expose self-­determination as absurd. In this, though Hobbes still agreed with his Protestant forerunners in linking freedom with voluntariness and the absence of constraint, he radically transformed what is involved in freedom, voluntariness, and the absence of constraint. 8.2 Self-Determination and Contingency Early modern moral theology, Protestant as well as Catholic, based its account of moral responsibility on self-­determination. Our possession of a power to determine our action for ourselves was assumed in the content of blame, the criticism by which we were held responsible for doing wrong. According to Aquinas, whose view was shared by the early modern school tradition both Protestant and Catholic, in blame the badness of an action is imputed to us as our badness, and is so imputed because we have a power over the action – a power described as involving dominium or lordship over how we act: For an action is said to be blameworthy or praiseworthy which is imputed to the agent. For praise and blame is nothing other than for the goodness or badness of his action to be imputed to someone. Now an action is imputed to an agent when it is in his power, so that he has dominion [dominium] over the act. But this is the case with all voluntary actions: for it is through the will that man has dominion over his action.3 This is the imputation model of blame. In blaming someone we do not simply criticize their action as in some way faulty, but we put the fault down to them, impute it to them – as their fault. And this imputation is based on the supposition that the person blamed for it had power over the occurrence of the fault. They could determine or prevent its occurrence for themselves, and that was why the fault was their fault. Freedom was this power of self-­determination. And it was conceived as liberum arbitrium, a freedom of choice or decision, because freedom was generally held to be exercised in and through the will, or voluntas. The will was the faculty or capacity within the mind for intention and for decision or choice. Intentio or intention was a state of the will that directed us at

164  Thomas Pink ends. Decisions or choices were exercises of the will in electio by which we adopted or decided on actions as means to these ends. The exercise of the will in decision or choice of action was taken to be itself a case of action. Decision or choice was termed by the scholastics “elicited” action and regarded by them as action in its primary form; as an action of the will or voluntas itself, elicited action was the primary instance of the voluntary or voluntarium. Freedom was a power of “dominion” immediately over elicited actions of decision and then extended through these decisions over the further actions decided upon. I controlled the moving of my hand only because I immediately controlled my decision to move it. The further actions decided upon that occurred in capacities outside the will, such as for limb motion and the like, were regarded by the scholastics as derivative or secondary cases of action and were termed “commanded” or “imperated” actions. These commanded actions counted as actions only because they were produced by prior actions of the will itself, and so counted as only secondary cases of the voluntary. Freedom or liberum arbitrium was generally understood to be exercisable, at least in many cases, as a power over alternatives. Peter Lombard marked this involvement of alternatives in the Sentences: The very power and ability of the will and reason, which we said above was freedom of choice [liberum arbitrium], is free regarding whichever alternative it pleases, because it can be moved freely to this or to that.4 Liberum arbitrium could therefore commonly be exercised as a power to do more than one thing. It could give us the power to decide to do A, or to refrain from that decision or to decide to do B instead. As a power to decide more than one way, it must be contingent how the power operated and which decision was taken. This distinguished freedom as a power from ordinary causation. When a brick hits a window, it is natural to think, there is only one outcome that the brick has the power to produce. The brick will cause the window to break, an outcome that follows with necessity given the brick’s nature and its circumstances. But freedom is a power that can leave it up to humans which actions they perform. It can thus be a power under given circumstances to determine more than outcome, and it is up to its possessor, the free agent, how the power is exercised, to produce this outcome or that. Freedom was still generally understood to be as much a form of efficient causation as was the operation of the brick to break a window. But insofar as freedom was a power to determine more than one outcome, freedom was efficient causation operating contingently, whereas in the case of the brick breaking a window, efficient causation operated necessarily.

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  165 The conception of freedom as a form of causation capable of operating contingently was opposed to views that tied all efficient causation to necessity. Such necessitarian views of causation were part of the wider school tradition, especially outside Christianity. Within Islamic philosophy, Avicenna had claimed that “with the existence of the cause, the existence of every effect is necessary; and the existence of its cause necessitates the existence of the effect.”5 For Avicenna, a cause’s possession of the power to produce an outcome necessitates its exercise. Early modern Christian scholastics, by contrast, resisted this necessitarian view of causation. Not even a loyal follower of Calvin such as Zanchi wanted to deny that some causes, such as free human agents and their wills, can operate contingently. God’s predestining providence did not exclude contingency but ordained it: Relative to secondary causes, some things happen necessarily, others contingently. On which point this finally is to be observed: everything that I have said regarding secondary causes, that some things happen contingently and others necessarily, all this, I say, is subject to the providence of God. For it is not only by the providence of God that everything happens, but also the way that it happens. Why are some causes in this world prelimited in their operation and others not so prelimited? By the providence of God. And hence it is far from being the case that divine providence should remove contingency: rather it even establishes it.6 But is contingency an essential feature of freedom’s exercise? Or can the exercise of freedom to produce a given outcome sometimes be necessitated? The Protestants of whom Hobbes approved, such as Zanchi, thought that though we can decide and act contingently, through a radical corruption of our nature the Fall had imposed necessity on one morally fundamental choice – the choice between moral good and evil. Without a reparation of our fallen nature through grace, we are necessitated to choose evil. But this choice of evil is still free, and one for which we can be fairly blamed and punished. Though necessitated, the choice is still one we freely determine for ourselves because we make it voluntarily or willingly. We are not compelled or constrained to make it. Zanchi insisted that our decisions are free because we move or determine ourselves to take them: Whatever is done or moved by an internal principle through cognition of the end for which the agent acts is said to be voluntary. Who operates in this way moves himself by his own free decision, even if he is also moved and acted on by a higher cause.7

166  Thomas Pink Along with the idea of liberum arbitrium as a power of self-­determination, Zanchi retained the model of blame as imputation, based on that power, of wrongful action to the agent as their fault. But freedom as self-­ determination excluded only coactio – compulsion or constraint – not necessity: It is innate to the will of a rational creature that it wills all things freely without compulsion, and so this freedom of nature is inseparable from it. And this is why all deeds, even the sins of the ungodly which they cannot avoid performing are said to be voluntary and are imputed to them. For though they cannot act otherwise but sin, however because they will sin, and do so with the greatest delight of the will, with approval and assent, they will it freely. … So it is clear what we have maintained in our thesis: although fallen man has become the slave of sin, and subject to many ills, he has not completely lost all freedom of decision. For he retains and always will retain the natural freedom which is called freedom from compulsion, as has been fully explained.8 In thinking that liberum arbitrium was consistent with necessity, ruling out only coactio or compulsion, Protestants such as Zanchi could and did appeal to the authority of Aquinas: To the fifth point it should be said that the natural necessity with which the will wills something of necessity, such as happiness, is not inconsistent with the freedom of the will, as Augustine teaches [in City of God, book 5, chapter 10]. For the freedom of the will [libertas voluntatis] excludes violence or compulsion [coactio].9 All parties, Catholic and Protestant, agreed that the will was immune to coactio. For coactio or compulsion was the imposition on us of something against our will. I might subject you to coactio by tying your arm down against your decision or will to raise it. Compulsion in this strict sense of coactio was never possible of decisions or intentions, it was generally thought, since as forms of willing, an intention or decision could never be in opposition to the will. Whether necessitated or contingent, a decision or intention of the will was always voluntary. Coactio was possible only of the further capacities and faculties subject to the will, such as the motion of an arm or other limb, but not of the will itself. So what was done outside the will as commanded action, such as the moving of one’s arm, could be done instead through compulsion. But compulsion of the elicited action of the will itself was not possible. And this, for many Protestants, was enough to constitute the will as free.

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  167 Post-­ Tridentine Catholic theologians such as Bellarmine taught as defined doctrine the incompatibility of the exercise of liberum arbitrium with necessity. Bellarmine was well aware of Protestant appeals to Aquinas. But Bellarmine sought to rebut these by distinguishing liberum arbitrium, our power over the will, from libertas voluntatis, freedom as a condition of the will as a faculty. As a faculty, the will was free only because it was the locus of a power or principle of choice, freedom of decision or liberum arbitrium, by which we freely determined its exercise. And, as Trent had taught, this power, our control of its operation, to the extent we had it, could only be exercised contingently. But that was entirely consistent with the faculty being governed by necessity in other respects, such as in its fundamental direction at happiness: Sixth, against this there is the witness of St Thomas, who in question 10 of De potentia, article 2 ad 5 writes, only compulsion [coactio] is inconsistent with the natural freedom of the will [libertati voluntatis]. I reply that in that place St Thomas is discussing the will just in itself. He is not discussing the will as a principle of choice which alone is referred to as freedom of choice [liberum arbitrium].10 There was thus a debate between Catholicism and many Protestants about whether freedom as a power of self-­determination implied contingency. But this debate was not about the metaphysics of causation itself, which all parties agreed could take contingent form, even as directed providentially by God. The human will certainly could operate contingently. The question was simply how far it actually did so. The choice between, say, stealing or not stealing was generally viewed as made contingently. But it was disputed whether it remained contingently open to us to refrain from stealing in a way that was genuinely morally good (such as other than out of some form of self-­interest). What settled that dispute? Revelation and experience, though the disputants interpreted each of these in opposing ways. All parties agreed that contingency in the operation of causes or its absence could be revealed by experience. They differed, however, in their view of what experience revealed. Bellarmine regarded the necessity of sinning as contradicted by experience, even for fallen humanity. Even apart from grace we clearly retained some power, at least in the particular case, not to sin. Whereas Zanchi thought that experience showed the opposite. Our experience of the weakness of our will was evident to all, pagan as well as Christian, as Ovid’s Medea showed: Video meliora proboque; deteriora sequor. There was a further debate about contingency. Not only was it disputed whether self-­determination implied contingency. It was also disputed whether

168  Thomas Pink there could be contingency in nature apart from self-­determination. This was not a controversy between confessions; it could divide Catholic from Catholic. Many Jesuits maintained that only causes that were capable of rationality and so also had free will could operate contingently. Non-­rational causes by contrast operated by necessity. So contingency in nature could ultimately arise only from liberum arbitrium – from the exercise of freedom of decision: Secondly it should be said that all causes in so far as they operate without the use of reason operate by the above-­mentioned necessity. This is taken from Aristotle, book 9 of the Metaphysics, chapter 2, where he makes this distinction between rational and non-­rational capacities, that non-­ rational capacities are determined to one, but rational capacities are indifferent between opposites, … which can be confirmed inductively; for it is confirmed by experience at every level of thing, up to brute animals.11 This Jesuit restriction of the source of contingency to rational nature was opposed by many Dominican writers. Diego Álvarez regarded Jesuit writers such as Suárez, Molina, and Fonseca as unduly influenced in their theory of non-­rational nature by Avicenna. Álvarez objected that even if there were no created free causes, there could still be contingency in nature. Even a secondary cause that was non-­rational could simply fail to operate: The immediate and formal basis of the contingency to be found in things is not the freedom of decision of humans and angels … and so even if we exclude all freedom of created decision still there can remain effects that are formally contingent. … The defectibility of secondary natural causes suffices for contingency … but this defectibility does not attach to corporeal things from some created freedom, but attaches to them from the condition of matter which can be deficient in its being and so too in its operation.12 So we have an important consensus, both within confessions and across the confessional divide. Moral responsibility was based on self-­ determination as liberum arbitrium, and so was immediately for elicited acts of decision or choice that we determined for ourselves. Liberum arbitrium, furthermore, was a power that could be exercised contingently, contingency being a possible mode of causal operation. The debate occurred within this shared framework, and it was about the precise relation of self-­ determination and contingency: could there be self-­ determination even without contingency; and could there be contingency without self-­determination?

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  169 8.3 Hobbes Denies Contingent Causation Hobbes denied that causes could operate contingently. A cause could not genuinely possess the power to produce an outcome under given circumstances, yet, even given those circumstances, fail to produce it: The last thing, in which also consisteth the whole controversy, Namely, that there is no such thing as an Agent, which when all things requisite to action are present, can nevertheless forbear to produce it, or (which is all one) that there is no such thing as freedom from necessity, is easily inferred from that which hath been before alledged. For, if it be an Agent, it can work. And if it work, there is nothing wanting of what is requisite to produce the action, and consequently, the cause of the action is sufficient. And if sufficient, then also necessary, as hath been proved before.13 But there seems nothing obviously incoherent in the idea of a cause operating contingently. Not even the Protestant theologians had excluded this. So why did Hobbes exclude the possibility outright? Hobbes was committed to a necessitarian view of causation by his account of power. This was not only framed in terms of the materialism that was fundamental to Hobbes’s metaphysics but, more importantly, took a highly reductive form. Our conception of “efficacy” or power was simply a conception of local motion – of motion in one body which, just as a case of power, would affect motion in another. As Hobbes insisted in De corpore, the power of a causal agent, active power, consists in motion: The Power of the Agent is the same thing with the Efficient Cause. From which it may be understood, that all Active Power consists in Motion also; and that Power is not a certain Accident which differs from all Acts, but is indeed an Act, namely Motion, which is therefore called Power, because another Act shall be produced by it afterwards. For example, if of three Bodies the first put forwards the second, and this the third, the Motion of the second in respect of the first which produceth it, is the Act of the second Body, but in respect of the third it is the Active Power of the second Body.14 Correspondingly, rest or lack of motion is lack of power: Rest does nothing at all, nor is of any efficacy; and … nothing but Motion gives Motion to such things as be at Rest, and takes it from things moved.15

170  Thomas Pink On this view of power, there could be no power without motion affecting motion – “Motion, which is therefore called Power, because another Act shall be produced by it afterwards.” But power that is operative contingently presupposes the possibility of power without actual motion. 8.4 Hobbes Denies Self-Determination If our conception of power is nothing more than a conception of motion affecting motion, we cannot have any conception of power operating contingently – of power obtaining, but without motion. We cannot conceive of contingency as the mode of operation of a power. Indeed, according to Hobbes, contingency is an entirely epistemic notion. We think of outcomes as contingent only insofar as we lack knowledge either of the outcomes themselves or of their causes. “For by contingent, men do not mean that which hath no cause, but which hath not for cause any thing which we perceive.”16 We might not know of causes or perceive them. But any causes we do not perceive would still be ones whose operation is necessitated – whose power to produce an outcome is of necessity exercised. We have no conception of any other kind of power. That is why our conception of liberty cannot be of a contingently operative power, but must instead be of an absence of external impediment to the operation of power: Fiftly, I conceive liberty to be rightly defined in this manner. Liberty is the absence of all the impediments to action, that are not contained in the nature, and in the intrinsecal quality of the Agent. As for example, the water is said to descend freely, or to have liberty to descend by the Chanel of the River, because there is no impediment that way, but not across, because the banks are impediments. And though water cannot ascend, yet men never say it wants the liberty to ascend, but the faculty or power, because the impediment is in the nature of the water and intrinsecall. So also we say, he that is tied wants the liberty to go, because the impediment is not in him, but in his bonds, whereas we say not so of him that is sick or lame, because the impediment is in himself.17 But now we arrive at a puzzle. Despite his official claim that our conception of liberty is not of a power, but of an absence of obstacles to power, Hobbes does still appear to concede the existence of some sort of conception, albeit illegitimate or defective, of liberty as a form of power. Where we lack knowledge of the causes of our own action, Hobbes claims, we view the action not as necessitated by unknown causes, but as produced in a special way: by liberty as something outcome-­productive, and so a kind of power:

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  171 Commonly when we see and know the strength that moves us, we acknowledge necessity, but when we see not, or mark not the force that moves us, we then think there is none, and that it is not Causes but Liberty that produceth the action.18 Now, in contrast to the theologians of both confessions, Hobbes denies that sense or experience could ever represent power operating contingently. He also insists in this passage that when we are aware of something else exercising a power or force over us to move us to act, we believe the force to be operating by necessity. It is only when we are not aware of such a force moving us that we then appeal to “liberty” operating productively, as a form of power. Belief in such a distinctive power depends, then, on an absence of the sensory representation of power, and certainly does not derive from its representation. But then it remains the more mysterious quite what the content of this belief is. The content of this belief about liberty as something productive certainly does not concern what liberty really comes to, properly conceived – not a power, but an absence of impediments to power. How, then, in terms of Hobbes’s system, could we ever come to view, even mistakenly, liberty as productive – as, in fact, a power? The answer is to be found in Hobbes’s account of self-­determination and of its absurdity. Now, the idea of self-­motion or self-­determination was certainly not understood by everyone to exclude necessity, as we have seen. Much early modern Protestantism supposed that self-­ determination could be necessitated. It might have been possible for someone to combine a necessitarian view of causation in general while still admitting the exercise of liberum arbitrium as self-­determination, appealing instead to its immunity from coactio. But Hobbes does not do this. He admits neither self-­determination nor liberum arbitrium. He instead rejects the very possibility of self-­determination because, supposedly, it involves a vicious regress. He taunts Bramhall with the threat of it: “And if a man determine himself, the question will still remain what determined him to determine himself in that manner.”19 Hobbes links the idea of self-­determination to theology that is Catholic-­Arminian, involving what Hobbes alleges to be a peculiarly Catholic-­Arminian view of the will. This, as we have seen, takes the will to be a determinant of action independent of other causes: But for some ages past, the Doctors of the Roman Church … brought in a Doctrine that not onely Man, but also his Will is Free, and determined to this or that action, not by the Will of God, nor necessary causes, but by the power of the Will it Self.20

172  Thomas Pink In fact this view of the will is not, in Hobbes’s view, just Catholic-­Arminian. Just as he describes all of us as naturally inclined, when we are unaware of the precise causes of our actions, to ascribe those actions to liberty as a productive force, so he also suggests a rather general tendency to ascribe those same actions to our own will operating as a cause independently of external causes. In replying to Bramhall’s assertion of freedom as implying an absence of antecedent necessity at the point of the will, Hobbes observes: the later I deny, and have shown that he ought to have proved that a man is Free to Wil. For that which he sayes, any thing else whatsoever, would think, if it knew it were moved, and did not know what moved it. A woodden Top that is lasht by the Boyes, and runs about sometimes to one Wall, sometimes to another, sometimes spinning, sometimes hitting men on the shins, if it were sensible of its own motion, would think it proceeded from its own Will, unless it felt what lasht it. And is a man any wiser, when he runns to one place for a Benefice, to another for a Bargain, and troubles the world with writing errors, and requiring answers, because he thinks he doth it without other cause than his own Will, and seeth not what are the lashings that cause his Will?21 Hobbes goes even further in committing himself to a general human tendency to view the will as free because operating as a cause independently of external causes. He assumes the existence of this tendency in an idiosyncratic account of the Fall. The Fall was supposedly required to teach Adam no longer to view the operation of his own will as free and controlled by him – as if “produced by Liberty”: I am therefore to give an account of the meaning of the aforesaid objurgations and expostulations; Not of the end for which God said Hast thou eaten of the tree &c. but how those words may be taken without repugnance to the doctrine of Necessity. These words Hast thou eaten of the tree whereof I commanded that thou shouldest not eat, Convince Adam that notwithstanding God had placed him in the Garden a means to keep him perpetually from dying in case he should accommodate his Will to obedience of Gods commandement concerning the tree of knowledg of good and evil, yet Adam was not so much master of his own Will as to do it. Whereby is signified that a mortal man though invited by the promise of immortality cannot govern his own Will, though his Will govern his Actions, which dependance of the Actions on the Will, is that which properly and truly is called Liberty.22 For Hobbes the idea of liberty as productive comes with the idea of a will operating as an externally uncaused cause, and in a way that involves the

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  173 will determining its own operation. Now, this idea of the will determining its own operation is, for Hobbes, quite absurd because viciously regressive. But it allows some content, even on Hobbes’s terms, to the claim that liberty is productive, and without introducing power operating contingently, something of which, according to Hobbes, we have no conception. How to explain an agent’s coming to move in one way rather than another other than by the action on it of something external – other than by appeal to necessitation from without? The agent would have to have a power to move itself. But in the absence of contingency as a possible mode of causal operation, the agent’s power to move himself a given way must, if present and unimpeded, always operate. How, then, to explain variation in the operation of the agent’s power of self-­motion, so that the agent could possess powers to move himself in a variety of ways or directions, but without all these powers operating (impossibly) at once? Something internal to the agent would have to block their operation in all ways but one. For the agent to move one way, something internal to the agent would have to suspend or block the operation of the agent’s equal power to move all other ways. The agent would have to exercise a further power over their power to move. Variation in the exercise of the agent’s power to move would have to be explained in terms of the operation of a further power over the power. Of course, the postulation of that further power to exercise the power would raise the same problems in turn, and so be viciously regressive. But it would at least allow content to the thought that variation in human action arises other than through an externally imposed necessity – a content that does not directly involve a conception of contingency as a power’s mode of operation, a conception of contingency that Hobbes very clearly denies we possess. Liberty will instead be a power of an agent to move that depends on a prior power of the agent to exercise the power. There is one early text linked with Hobbes which does tie self-­ determination to the postulation of power in such a viciously regressive form, and which portrays this regressive conception of power as an attempt to allow for variation in what self-­determination produced. This is the manuscript now termed A Short Tract on First Principles, probably from the late 1630s, which was left in Hobbes’s papers but, as Noel Malcolm has established, is in the hand of Robert Payne, a close associate of Hobbes at the likely time of the manuscript’s production.23 It is disputed whether Hobbes was the originator of the manuscript’s content, and if he was not, how far he contributed to it or how far his own thought was influenced by it; nevertheless, this enigmatic text bears similarities to Hobbes’s work of the 1640s and early 1650s, especially in its treatment of contingency and self-­determination. The Short Tract consists of three sections, each with principles and conclusions. In section 1 as conclusion 11, we read that “A Sufficient Cause is

174  Thomas Pink a Necessary Cause,” just as in the Questions contingent causation is impossible: Hence appears that the definition of a Free Agent, to be that which, all things requisite to worke being putt, may worke, or not worke, implyes a Contradiction.24 The Short Tract also denies in conclusion 8 of the same section that an agent that is unmoved from without can move a patient without moving it always, and bases this denial on a regress argument. If the agent has the power to move the patient, then to fail to move it, the agent would have to possess, in addition to its power to move the patient, a further power to suspend that first power. But then variation in operation would require variation in the operation of that power, and that would imply a yet further power to suspend that power, and so on absurdly ad infinitum: The Agent that moveth by Active power originally in it self, applyed to the Patient, shall allways move it. If A have power active of it self to move B, let that power be C. supposing then that B have passive power to be moved by A, if A move not B, eyther A hath not C, (which is agaynst the supposition) or A suspendeth C; if so, then A hath power to suspend C, which power lett be D. Now if the power D. be never suspended, then C is allways suspended, and so B can never be moved by A. and if the power D be somtimes suspended, then hath A another power to suspend D, and so in infinitum, which is absurd.25 Now we come to the link between self-­determination as a viciously regressive phenomenon and liberum arbitrium. Belief in an agency and freedom of the will – in elicited acts of decision and choice – is for Hobbes nothing more than an expression of the viciously regressive conception of an agent’s action as self-­determined. Hobbes clearly views belief in an agency of will to be viciously regressive. It is regressive as transforming a conception of a power to act into just what is described in the Short Tract – an impossible capacity to exercise power over how power is exercised, and in the form of a regressive sequence of willings and willings to will. In The Elements of Law, Hobbes had already insisted, as a point very much worth making, that the will is not voluntary as are the actions willed that it explains: Appetite, fear, hope, and the rest of the passions are not called voluntary; for they proceed not from, but are the will; and the will is not voluntary. For a man can no more say he will will, than he will will will,

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  175 and so make an infinite repetition of the word will; which is absurd, and insignificant.26 Hobbes sees the formulations both of willing to will and of self-­determination as equivalent and in themselves absurd and as entailed by the erroneous psychology of liberum arbitrium. This is a theory that takes the will both to exercise power and to be the immediate object of the same power’s exercise, so that the will determines its own operation. The mistake, in Hobbes’s view, is to treat an agent’s power to do something as if it were itself an agent. The will is simply the agent’s power to act; but the theory of self-­ determination involves turning the will into a quasi-­ agent whose own power to act would in turn have to be provided by a further will – and so on ad infinitum: As if it were not Freedome enough for a man to do what he will, unless his will also have power over his Will, and that his will be not the power itself, but must have another power within it to do all voluntary acts.27 The will could no more perform actions than our power or capacity to dance could be supposed to go in for dancing: Secondly, you may observe, that actus elicitus, is exemplified by these words, to will, to elect, to choose, which are all one, and so to will here is made an act of the will; and indeed, as the will is a faculty or power of a man’s soul, so to will is an act of it, according to that power. But as it is absurdly said, that to dance is an act allowed or drawn by fair means out of the ability to dance; so it is also to say, that to will is an act allowed or drawn out of the power to will, which power is commonly called, the will.28 Hobbes therefore denied that the will is itself a locus of agency. It is simply the agent’s causal power to act, and voluntary action properly understood occurs simply as its effect. A decision or will to, say, raise one’s hand is simply an action-­productive appetite; voluntary action occurs only at the point of raising one’s hand – at the point of what the scholastics termed “commanded action,” which they regarded as only a secondary form of action. Hobbes was quite clear: voluntary acts occur only as commanded acts, allowing for reservations about terms such as “commanded” and imperatus: Wherein letting pass that Metaphoricall speech of attributing command and subjection to the faculties of the soul, as if they made a commonwealth or family among themselves, and could speak to one another, which is very improper in searching the truth of this question; you may observe first that to compell a voluntary act, is nothing else, but to will

176  Thomas Pink it; for it is all one to say, my will commands the shutting of mine eyes, or the doing of any other action, and to say, I have the will to shut my eyes. So that actus imperatus here, might as easily have been said in English, a voluntary action, but that they that invented the term, understood not anything it signified.29 We have seen that the debate between the Protestants of whom Hobbes approved and the Catholics was over whether contingency is essential to the operation of liberum arbitrium, or else a characteristic that, though important, is one that liberum arbitrium can operate without and is not essential to its grounding responsibility. Now, the appeal of many Protestants to immunity from coactio as sufficient instead, only emphasized further that for these Protestants too the power of freedom operates over the will itself. It is the elicited agency of the will alone, the locus of liberum arbitrium, that all parties agreed is immune to coactio. “Voluntariness” was another term expressive of this consensus about agency. The elicited agency of the will itself, both confessions agreed, as by its nature immune to coactio is the primary case of voluntariness, or the voluntarium. To base responsibility on voluntariness, on the fact that the agent acted willingly, as Calvin and his followers such as Zanchi did, was simply to reject contingency as necessary to responsibility, not to reject anything more about the Catholic view of agency and our responsibility for it. By contrast, Hobbes rejected this consensus about the voluntary: “Can any man but a schoolman think that the will is voluntary? But yet the will is the cause of voluntary actions.”30 Return to Hobbes’s invocation of Calvin: And thus shall man be said to have Free Will, not because he hath equall freedom to do good or evill, but because he does the evill he does not by constraint but willingly.31 This accurately states the view, shared by much Protestant theology and Hobbes, that freedom, and with it responsibility, is consistent with necessity. But there is an ambiguity in the use of “constraint” and “willingly” that muffles how different Hobbes’s view of agency and responsibility for it is. What is done willingly, for Hobbes, is only the willed or commanded action that occurs as an effect of motivations of the will itself. For according to Hobbes, voluntary action consists only in commanded actions outside the will, not in the elicited actions of the will itself. Voluntary action is indeed done “not by constraint” (Hobbes’s translation here for an absence of coactio). But the absence of constraint for Hobbes amounts to no more than the action being caused by an appetite or passion. Absence of constraint is thus no longer an essential feature of a

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  177 power of the agent to determine their own will. Indeed, the absence of constraint applies, on Hobbes’s theory, only to what was for the Protestant theologians as much as the Catholics a secondary, commanded form of agency, and one that is certainly not in their view immune by its very nature to coactio. The absence of constraint does no further work for Hobbes than to mark voluntariness as he understood it, namely, mere causation by the will. Indeed, in the Questions Hobbes uses the term “constraint” only when invoking Protestant theology’s appeal to the absence of coactio as reconciling responsibility for sin with necessity. He reserves “compulsion” – the then conventional English translation of coactio and the term used for it by Bramhall – not for the imposition of an outcome in opposition to the will, but for a particular form of motivation by the will. Sometimes Hobbes even uses “compulsion” loosely to mean just motivation by the will, as in the text just cited: “You may observe first that to compell a voluntary act, is nothing else, but to will it.”32 But as used by Hobbes more strictly, the term refers to motivation by “terror,” a motivation that in his view is perfectly consistent with our being held responsible for the actions so motivated. Indeed, it is one motivation, as a pronounced fear of punishment or death, through which legal direction can take effect and law be enforced; our susceptibility to compulsion is part of what allows us to be held responsible for complying with the law. Hobbes agreed with the theologians that the will cannot be compelled. But for Hobbes, that is simply because it is only the human agent that is motivated by “terror,” or by any other appetite. The will cannot be compelled, not because it is a locus of some power of self-­determination, but simply because it is not a quasi-­agent to which terms such as “compelled” can properly be applied: I never said the Will is compelled, but do agree with the rest of the World in granting that it is not compelled. … Many things may compel a man to do an Action in producing the Will; but that is not a compelling of the Will, but of the man. That which I call necessitation, is the effecting and creating of that Will which was not before, not a compelling of a Will already existent. The necessitation or Creation of the Will, is the same thing with the compulsion of the man, saving that we commonly use the word compulsion, in those Actions which proceed from terrour.33 8.5 Conclusion Hobbes claims in the Questions that his account of freedom vindicates Protestant theology in its anti-­Arminian form. What Hobbes vindicates is the consistency of freedom with necessity. To do this, he seeks to expose

178  Thomas Pink the true nature and source of the erroneous conception of freedom that opposes it to necessity. This lies in a general human tendency, given ignorance of external causes, to regard free acts as if they really were produced independently of external causes – as if really “produced by Liberty.” But to explain variation in human action without appeal to external causes, in the absence of contingency in the operation of the agent’s power to act (of which we have no conception), we would have to postulate a further power on the agent’s part to suspend or impede their power to act. We would have to adopt a viciously regressive theory of freedom as a power of self-­ determination exercised as liberum arbitrium. Once the absurdity of this psychology is exposed, the illusion that freedom and necessity could ever be opposed to each other, or that the human will could ever operate independently of external causes, is finally dispelled. Notes 1 Hobbes, Questions, 223. 2 Hobbes, Questions, 1–2. 3 Thomas Aquinas, ST IaIIae, q. 21, art. 2, resp. (ed. Caramello, 3:112). 4 Peter Lombard, Sententiae, lib. 2, d. 25, c. 1 (Bonaventura ed., 1:461). 5 Avicenna, Metaphysics, book 4, chap. 1, §11 (trans. Marmura, 127). 6 Zanchi, De natura Dei, q. 4, thesis 2 (451). 7 Zanchi, Tractationum theologicarum volumen, lib. 1, c. 8, thesis 1 (209). 8 Zanchi, Tractationum theologicarum volumen, lib. 1, c. 6, thesis 1 (116–117). 9 Thomas Aquinas, Quaestiones disputatae de potentia, q. 10, art. 2 (ed. Pession, 260). 10 Bellarmine, De gratia et libero arbitrio, 220. 11 Suárez, Disputationes metaphysicae, disp. 19, sect. 1, §12 (Opera Omnia 25:692). 12 Álvarez, De auxiliis divinae gratiae, lib. 3, disp. 26, §10 (223). 13 Hobbes, Questions, 314. 14 Hobbes, Concerning Body, ed. Molesworth, 131. 15 Hobbes, Concerning Body, ed. Molesworth, 213. 16 Hobbes, Questions, 168. 17 Hobbes, Questions, 273. 18 Hobbes, Questions, 205. 19 Hobbes, Questions, 26. 20 Hobbes, Questions, 1–2. 21 Hobbes, Questions, 41 (my emphasis). 22 Hobbes, Questions, 77–78. 23 See Malcolm 2002. 24 Hobbes, Court traité, concl. 11 (ed. Bernhardt, 20). 25 Hobbes, Court traité, concl. 8 (ed. Bernhardt, 18). 26 Hobbes, Elements of Law, ed. Tönnies, 63. 27 Hobbes, Questions, 38. 28 Hobbes, Questions, 217–218. 29 Ibid. 30 Hobbes, Questions, 256.

Hobbes against Liberum Arbitrium  179 1 Hobbes, Questions, 223. 3 32 Hobbes, Questions, 217–218. 33 Hobbes, Questions, 196.

Bibliography Primary Sources Álvarez, Diego. De auxiliis divinae gratiae et humani arbitrii viribus et libertate ac legitima eius cum efficacia eorundem auxiliorum concordia. Rome: n.p., 1610. Aquinas, Thomas. Quaestiones disputatae de potentia. Edited by Paul Pession in Quaestiones disputatae, vol. 2. Rome: Marietti, 1965. ———. Summa theologiae. Edited by Pietro Caramello. 5 vols. Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1950. Avicenna. The Metaphysics of the Healing. Edited and translated by Michael Marmura. Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 2004. Bellarmine, Robert. De gratia et libero arbitrio. In De controversiis christianae fidei adversus huius temporis haereticos. Ingolstadt: n.p., 1593. Hobbes, Thomas. Concerning Body. Edited by William Molesworth. London: John Bohn, 1839. ———. Court traité des premiers principes. Edited by Jean Bernhardt. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1988. ———. Elements of Law. Edited by Ferdinand Tönnies. London: Cass, 1969. Hobbes, Thomas, and John Bramhall. The Questions Concerning Liberty, Necessity and Chance, Clearly Stated between Dr Bramhall, Bishop of Derry, and Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury. London: n.p., 1656. Lombard, Peter. Sententiae in IV libris distinctae. 2 vols. Spicilegium Bonaventurianum 4–5. Grottaferrata: Editiones Collegii S. Bonaventurae ad Claras Aquas, 1971. Suárez, Francisco. Disputationes metaphysicae. Edited by Charles Berton. Opera Omnia 25–26. Paris: Vivès, 1866. Zanchi, Girolamo. De natura dei. In Opera Theologica, vol. 2. Geneva: n.p., 1619. ———. Tractationum theologicarum volumen. Neustadt: n.p., 1603. Secondary Literature Malcolm, Noel. 2002. “Robert Payne, the Hobbes Manuscripts, and the ‘Short Tract’.” In Aspects of Hobbes, 80–145. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

9 Freedom of the Will and the Passions in Pufendorf’s Action Theory Heikki Haara

9.1 Introduction Samuel Pufendorf (1632–1690) is known for his ethical voluntarism, which he articulates by making a sharp demarcation between physical entities and moral entities. Morality depends on the will of intelligent beings, either God or human beings, who assign normativity to the amoral physical world. It has been argued that the key achievement of his hugely influential natural law theory was “to make a concern for voluntarism inescapable in European moral philosophy.”1 In his major work, De jure naturae et gentium (1673), Pufendorf aims to demonstrate the norms and institutions that are required to maintain peaceful sociality (socialitas) as natural law demands. The purpose of moral entities is to institute order in the world. Whereas a benevolent God has instituted a natural (naturalis) normative dimension in the world conjointly with his creation of physical entities such as human nature, humans are obliged to impose exterior (adventicius) moral entities on already existing physical entities.2 Pufendorf uses the concept of moral entities in a broad sense to refer all kinds of normative and action-­guiding norms, such as laws, prices, esteem of persons, and habits that regulate the moral and social aspects of human life. Natural law leaves it up to the will of human beings to impose the moral entities which are most conducive in historically variable social and political contexts to the fulfilment of the obligation to cultivate sociality. Pufendorf’s metaethical view that all norms and values emanate from either the will of God or the will of human beings and his separation between the physical and the moral world have received extensive attention in modern scholarship.3 Much less consideration, however, has been devoted to how he attempted to combine his voluntaristic moral theory with a theory of human action and the various psychological capacities connected with it. Pufendorf provides a detailed account of the faculties of understanding (intellectus) and will (voluntas) in relation to moral deliberation and moral actions. Scholars have noted that his treatment of the

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-12

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  181 psychological faculties of the soul bears several similarities to scholastic faculty psychology.4 What distinguishes Pufendorf from the scholastic natural law tradition, however, is his rejection of the Aristotelian teleological conception of human nature.5 Like his most important source of intellectual stimulus, Thomas Hobbes, Pufendorf is not concerned with the perfection of man’s moral nature, but focuses primarily on how to moderate the antisocial tendencies in human nature in order to maintain stability and peace in large-­scale societies.6 Although Pufendorf accepted several central aspects of Hobbes’s civil science and self-­regarding anthropology, he nevertheless attempted to distinguish his own theory of will from that of Hobbes. Pufendorf’s theory of free will should therefore be understood mainly against the background of his attempt to refute Hobbes’s principle that human beings are moved to act by desires just as other animals are, and that the decision of the will is a form of desire.7 This was evident to later thinkers such as Rousseau, whose defence of man’s freedom and ability to resist the forces of nature was influenced by Pufendorf’s criticism of Hobbes’s account of the will.8 In contrast to Hobbes, Pufendorf maintains that human beings, unlike other animal creatures, possess the distinctive mental faculties of understanding and will, and consequently have freedom (libertas), that is, they have power over their own persons and actions.9 The purpose of this chapter is to explore how free will operates in Pufendorf’s action theory. Pufendorf adamantly rejects Hobbes’s view that free will is compatible with determinism, by endorsing the idea of a free will that is detached from the passions. I shall argue, however, that his descriptive account of how people’s actions are motivated owes very little to the idea of a free will as a condition for an agent causality that would secure the freedom required for moral responsibility. A libertarian view of freedom of the will does not lead Pufendorf to propose arguments for an individual’s capacity for moral self-­governance independent of social pressure and the institutions of the state; rather, he sees socially produced passions and habituation as a crucial source of motivation for moral actions in large-­ scale societies. The chapter unfolds as follows. Since the view that human beings are responsible for their own actions is a central premise of Pufendorf’s theory of moral accountability, his defence of this principle prompted him to develop a detailed explanation of how human beings exercise volitional control over their own actions (§2). Pufendorf also postulated the capacity for effective volition in order to maintain that the will is able to resist the external effects of the passions and prepassions (§3). The theory of will is crucial not only in Pufendorf’s explanations of the conditions under which people are accountable for their actions but also in his clarification of cases of extreme necessity in which human actions are not fully voluntary and people therefore ought to be excused for what they have done (§4). While

182  Heikki Haara Pufendorf consistently emphasizes that people have a capacity to choose that is unimpeded by the external effects of habits that incline the will, he also relies on the inclination of habit as an indispensable motivational underpinning of moral actions when explaining how people ought to be motivated to act cooperatively within society (§5). 9.2 Volitional Control of Actions and Moral Accountability Pufendorf writes in the idiom of natural law, and is concerned mainly with the mental capacities of human nature insofar as they regulate actions in accordance with natural law. He defends the notion that what distinguishes humans from other animals, who act instinctively, is rationality and free will. The importance of free will is a recurring theme in Pufendorf’s works on natural law. Already in his early Elementorum jurisprudentiae universalis (1660), he emphasizes the importance of freedom of choice as an indispensable element of moral action.10 At the outset in the first book of De jure naturae et gentium, the concepts of personal responsibility and imputability come to the fore, and with them the freedom of the will. When exploring the nature of human will, Pufendorf’s main purpose is to argue that humans have the capacity to freely act or not to act “by an internal principle separate from any physical necessity.”11 In a deterministic world, no one would be morally responsible for their actions in the sense that no one would deserve blame. The idea that acting freely means that the agent could have done otherwise is important for Pufendorf’s attempt to refute the physical determination of human actions. According to Pufendorf, will’s “intrinsic indifference cannot be wholly extinguished through some external means,” because without it “the morality of human actions would all at once be fundamentally destroyed.”12 The will is not wholly immune to external influences that motivate the will. Pufendorf’s main purpose is rather to argue that although the will is constantly subject to various external influences, such as the variety of mental dispositions (varietas ingeniorum dispositiones), habits (habitus), passions (affectus), and drunkenness (ebrietas), they do not remove the freedom to act otherwise.13 In Pufendorf’s action theory, moral actions arise through the cooperation of the understanding (intellectus) and the will (voluntas). Actions are originated by the understanding, which contains two faculties: one is natural (naturalis) and the other is free (libera). The natural faculty is passive since “it is not under man’s control to apprehend things differently as their images present themselves to understanding.” The free faculty enables people to weigh and compare the good and bad features of objects and to deliberate about different available means to an end. To make effective use of their understanding, people need to pay “close attention to the thing to be considered and, by carefully reflecting it, to make a more precise and

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  183 balanced assessment of its good and evil features.”14 Pufendorf also notes that understanding has a natural rectitude “which does not allow us to be deceived about moral matters if we attend to them as we should.”15 The proper functioning of the understanding thus requires consideration and care. The underlying idea is that if people could not exercise voluntary control over their beliefs, there would be no point in blaming them for their epistemic failures. Understanding provides guidelines for human actions but does not determine the final decisions about the goal of those actions. On Pufendorf’s interpretation, nothing is more under human control than the will’s power to choose between different options.16 The will has the power of self-­ determination. Like many authors in the scholastic tradition, he localizes voluntary agency in the elicited and commanded acts of the will. The will exerts itself through two faculties, one of which acts spontaneously (sponte) and the other freely (libere). Spontaneous acts of the will are either internal elicited (eliciti) acts, that is, acts of the will itself; or external acts commanded (imperati) by the will.17 The will’s faculty of freedom is a supplementary capacity added to the spontaneous faculty. It allows the will to choose between different objects or, in the case of one object, to either consent to it or reject it: Now freedom, it is supposed, superadds to spontaneity an indifference concerning the exercise of its own actions. This means that the will’s acts of choice and refusal are not necessitated, and that it can opt either way in the case of a particular given objective (though it is generally impossible not be attracted to good and repulsed by evil as such), even if it happens to lean more toward the one than toward the other. It also adds free determination, so that the will out of internal impulse, here and now elicits either one of its acts, that of willing and that of refusing.18 Here freedom as indifference is a kind of contingent efficient causal power that enables us to act indeterminately by choosing between opposite options of action in the same situation. Pufendorf is thus committed to the liberty of indifference, which was popular among early modern scholastic authors such as Francisco Suárez.19 In Pufendorf’s view, the will retains its capacity for self-­determination even though it naturally seeks the good and avoids evil. Thus, while agents naturally aim to maximize the satisfaction of their desires, this natural inclination does not determine the will. (I will deal with this issue in greater detail in the next section.) Moreover, in the passage just quoted, Pufendorf thinks that the because of the will’s freedom, its acts are undetermined: the will has an ability either to will (velle) or reject (nolle).

184  Heikki Haara Pufendorf states that the essence of moral actions comprises both material and formal components. The material element is “some physical motion of a physical power such as locomotion, the sensitive appetite, the external and internal senses, and the understanding during the exercise of apprehension.”20 In turn, a formal element entails that an action can be imputed to the agent, who is the moral cause of an action.21 Pufendorf does not elaborate in detail on what he means here by “form,” but it seems that here the substantial form is an efficient cause of action which regulates the action, in contrast to a material description of action. Pufendorf’s main purpose here is to distinguish between material and efficient explanation of action. Following several late scholastic authors, he uses the Aristotelian conception of form as a kind of internal efficient cause.22 The formal component of action, that is, imputability, necessarily includes the prior decision of the will. Only those actions that are under one’s self-­determination can be imputed to the agent. Thus, it is “a prime axiom in morals that a man is accountable for those actions whose occurrence or non-­occurrence he controls.”23 Pufendorf does not offer an in-­depth analysis of the metaphysics of the will, but it is evident that on his account, having a free will does not necessarily entail that the soul is immaterial. As a physical entity, the will has no moral characteristics as such. In Christian theology, the belief of the immortality of soul usually involves the idea the continued existence of an immaterial soul in the afterlife. Pufendorf does not explicitly deny that the soul is immaterial; rather, he maintains that this question is outside the scope of the discipline of natural law, since the immortality of the soul cannot be securely demonstrated through natural reason alone.24 This premise prompted Leibniz to accuse Pufendorf and his most important disciple, Christian Thomasius, of being “Epicureans.”25 For Pufendorf, in the discipline of natural law, the will ought to be treated as a physical entity lacking. The movements of the will are morally indifferent without the decrees of the law that guide them. Pufendorf’s natural theological premise is that God gave humans the natural faculty of choosing in order to distinguish them from the rest of the created world, and this power of choice entails the possibility of misusing the will.26 Because moral errors are the result of misusing our will, people should not blame God for their own mistakes. For this reason, Pufendorf denounces the idea that human actions are predetermined by divine foreknowledge. Referring to Plato’s Laws, he explains that this would make God the cause of all crimes, a view that should be strictly prohibited in civil societies.27 He also rejects the Stoic notion of fate, arguing that it would make people “mere instruments of their actions, which is not in their power to change at will.”28 Moral blame involves a distinctive form of moral accountability. By adopting Descartes’s strong notion of the free will, Pufendorf underlines

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  185 that the blameworthy cause of errors lies in our improper use of the will.29 Citing Descartes’s Passions of the Soul, which he quotes in Latin translation, Pufendorf states that “the only just cause of esteeming ourselves proceeds from the proper use of free power of choice, and from the control which we exercise over our will.”30 The importance of the recognition that we are the internal causes of our actions is linked to humility. Following Descartes, Pufendorf maintains that acknowledging the weakness of our nature and our tendency to make mistakes can help us avoid rating ourselves above others, since this allows us to recognize that other people “can use their free will, of which they have an equal share, just as we can.”31 Understanding one’s own capacity to choose freely and one’s tendency to make errors is thus important not only as a morally justified cause of self-­ estimation, but also for the avoidance of pride. It is noteworthy that Pufendorf’s defence of free will is not limited to his works on natural law. In his later theological work Jus feciale divinum (1695), he defends the view that people have at least a minimal volitional autonomy to choose their religious beliefs and to accept the grace of God. Without freedom of the will, theology would not be a moral discipline but rather a physical one that operates in accordance with the laws of motion.32 Pufendorf’s moral theology includes a division between moral entities and physical entities that is similar to the division in his natural law theory. Theology is a moral discipline in which people voluntarily impose moral entities to regulate their religious ideas and practices. Pufendorf’s chief purpose in this context is to reject the Calvinistic doctrine of predestination. In defending the Lutheran view of grace and predestination, he employs arguments defending freedom of the will similar to those he used against Hobbes in his earlier natural law works. The account of free will in Jus feciale divinum parallels the faculty psychology of Molina and Suárez, in particular in the idea that the will is formally a free faculty.33 Thus, despite his Lutheranism, Pufendorf is much more optimistic than Luther about the powers of understanding and the will to guide human actions. His interpretation of Lutheranism is more in line with Philip Melanchthon, who had re-­ established the role of free will (liberum arbitrarium) in Lutheran moral theology.34 9.3 Effective Volition and the Control of Passions The previous section showed that the significance of the problem of free will in Pufendorf’s thinking can be traced to the supposition that without belief in free will, there would be little reason for people to act morally or to be held accountable for their actions. Pufendorf’s conception of human nature oscillates between man’s capacity for freedom and his corrupted passionate nature.35 On the one hand, Pufendorf retains the traditional

186  Heikki Haara notion that the passions are opposed to reason and must be therefore restrained and cultivated.36 On the other hand, he recognizes the fundamental role that the passions play in the will, conceding that sometimes it may seem as if passions wholly overcome the will.37 However, passions as such are not necessarily only harmful, but can also be useful for morality; they thus can play a constructive motivational role in moral life. One of the most important duties towards oneself is therefore the continuous cultivation of the mind (cultura animi) in order to develop the passions that are conducive to the fulfilment of one’s moral and civil duties.38 I shall next deal with how Pufendorf attempts to justify the claim that external effects of passions that continuously limit man’s freedom do not eliminate the intrinsic freedom of the will by means of physical determination.39 The distinctive feature of Pufendorf’s treatment of the will’s control over the passions is the division between the interior movements of mind and external action. He is not much concerned with the will’s ability to restrain the passions as long as they do not motivate external actions. Pufendorf considers the wholly internal movements of the mind to be the concern of moral theology and places them outside natural law morality, since he is mainly interested in the social and political implications of the passions. This is why Leibniz, for whom the internal states of the soul form the object of natural law, complained that Pufendorf’s “hypothesis about the soul which is internally corrupt and outwardly innocent is not very safe and not very probable.”40 The main difference between these two thinkers is that while Pufendorf restricts his interest in passions to the civil and social domain, Leibniz’s theory of the passions is linked to eudaimonism and a God-­centred framework. In sharp contrast to Leibniz, Pufendorf maintains that natural law morality is restricted to the sphere of external actions, arguing that unlike moral theology but like civil law, natural law “is largely [magnam partem] concerned with forming men’s external actions.”41 For this reason, the “purely internal acts” such as “sinful thoughts, yearnings, and desires” fall outside the scope of civil punishment as long as they do not motivate external actions.42 This formulation implies that the will’s power to control the passions has a place in Pufendorf’s natural law jurisprudence only insofar as the passions provide motivations for external actions. Pufendorf’s main intention is to argue that a person can use her free will to control her passions to ensure that they do not motivate external actions that are contrary to natural law and civil law. His treatment of the will’s capacity to control the passions is mostly directed against Hobbes’s mechanistic psychology. While Pufendorf accepts the Hobbesian premise that self-­love and glory are the predominant motivational sources of human action, he upholds a non-­deterministic theory of freedom and thus rejects Hobbes’s conception of the will. This prompts Pufendorf to claim that

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  187 humans have a capacity to determine their actions from a principle of effective volition, which is distinguished from the volition of simple approbation. The passions constantly motivate the will to act by the motions of the mind, which arise mainly out of the object’s appearance as good or evil.43 However, Pufendorf rejects the notion that human actions can be fully explained by virtue of motivating passions. In order to draw a dividing line between necessitated animal agency and free human agency, he postulated his theory of effective volition. Pufendorf notes that the will seeks what is presented as naturally good and avoids whatever is evil. This general inclination of the will rules out indifference.44 At the same time, to reject the idea that the will’s acts are determined by the appearance of good and evil, Pufendorf diverges from Hobbes’s position in De homine, arguing that willing and perceiving are not the same thing.45 He agrees with Hobbes’s idea that “appetite and aversion” are unavoidably dependent on a preconception of the future pleasantness or discomfort of objects, but unlike Hobbes, he denies that the will can be understood as merely the last appetite before action. To counter Hobbes’s view, Pufendorf argues that involuntary appearances about desirability and aversion do not diminish the freedom of the will. In order to distinguish volition from mere desire, Pufendorf postulates a distinction between “the volition of simple approbation” and “effective volition, or choice, which is not so necessarily dependent on particular objects.”46 This formulation allows for an interpretation according to which, although the first type of volition is instinctive in that simple approbation is determined by the object’s appearance as good or bad, the will nevertheless retains an ability to choose between different options thanks to effective volition, which is not determined by one’s desires. This distinction enables Pufendorf to maintain that agents have a genuine freedom to choose despite the fact that the will is inclined towards objects that appear good. To differentiate his account of freedom from Hobbes’s radical denial of the freedom of the will, Pufendorf also asserts that it is impossible to coerce the will.47 He contrasts his conception of freedom as indifference with the Hobbesian view of the “negative freedom” of being free of constraints. In the Hobbesian picture, freedom is nothing more than unobstructed desire. Even though our actions are causally determined in advance by desires, we can nevertheless be free, in the Hobbesian picture, provided that there are no external impediments preventing us from doing what we want. In other words, for Hobbes, constraints such as locked cells or shackles remove our freedom by preventing us from doing what we want. According to Pufendorf’s interpretation, Hobbes’s definition of freedom as the “absence of hindrances of motion” could be defined as corporeal and physical; it would then follow that “all slaves and subjects are free who are not restrained by chains or prisons.”48 Moreover, Pufendorf’s liberty is not

188  Heikki Haara merely bodily liberty: the freedom of the will marks the dividing line between instinctive animal agency and free human agency. Human beings are above other animals since they have a mind equipped with understanding and a volitional ability to choose.49 The idea that no matter how violent the passionate impulses are, they cannot “entirely overcome the force of will” is central to Pufendorf’s conception of freedom. He therefore also argues that effective volition allows people to resist even the so-­called prepassions, the instinctive first movements of the will which are not properly passions but must be immediately restrained in order to avoid their leading to morally bad passions. Pufendorf takes the concept of prepassions (προπάθειαι, propassiones) from Seneca (who derived it from earlier Stoic discussions),50 and in the early modern era, the prepassions continued to receive extensive attention in Christian thought and in the natural history of the passions.51 Quoting Seneca’s De ira, Pufendorf contends that although the first movements of the soul are outside the scope of the direct control of the mind, the will is able to restrain the prepassions before they produce assent.52 In the seventeenth century, philosophical discussion about governing the passions was often influenced by the Christian idea of divine grace as the only plausible means of restraining them. This tendency is visible also in Pufendorf, who maintains that “by diligent attention and exercise and above all the Holy Spirit,” people are able to domesticate and govern the prepassions.53 However, since Pufendorf places supernatural explanations outside the domain of natural law, he maintains that the will does not necessarily need divine assistance in order to restrain the prepassions and passions. Citing Descartes’s Passions of the Soul, Pufendorf states that even those “who have rather weak spirits” are able to “acquire an absolute control over their passions if they are sufficiently diligent in forming and directing them.”54 It seems from this passage that Pufendorf maintains that it does not require exceptional mental capacities or training by superiors to be able to control one’s passions. As we saw in the first section, the idea that people exercise self-­ determination and control over their actions through free will is central to Pufendorf’s theory of moral blame and imputability. In his view, all normal adults (thus excluding small children and persons suffering from mental disorders) have enough voluntary autonomy to act as morally responsible beings. It should be noted, however, that Pufendorf concedes that in some instances, the will cannot prevent “impulses, based on the very constitution of the body” from breaking forth into activity.55 Nevertheless, he maintains that the will can prevent passionate impulses from producing morally wrong external acts. For instance, the person cannot always prevent sexual desire from emerging in acts, but she is nonetheless capable of satisfying this desire without doing morally wrong actions.56 Pufendorf thinks that, given the strength of sexual desire, celibacy is mentally too

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  189 demanding for the majority of humankind, but people also have the option of marriage in order to satisfy their sexual needs.57 While he admits that strong passions may sometimes override the power of will in causing actions, he maintains that the passions are always subject to the control of the will in the sense that people are able to restrain and redirect their passions so that they do not cause external actions that are contrary to natural and civil law. 9.4 Extreme Necessity and Mixed Actions How Pufendorf conceptualized the function of the faculty of will is important not only for his account of how we are able to voluntarily control our actions, but also in his explanation of when our actions are not fully voluntary and we are not wholly accountable for them. He took it as his task to clarify why in the cases of extreme necessity an agent’s freedom of will is diminished and therefore her actions are mixed and should be excused. According to Pufendorf, it may happen that “the will is sometimes under such immense pressure, when it is threatened by grievous evil judged to exceed the ordinary strength of the human mind that it consents to undertake things it absolutely avoids when not so necessitated.”58 In these contexts, there is a kind of ineluctable or supreme fear which prompts people to act by natural necessity.59 When describing these actions as partly voluntary and partly involuntary, Pufendorf refers to Aristotle’s theory of mixed action (actiones mixtae) in the Nicomachean Ethics.60 On the one hand, mixed actions are voluntary insofar as the agent is rationally aware of the conditions of actions and the will makes the final decision about the course of an action; on the other hand, they are partially involuntary because the will is motivated to act in ways it would not act if it were possible to avoid the evil in some other way. As a result, mixed actions partially lack the “moral effects” which are the result of “purely spontaneous actions.”61 The concept of mixed actions is an exception in Pufendorf’s action theory, which otherwise emphasizes the freedom of human agency. The concern here is whether the agent’s action proceeds from the free use of the will and what this entails about an agent’s moral accountability. The exercise of self-­determined will is important for the understanding of his theory of moral obligation.62 Although Pufendorf derives moral obligations from the commands of a superior, he notes that they differ fundamentally from coercion. Coercion and obligation are separate things, and “the former can be done by natural strength alone, but by no means the latter.”63 As we have seen, since involuntary emotional impulses do not destroy the freedom of the will, the passions do not render us unable to act in conformity with moral obligation; the concept of obligation thus presumes the existence of psychological faculties that can freely respond or not respond to moral

190  Heikki Haara norms. However, Pufendorf also notes that when an agent’s powers to act are naturally tied to the uniform mode of acting, “they produce not a moral but a physical action, which is said to arise from necessity rather than from obligation.”64 The concept of mixed action is employed by Pufendorf in his discussion of situations of extreme necessity, when human actions partly lack freedom and therefore cannot be considered fully moral actions but merely necessary physical actions. Above all, Pufendorf acknowledges that it is difficult to presume obligations that ought to override one’s desire to stay alive.65 In Pufendorf’s theory, the right of self-­ preservation is ultimately predicated on the fundamental natural law principle of sociability, according to which people have a duty to preserve their own lives in order to promote sociability, and consequently have a right not to be killed by others. There are no immediate connections between the inclination to self-­preservation and the right of self-­preservation, since natural rights are not grounded in natural inclinations. At the same time, Pufendorf is attentive to the effects of the inclination to self-­preservation when he considers the actual scope of the natural right of self-­preservation in different social contexts.66 The classic example is the situation of life-­threatening hunger that prompts people to seize the property of others by theft or violence. In these cases, an agent is not guilty of the crime of theft.67 Pufendorf thinks that legislators ought to pay attention to the weakness of human nature and the fact that people cannot help but resist whatever is completely destructive of them. Most laws are therefore presumed to make an exemption in the case of necessity, and do not impose an obligation “when such an obligation will be attended by some evil destructive of human nature, or too great for the common constancy of humankind.”68 Pufendorf’s purpose here is not to argue that the inclination to self-­preservation establishes an inalienable right not to obey the civil laws; rather, he maintains that when imposing laws, legislators should prudently consider the facts of human nature. 9.5 Habituation and Political Governance Pufendorf’s conception of moral action is based on the premise that under normal circumstances, humans have a natural capacity to regulate their actions by free will, as opposed to their conduct being coerced by forces external to the will. Nevertheless, we should not consider his account of the freedom of the will as a precondition for moral accountability to be an attempt to postulate a radical independence of moral agency from inclinations and passions. Although at a normative level morality presumes the capacity to determine one’s actions through free will, Pufendorf’s description of how people actually use their power of freedom is mostly pessimistic. One can find extensive textual evidence in De jure naturae et gentium

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  191 that Pufendorf was highly sceptical about most people’s abilities to motivate their actions according to moral principles. The acknowledgement of the motivational limitations of individual rationality stimulated him to propose socio-­psychological explanations as a source of motivation for moral actions. Pufendorf maintains that all normal adults are able to guide their actions by recognizing the practical utility of moral precepts through habituation and imitation.69 The common people “derive the law from popular notions and public practice” and “observe the law’s immediate utility on a daily basis.”70 For this reason, it is the civil sovereign’s duty to habituate people to internalize moral norms. Insofar as people are rational, it is expected that they can be freely moved or not moved by the reasons obligations provide; Pufendorf’s normative claim is that what “ought to incline” the will most is moral obligation.71 The responsibility of conforming to obligations is owed to the will of a superior authority. Without an agent’s recognition of the authority of superiors, “there is no external principle strong enough to place a bridle on his internal freedom.”72 Human beings have the capacity to bear moral obligations, since (1) they are under the authoritative power of a superior, and (2) they have a free will which can choose between alternatives and thus voluntarily “conform itself to some moral norm.”73 While the power of superiors to punish and the accompanying fear of sanctions play a crucial role in Pufendorf’s account of moral obligation, the fear of punishment in itself is not a sufficient source of motivation. The obligation also involves a superior’s legitimate reasons for imposing some norm. This entails that either a superior has “procured some notable good for me” or “I must have consented voluntarily to his direction.”74 Pufendorf’s justification for the need to establish the sovereign state echoes several of Hobbes’s arguments. In the case of natural law, the superior authority is God, who not only has the capacity to punish wrongdoers but has also willed the content of natural law for the benefit of humankind as a whole. In the case of civil law, the superior authority is the civil sovereign, who has the strength to punish by imposing civil sanctions, and has legitimate reasons for imposing laws, since the sovereign state is a necessary means of maintaining sociability in a large-­scale society. He wants to persuade his readers that there is a pressing need to institute the sovereign state, which is “the most perfect society,” in order to maintain sociability as natural law demands.75 Pufendorf is not always consistent in his argumentation about the origins of political consent. In some passages, he maintains that because humans have a natural inclination to govern their actions without the interference of others, man “did not enter into states of his own free will” but rather through the force of necessity “to avoid greater evils”;76 in others, he explains that civil societies are instituted by voluntary consent.77

192  Heikki Haara Be that as it may, for the majority of people it is extremely difficult to rationally motivate themselves to act or not to act as the sovereign commands. It is precisely because of the mixture of free will and evil inclinations in human nature that the fear of punishment is needed in civil societies to curtail human actions contrary to civil law. Since “the moral bond does not destroy the freedom of the human will” and most people do not pay proper attention to the reasons for the establishment of sovereignty, there is a need of “the fear of an evil to be inflicted for violated obligation.”78 Civil societies cannot remain stable unless people “are restrained by some common fear.”79 It is rational for people to obey the sovereign since it is in their long-­term self-­interest. Those individuals who, because of their wickedness or stupidity, refuse to accept the authority of the state and “freely do what duty requires” may be compelled to obey the commands of civil laws through “fear of punishment and extrinsic coercion.”80 It is important to note, however, that in Pufendorf’s view, subjection to the state does not destroy the “natural liberty of the will.”81 People always retain a genuine freedom not to obey the civil laws. Since moral and political obligations differ fundamentally from mere external coercion, Pufendorf is reluctant to claim that the mere threat of civil punishment and external coercion is sufficient to turn men into social and political animals. He therefore argues that the sovereign’s duty is not merely to rule by fear of punishment, but also to actively socialize citizens. The important point here is that the sovereign’s task is to make sure that people act in conformity with civil laws “not so much from a fear of punishments as from habit [assuetudo].”82 The reason for this is that punishment does not motivate right conduct but mainly produces “an anxiety not to get caught in one’s evildoing.”83 In civil societies, individuals are habituated to live a suitable civil life.84 Pufendorf’s acknowledgement that the greatest part of people’s moral dispositions results from habituation led him to endorse the idea that for people to be motivated to act in accordance with moral norms, they must be socialized into the norms of their societies.85 In Pufendorf’s duty-­based ethics, habitually acquired mental dispositions have a moral significance insofar as they motivate men’s external actions in accordance with the duties imposed by natural law. The regular recurrence of similar actions forcefully inclines the will and “makes it seems if the mind is carried towards the object as soon as it presents itself.” When these inclinations of the will are accompanied by “a pleasure and ease of acting, they are commonly called habits.”86 Pufendorf thus asserts that when individuals are habituated into the prevailing norms of a society, “their minds become so moulded that it occurs to very few of them to question whether things could be done in any other way.”87

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  193 Pufendorf’s insight into the stabilizing power of custom and habits does not entail that moral behaviour could be fully determined by prior mental states. Since human freedom is a fundamentally contingent power that allows people to exercise genuine control over their own actions, habits do not destroy the will’s ability to freely regulate the course of human actions. In order to retain the idea that people are morally accountable for their own actions, Pufendorf asserts that although an individual is inclined to evil action by “a mind corrupted by evil habits and a vicious life,” the effects of habits are not so overwhelming that the individual’s actions could not be imputed to her.88 He clarifies that since it is impossible to destroy the intrinsic freedom of the will and “to compose men’s judgements concerning things into constant harmony,” it is indispensable to make sure that people’s opinions and judgements do not jeopardize political stability.89 Pufendorf notes that while voluntary actions depend on the decision of the will, “the will to do or not to do something depends on the opinion of the good or evil, reward or punishment”; there is therefore “a need for external means so that those opinions and judgements do as much as possible agree, or at least so that their discrepancy does not disturb the state.”90 Political governance ought to take care that the minds of the citizens are formed from childhood with doctrines and beliefs that are consistent with the end and functions of the state, for “most mortals tend to perceive things as they are accustomed to.”91 It is thus the duty of the sovereign to cultivate love for the state among its citizens and to nurture habits that incline them to carry out the duties of citizenship without fear. 9.6 Conclusion Pufendorf’s treatment of the free will reveals how he attempted to depart from Hobbes’s radical view of human freedom, which sees human psychology as governed by the same mechanisms that govern the behaviour of other animals. Pufendorf’s central task was to argue that free will and determinism are mutually exclusive: in modern terminology, he holds a libertarian view of freedom of the will. Freedom involves a volitional capacity of human beings to exercise control over their actions. The will’s power of self-­ determination is crucial for the concept of moral accountability, since if we were not free to choose, it would make no sense to say we can be held responsible for our actions. It was particularly important for Pufendorf to establish that a person is responsible for her external actions, because the will is always able to act against the inclination of the passions towards morally blameworthy actions. At the same time, he also tries to clarify why in circumstances of extreme necessity human actions are not fully voluntary and people are therefore not fully accountable for their actions.

194  Heikki Haara Voluntary control over one’s passions plays a crucial role in Pufendorf’s conception of responsible agency. However, his view that free will is constitutive of moral responsibility does not entail that the passions and habits which incline the will can destroy the freedom of the will or are necessarily detrimental to morality. While Pufendorf argues that an action cannot be both free and causally necessitated by external influences, his understanding of the freedom of indifference does not entail that the will is or should be wholly immune to the external effects of passions and habits, and he leaves room in his account for passions and habits to incline the will. Human will is potentially responsive to education. The principle that a person is the cause of her own moral actions (since the will is never determined by external influences) plays a very limited role in his descriptive explanation of how the norms of natural law achieve their aim in practice. Pufendorf acknowledges that an explanation of how people actually motivate themselves to moral actions will fall short if it does not pay attention to the social factors that guide the will. His strategy is thus to defend a robust notion of the freedom of the will as a precondition for responsible agency, but one which is nevertheless compatible with social forces and one’s superiors playing a significant role in forming an individual’s will. Pufendorf’s account of free will influenced his understanding of how political governance ought to guide the wills of citizens. Because humans are naturally free, mere fear of punishment and external coercion is an insufficient motivation for moral and political actions; the sovereign also has to ensure that people internalize through habituation the moral and civil norms that incline the will. Notes 1 Schneewind 1998, 138. 2 Pufendorf, De jure naturae et gentium [= JNG], lib. 1, c. 1, §5 (ed. Böhling, 15). 3 The best available analysis on Pufendorf’s theory of moral entities is Ahnert 2022. On Pufendorf’s voluntarism, see also Schneewind 1987; Irwin 2008, 285–305. 4 See Holland 2017, 65–80; Pink 2009, 97–114. 5 This is not to claim that that teleological account of human nature is entirely absent in Pufendorf’s treatment of human nature; see Behme 2002, 39–42. 6 On Pufendorf’s demonstrative method of natural law and the similarities and differences between Pufendorf’s and Hobbes’s views on the character of natural law, see Saastamoinen 2019, 107–131. 7 For an analysis and contextualization of Hobbes’s theory of free will, see Thomas Pink’s contribution in this volume (Chapter 8). 8 Douglass 2013, 76–82. 9 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 1, §19 (ed. Böhling, 24). 10 Samuel Pufendorf, Elementorum jurisprudentiae universalis, lib. 1, def. 1, §3 (ed. Behme, 8). 11 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §1 (ed. Böhling, 46).

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  195 12 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §3 (ed. Böhling, 48; trans. Seidler in The Political Writings of Samuel Pufendorf, 113). 13 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §§4–8 (ed. Böhling, 49–52). 14 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 3, §§1–2 (ed. Böhling, 36–37; trans Seidler, 109). 15 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 3, §3 (ed. Böhling, 37; trans. Seidler, 110). 16 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 4, §7 (ed. Böhling, 169). 17 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §1 (ed. Böhling, 46). 18 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §2 (ed. Böhling, 47; trans. Seidler, 112–113, modified). 19 For an analysis of Suárez’s influential defence of the freedom of the will, see Penner 2013. 20 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 5, §2 (ed. Böhling, 56; trans. Seidler, 117). 21 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 5, §3 (ed. Böhling, 57; trans. Seidler, 117). 22 On late scholastic discussion of the form as a cause of action, see Pasnau 2004, 39–44. 23 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 5, §5 (ed. Böhling, 58). 24 Pufendorf, De officio, prefatio (ed. Hartung, 6). 25 See Ahnert 2009, 41–43. 26 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 1, §5 (ed. Böhling, 109). 27 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §3 (ed. Böhling, 48). 28 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 4, §4 (ed. Böhling, 165; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather in On the Law of Nature and Nations, 339) 29 See the contributions on Descartes in this volume by Stephan Schmid (Chapter 4) and Ariane Schneck (Chapter 8). 30 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 3, c. 2, §6 (ed. Böhling, 231; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 339). 31 Ibid. 32 Pufendorf, Jus feciale divinum, §67 (ed. Döring, 71). 33 See Holland 2017, 73–80. 34 See Behme 2022, 259–263. 35 On Pufendorf’s conception of freedom, and for an analysis of the tension between the involuntary passions and rational autonomy in his thinking, see Dawson 2013. 36 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 4, §12 (ed. Böhling, 173–174). 37 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §5 (ed. Böhling, 50). 38 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 4, §2 (ed. Böhling, 164). On the concept of cultura animi in early modern philosophy, see Corneanu 2011. 39 The analysis in this section is based on Haara 2016. 40 Gottfied Leibniz, “Opinion on the Principles of Pufendorf” (trans. Riley, 69). 41 Pufendorf, De officio, prefatio (ed. Hartung, 6; trans. Silverthorne in On the Duty of Man and Citizen, 9). 42 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 8, c. 3, §14 (ed. Böhling, 775). 43 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §7 (ed. Böhling, 52). 44 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §4 (ed. Böhling, 49). 45 See Hobbes, De homine, c. 11, § 2 (trans. Wood, Scott-­Craig, and Gert, in Man and Citizen, 45–46). 46 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §2 (ed. Böhling, 47; trans. Seidler, 113). 47 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 1, §1 (ed. Böhling, 107). 48 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 6, c. 3, §10 (ed. Böhling, 623; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 944). 49 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 1, §5 (ed. Böhling, 109).

196  Heikki Haara 50 Sorabji 2000, 351–352. In medieval philosophy the prepassions were discussed in a theological context as part of the condition of humankind’s fallen state. See Knuuttila 2014, 178–195. 51 On the reception of the Stoic notions of passions in early modern discussion, see Kraye 2012. 52 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §7 (ed. Böhling, 52). 53 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §7 (ed. Böhling, 52; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 60). 54 Ibid. 55 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §5 (ed. Böhling, 50; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 58). 56 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §5 (ed. Böhling, 51). 57 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 6, c. 1, §7 (ed. Böhling, 560). 58 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §9 (ed. Böhling, 54; trans. Seidler, 115). 59 For Hobbes’s description of a similar kind of a supreme stage of fear and necessity, see his On the Citizen (ed. Tuck and Silverhorne, 39). 60 On Aristotle’s theory of mixed actions and its contemporary relevance, see Pakaluk 2011, 211–232. 61 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §9 (ed. Böhling, 54). 62 This view bears notable similarities to those of earlier scholastic authors such as Francisco Suárez and Gabriel Vasquez; see Pink 2009, 106. 63 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 6, §10 (ed. Böhling, 76; trans. Seidler, 124). 64 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 6, §8 (ed. Böhling, 75; trans. Seidler, p 122). 65 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 6, §1 (ed. Böhling, 205). 66 On the moral psychological aspects of Pufendorf’s theory of necessity, see Haara 2020, 99–104. 67 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 6, §5 (ed. Böhling, 209). 68 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 6, §2 (ed. Böhling, 206; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 296). 69 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 2, §9 (ed. Böhling, 125). 70 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 3, §13 (ed. Böhling, 145; trans Seidler, 151). 71 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §8 (ed. Böhling, 53; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 62). 72 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 6, §8 (ed. Böhling, 75; trans. Seidler, 123). 73 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 6, §6 (ed. Böhling, 73; trans. Seidler, 122). 74 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 6, §12 (ed. Böhling, 79; trans. Seidler, 125). 75 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 1, §1 (ed. Böhling, 627). 76 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 1, §4 (ed. Böhling, 630). 77 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 3, §1 (ed. Böhling, 661). For an analysis of the role of free will in Pufendorf’s theory of consent and its similarities to Suárez’s account, see Ramelet 2020. 78 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 6, §12 (ed. Böhling, 79; trans. Seidler, 126). 79 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 2, §3 (ed. Böhling, 640; trans. Seidler, 209). 80 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 2, §5 (ed. Böhling, 643). 81 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 9, §4 (ed. Böhling, 736; trans. Seidler, 242). 82 Ibid. 83 Ibid. 84 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 1, §4 (ed. Böhling, 632). 85 For a more detailed discussion on role of habits in Pufendorf’s natural law theory, see Haara 2018, 52–57 and 91–97. 86 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 4, §6 (ed. Böhling, 51; trans. Seidler, 114). 87 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 2, c. 3, §13 (ed. Böhling, 145; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 202).

Freedom of the Will and the Passions  197 88 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 1, c. 3, §3 (ed. Böhling, 38; trans. Oldfather and Oldfather, 202). 89 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 4, §8 (ed. Böhling, 670). 90 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 4, §8 (ed. Böhling, 670; trans. Seidler, 221–222). 91 Pufendorf, JNG, lib. 7, c. 4, §8 (ed. Böhling, 670; trans. Seidler, 222).

Bibliography Primary Sources Hobbes, Thomas. On the Citizen. Edited and translated by Richard Tuck and Michael Silverhorne. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. ———. “On Man.” In Man and Citizen (De homine and De cive), edited by Bernard Gert and translated by Charles Wood, T. S. K. Scott-­Craig, and Bernard Gert, 31–85. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1991. Leibniz, Gottfried. “Opinion on the Principles of Pufendorf.” In Leibniz: Political Writings, edited and translated by Patrick Riley, 64–76. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Pufendorf, Samuel. De jure naturae et gentium. Edited by Frank Böhling. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2008. ———. De officio. Edited by Gerald Hartung. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997. ———. Elementorum jurisprudentiae universalis. Edited by Frank Böhling. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999. ———. Jus feciale divinum. Edited by Detlef Döring. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004. ———. On the Duty of Man and Citizen. Edited by James Tully. Translated by Michael Silverthorne. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. ———. On the Law of Nature and Nations. Translated by C. H. Oldfather and W. A. Oldfather. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934. ———. The Political Writings of Samuel Pufendorf. Edited by Craig Carr. Translated by Michael J. Seidler. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Secondary Literature Ahnert, Thomas. 2009. “Problematische Bindungswirkung: Zum ‘Epikureismus’ im Naturrecht der deutschen Frühaufklärung.” In Das Naturrecht der Geselligkeit: Anthropologie, Recht und Politik im 18. Jahrhundert, edited by Vanda Fiorillo and Frank Grunert, 39–54. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot. ———. 2022. “The Metaphysics of Moral Entities.” In The Cambridge Companion to Pufendorf, edited by Knud Haakonssen and Ian Hunter, 90–108. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Behme, Thomas. 2002. Samuel von Pufendorf: Naturrecht und Staat; Eine Analyse und Interpretation seiner Theorie, ihrer Grundlagen und Probleme. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. ———. 2022. “Pufendorf’s Lutheranism.” In Sacred Polities, Natural Law and the Law of Nations in the 16th and 17th Centuries, edited by Hans Blom, 242–266. Leiden: Brill.

198  Heikki Haara Corneanu, Sorana. 2011. Regimens of the Mind: Boyle, Locke and Early Modern Cultura Animi Tradition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dawson, Hannah. 2013. “Natural Religion: Pufendorf and Locke on the Edge of Freedom and Reason.” In Freedom and the Construction of Europe, vol. 1, Religious Freedom and Liberty, edited by Quentin Skinner and Martin van Gelderen, 115–133. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Douglass, Robin. 2013. Rousseau and Hobbes: Nature, Free Will, and the Passions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haara, Heikki. 2016. “Pufendorf on Passions and Sociability.” Journal of the History of Ideas 77, no. 3: 423–444. ———. 2018. Pufendorf’s Theory of Sociability: Passions, Habits and Social Order. Cham: Springer. ———. 2020. “Inclination of Self-­Preservation and the Rights to Life and Body in Samuel Pufendorf’s Natural Law Theory.” In Rights at the Margins: Historical, Philosophical and Legal Perspectives, edited by Virpi Mäkinen, Jonathan Robinson, Pamela Slotte, and Heikki Haara, 87–108. Leiden: Brill. Holland, Ben. 2017. The Moral Person of the State: Pufendorf’s Theory of Sovereignty and Composite Polities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Irwin, Terence. 2008. The Development of Ethics: A Historical and Critical Study, vol. 2, From Suarez to Rousseau. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knuuttila, Simo. 2014. Emotions in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kraye, Jill. 2012. “ἀπάθεια and προπάθειαι in Early Modern Discussions of the Passions: Stoicism, Christianity and Natural History.” Early Science and Medicine 17, no. 1/2: 230–253. Pakaluk, Michael. 2011. “Mixed Actions and Double Effect.” In Moral Psychology and Human Nature in Aristotle, edited by Michael Pakaluk and Giles Pearson, 211–232. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pasnau, Robert. 2004. “Form, Substance, and Mechanism.” Philosophical Review 113, no. 1: 31–88. Penner, Sydney. 2013. “Free and Rational: Suárez on the Will.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 95, no. 1: 1–35. Pink, Thomas. 2009. “Natural Law and the Theory of Moral Obligation.” In Psychology and Philosophy: Inquiries into the Soul from Late Scholasticism to Contemporary Thought, edited by Sara Heinämaa and Martina Reuter, 97–114. Dordrecht: Springer. Ramelet, Laetitia. 2020. “Pufendorf’s Solution to the Problem of Consent and Natural Law.” History of Political Thought 41, no. 2: 299–323. Saastamoinen, Kari. 2019. “Pufendorf on the Law of Sociality and the Law of Nations.” In The Law of Nations and Natural Law 1625–1800, edited by Simone Zurbuchen, 107–131. Leiden: Brill. Schneewind, Jerome B. 1987. “Pufendorf’s Place in the History of Ethics.” Synthese 72, no. 1: 123–155. ———. 1998. The Invention of Autonomy: A History of Modern Moral Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sorabji, Richard. 2000. Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

10 Heavenly “Freedom” in Fourteenth-Century Voluntarism Eric W. Hagedorn

10.1 Introduction Among medieval Christian thinkers, it was widely held that humans in heaven and the good angels are unable to sin and yet are also significantly free – and not just free, but even more free than humans in the present life. Peter Lombard’s Sentences, the twelfth-­century text that for centuries was the standard textbook for graduate students in theology, is representative in its presentation of these claims: The good angels have been confirmed by such grace that they cannot become evil. … And yet [they] have free choice because the good angels choose the good and reject evil without any compelling necessity, but by their own spontaneous will assisted by grace.1 And again: The angels and saints who already live happily with the Lord and are already so confirmed in the grace of blessedness that they neither can, nor wish to bend to evil, do not lack free choice. … After the confirmation of blessedness, there will be in man a free choice by which he will be unable to sin, as it already now is in the angels and saints who are with the Lord; and certainly the choice will be so much the freer the more immune it is from sin and the more prone to good.2 Surely one can be forgiven for finding the conjunction of these two claims – that the blessed are unable to sin and are nevertheless free – puzzling, if not downright contradictory. Attempting to explain how both these claims can be true animated a great deal of medieval Christian philosophical theology; the puzzle has also received a significant amount of discussion within contemporary philosophy of religion.3

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-13

200  Eric W. Hagedorn Of course, one straightforward way to reconcile these two claims is to reject the principle that freedom requires the ability to do other than one does, perhaps by endorsing a compatibilist account of freedom such that one’s actions can be free even in the absence of alternative possibilities. This strategy was frequently employed in the Middle Ages: Aquinas arguably makes just such a move. In brief, Aquinas holds that one chooses freely just when one chooses according to a considered judgement of reason (contrasting free actions with those actions that result from non-­rational causes), and that the will is free so long as it is not coerced by something external to the agent. Thus, since the intellects of the blessed are perfected by the beatific vision and so cannot be mistaken in their considered but non-­coerced judgements, their wills are eternally but freely fixed upon the good.4 In a similar vein, Anselm gives what became a popular medieval solution5: he largely dissolves the puzzle by defining freedom (or, in his parlance, free choice) as the power to maintain a morally upright will. As such, the ability to sin is not a part of freedom but is instead the ability to enslave oneself. Given this definition of freedom, the fact that the blessed are unable to sin does not in any way limit their freedom; rather, their freedom is enhanced insofar as their blessedness strengthens their power to preserve their morally upright wills.6 But the Anselmian claim that the ability to sin is no part of freedom has little purchase in the contemporary debate. Rather, the contemporary discussion is largely driven by the assumption that “significant freedom” must include the ability to commit wrongdoing as well as the ability to abstain from it.7 Contemporary authors have thus tried to give some other explanation of the sinlessness of the blessed by appealing, for example, to character traits that are freely formed in the present life and that preclude sinning in heaven, in order to hold that the blessed have freedom in some derivative sense.8 Peter John Olivi, one of the key progenitors of the late medieval voluntarist tradition, similarly contended that, contra Anselm, the ability to sin is an essential part of creaturely freedom. Olivi’s claim made the puzzle of heavenly freedom a more pressing one in the fourteenth century, especially for those voluntarist authors who adopted his understanding of freedom. In what follows, I briefly review Olivi’s contention that creaturely freedom must include the ability to sin (§2). I then discuss a cluster of strategies employed by voluntarists in Olivi’s wake to account for the freedom of the blessed (§3). I close by looking in some detail at a related solution offered by the fourteenth-­century mystic Marguerite Porete, a thinker not often considered together with the scholastic voluntarists but who, I argue, can be seen as extending their thought in a surprising direction (§4).

Heavenly “Freedom”  201 10.2 Late Medieval Voluntarism and the Freedom to Sin It has been frequently noted that it is difficult to give anything like necessary and sufficient conditions for classifying a given medieval thinker as a voluntarist, though this has not dissuaded many from trying.9 Regardless of whether there is a precise position that can be identified as voluntarism, what is clear enough is that there is a family of related positions adopted by a significant number of philosophers and theologians in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, especially by authors who either were members of the Franciscan order or show considerable Franciscan influence.10 These thinkers tend to privilege the will over the intellect, both in the psychology of decision-­making and the grounding of ethical norms. The will is more noble than the intellect, they say, and acts of the will more important than acts of the intellect. This leads in turn to other distinctively voluntarist positions, such as the view that the source of heavenly beatitude is the will and its enjoyment of God, rather than the intellect and its vision of God. The voluntarists also stress the active nature of the will, hold that human freedom stems from the will rather than the intellect, and insist that the will’s activity is (at least much of the time11) not determined by anything outside itself, especially not by the considered judgements of intellect.12 Indeed, the view that the will is able to act contrary to what reason judges should be done is often taken to be the characteristic thesis of those thinkers now commonly lumped together under the voluntarist label. Robert Pasnau, for one, suggests that this view “is perhaps the most distinctive characteristic of medieval voluntarism” and argues that it leads to two other views he identifies as also characteristic of voluntarism, namely, that the will is the “primary locus” of both selfhood and moral worth: these thinkers maintain that is it is the state of our wills that defines who we are and whether we are good.13 Among the most important figures in the thirteenth-­century rise of voluntarist views is Peter John Olivi. In his Quaestiones in libros Sententiarum (often referred to as his Summa), in addition to offering a new definition of personhood in terms of freedom and the ability to freely engage in self-­ reflection,14 Olivi also broke new ground by arguing, contrary to the Anselmian consensus, that the ability to sin is an essential part of creaturely freedom.15 In particular, he claims that what is essential to freedom is the active power of sinning, which he specifies as the will’s power to turn itself towards a given object, to bring forth a vicious act by doing so, and by so acting to attach “negative or vicious defects” to itself.16 It seems then that for Olivi it is not sufficient for freedom just to be able to refrain from virtuous acts; one must also be capable of positively bringing about vicious acts. Olivi goes on to insist that this active power for sinning is not merely

202  Eric W. Hagedorn a defect in the will, but rather is a “great and noble feature [entitatem] of created freedom.”17 Again, not only is the ability to sin part of created freedom, but it is an essential part of such freedom: given the limitations and imperfections inherent to created being, God cannot create a free creature without giving it the ability to sin.18 Olivi gives multiple reasons for thinking that the ability to sin must be a part of creaturely freedom. Among other reasons, he contends that this ability serves as the key difference between creaturely freedom and divine freedom; without the ability to sin, our wills would in no way fall short of God’s will. Further, he argues that freedom must involve the ability to perform either of two opposing actions, so one must have the power to perform actions opposed to virtue in order to be free. His last and most developed argument relies on the claim that one can be morally responsible only for what one does freely. He argues that if the ability to sin is not part of freedom, then no sin is done freely; but if no sin is done freely, and one is morally responsible only for what one does freely, then it follows no one is morally responsible for their sinful acts – a conclusion deeply at odds with both common sense and Christian belief.19 But if the power to sin is an essential part of created freedom, how, then, can the blessed in heaven remain free and yet be sinless? Olivi’s response to this question has two parts. First, he argues that even though the power to sin is essential to creaturely wills in their initial state, it is not essential to the will that it be readily disposed to committing sin: Insofar as the ability to sin refers to a sort of remote power, or insofar as it refers to a possibility that pertains to a will that does not possess a habit that determines the will toward what is contrary to sin, then the ability to sin is essential to our will. But insofar as the ability to sin refers to a sort of proximate power, a power that is disposed or is easily disposable and moveable by itself toward evil, then the ability to sin is not essential to our will and so it can be taken away by grace and consummated glory.20 Olivi contends, then, that since it is not essential to our wills that it be disposed toward sinning, but only that it be capable of sinning, God can provide a habit of grace that disposes the will towards right action, making sin difficult and unlikely for the blessed. Olivi notes, however, that the freedom of the blessed in heaven is freedom only in an equivocal sense: just as “being” is said of both substances and accidents but in different senses, so “freedom” is said equivocally of the power of free choice and of the habit of grace that perfects the blessed. While we can say truly that the blessed are more free than we are, Olivi seems to imply that this is true only because the word “freedom” is being used in two different senses.21

Heavenly “Freedom”  203 Thus, Olivi’s answer to our puzzle – how it can be true both that the blessed are free and that they are unable to sin – seems to be that neither is entirely true. The blessed are not, strictly speaking, unable to sin: at least insofar as their wills are concerned, the ability to choose sin is still present in them, even if the likelihood of their sinning is very low. Further, insofar as they are unable to easily actualize this ability as a result of their being so disposed by grace, to that degree they are not free, at least not in the same sense that we are free. Before moving on, I should note that later in his Summa, in his famous long question on human freedom, Olivi seems to give a quite different answer about this, sounding rather more like Anselm and Aquinas.22 According to this text, when the will is disposed by the accidental quality of grace and is in the state of glory, then it is impossible for the will in any way to diminish or destroy its love for God. As a result of this overpowering love, the very notion of sinning or displeasing God is “maximally repugnant and detestable” to the blessed, such that the choice between meritorious actions and their sinful opposites no longer pertains to the will. Further, while in the earlier passages Olivi stressed that the ability to sin is essential to freedom, in this question, when discussing the wills of both the blessed in heaven and the damned in hell, he seems to insist that all that is essential to freedom is that the will be a self-­mover, not that it have any power to choose between meritorious and sinful actions: In all these [post-­mortem] states, free choice can and does operate as something that is moved from itself, although in these states it could not unqualifiedly [will] everything and its opposite [in quaecumque opposita]. For being able to operate from itself is essential to its freedom (and, indeed, operating in this way is essential to its free use) so that it could never exist without the first [i.e., being able to operate from itself] nor could there be free use without the second [i.e., operating from itself]. But to be able to [will] everything and its opposite – ­especially something meritorious and something demeritorious – does not pertain to its essence or its free use in such a way that it could not exist without that.23 Here Olivi holds that the blessed are free and unable to sin, and that the puzzle is resolved by maintaining that freedom consists simply in being the ultimate source of one’s own choices. Whether the claim that being able to choose between opposites is not essential to human freedom can be made consistent with what he says in the earlier discussion is, sadly, impossible to fully adjudicate in this short chapter.24 That said, one should note that, in his analysis of the dating of the various questions from Olivi’s Summa, Sylvain Piron has provided evidence that the long question 57, on human

204  Eric W. Hagedorn freedom, should be dated at least a decade earlier than questions 40–41: he shows that question 57 was composed prior to 1279, while questions 40–41 come after 1290.25 So the view that creaturely freedom essentially involves the power to sin, rather than just self-­movement, appears to be Olivi’s considered view on the matter. 10.3 Scotus, Harclay, Ockham, and Chatton on the Cause of the Impeccability of the Blessed For reasons unrelated to his views on free will, Olivi’s works were condemned, and there were wide prohibitions against reading and citing him. Despite this, in the decades following Olivi, many thinkers quietly adopted his claim that the ability to sin is an essential component of creaturely freedom but attempted to provide a more satisfactory resolution to the puzzle of how the blessed in heaven are free. Among those who hewed close to Olivi’s solution were the paradigmatic voluntarist thinkers of the early fourteenth century, John Duns Scotus (d. 1308) and William of Ockham (d. 1347), as well as their near-­contemporaries Henry of Harclay (d. 1317) and Walter Chatton (d. 1343). As we will see, their attempts largely recapitulate Olivi’s ideas; the voluntarists who follow after Olivi generally maintain either (1) that the inability to sin is not a result of anything intrinsic to the creature’s will but is due to some action of God’s that applies externally to the will, or (2) that the blessed are not free in the same sense that humans in the present life are free, or both. There are, however, subtle differences in the various explanations given, to which I now turn. In his Ordinatio, Scotus argues that the inability to sin is not due to anything intrinsic to the blessed themselves, but rather is due to an extrinsic impediment that prevents them from actualizing their capability. If some individual is blindfolded for a period of time, then it is true, Scotus contends, that the individual is unable to see for that time. However, this does not imply the individual lacks the power of sight; rather, the impediment merely prevents the individual from actualizing their power. He refers to this as having a “remote and intrinsic power” while lacking a “proximate power.” Further, he argues, there could be a permanent obstacle placed before one’s eyes, such that one could never actualize the power of sight; nevertheless, it would still be the case that one intrinsically possesses the remote power of sight.26 Similarly, he claims, the blessed and the blessed angels retain their remote power for sinning, and nothing intrinsic to the blessed prevents their wills from sinning, but God externally forestalls any actualization of their power to sin.27 Scotus insists that this is only by God’s free decree: that the blessed are unable to sin is not a matter of absolute necessity, but given what God has decreed, it is not possible for them to sin because God will not cease from preventing them from

Heavenly “Freedom”  205 sinning.28 Scotus thus follows Olivi in holding that the blessed retain the ability to sin but are restrained from sinning by an external cause. But Scotus does deviate from Olivi, insofar as he insists the blessed are still free in heaven in the fullest sense of the term. His argument for this claim is decidedly curious and deserves to be quoted at length. In response to an objection that God’s determining their will would take away the freedom of the blessed, Scotus agrees that they would not be free if they possessed a habit of charity that was of such a degree that it made sinning impossible, because in such a case the will would be enslaved to its own habit, rather than being the cause of that disposition’s manifestation: It is contrary to the will’s freedom that it be absolutely determined by an inhering habit to will rightly. This is because the will would not be a will unless it were a prior cause with respect to its habit, such that it is apt to use the habit and determine the habit to acting and not to be determined by the habit in such a way that the opposite act is not within its power, for then it would be entirely (with respect to this case) subjected to the habit.29 However, Scotus insists, it is no limitation of the creaturely will’s freedom if it is determined by the divine will, because the creaturely will is always subject to the divine will as to a prior cause: But to be absolutely determined to will rightly, such that the opposite act is not within the will’s power, is unqualifiedly not contrary to the will’s freedom. It is determined in this way by the divine will. … And it is not contrary to the will’s freedom or its nature that it be impeded from one action and determined to another action by a cause that is prior to it, as the divine nature is.30 Whatever is Scotus saying in these passages? So far as I can make out, I take his thought to be this: If a creaturely will’s activity were determined by a habit of charity or some other kind of accidental disposition to right action, then that will would be subject to something that is subsequent and posterior to it in the causal order. (Accidents are, of course, posterior to substances.) But the situation is different with respect to prior causes. In Scotus’s terminology, for one cause x to be prior to another cause y roughly means that y’s causal activity is instigated or brought about by x; or, to put it another way, y would be unable to act without x’s activity.31 Every causal activity depends upon its prior causes insofar as its prior causes determine and fix its activity. Now, God is prior to every creaturely will, since no activity of a creaturely will is possible without a prior divine activity. Thus, since the will’s activity always depends upon God as a prior cause, Scotus

206  Eric W. Hagedorn claims that it is no mark against the will’s freedom if God determines its activity. This is why Scotus claims that the blessed would not be free if their inability to sin were the result of an accidental habit, but they remain free if their inability to sin comes from divine determination to the good. But it is hard to see how this reasoning is supposed to satisfy the objection. Someone who is permanently unable to walk because they have been permanently tied down to a chair cannot ever engage in an act of walking, no matter how much they retain the power for walking, and it is hard to see how the mere existence of the capability is sufficient to make them free to walk. Further, surely it makes no difference to the individual’s freedom whether their being tied down was due to a cause that is prior to the individual with respect to some causal order: whether they have been tied down by God or by another human being, in either case they cannot ever engage in the act of walking and thus seem not to be free to do so. Thus Scotus seems to me simply wrong to claim that having their will constrained by a prior cause is no limitation on the freedom of the blessed. Henry of Harclay, writing just a few years after Scotus, also agrees with Olivi that the power to sin is essential to freedom and so contends that the wills of the blessed always retain the power to sin. The reason the blessed do not sin is not because of anything intrinsic to their wills but is only a result of God “upholding the will so that it not sin.” Nevertheless, Harclay insists, this divine support comes about as a result of the will “freely desiring and willing that God hold it firmly so that it not turn away from the ultimate end.” Given this, he says, God’s activity of preserving the will is not an imposition on freedom, but is rather the result of a free choice.32 We might infer then that, on Henry’s view, it is not precisely true to say that the blessed are free now. They are certainly not free to sin, given that God prevents their wills from doing so, but since their impeccable state results from freely choosing to ask God for support and maintenance, the blessed have some sort of derivative freedom: their present impeccable state is the result of a free decision (such that they could have done otherwise during their earthly lives), and that is freedom enough. Harclay’s student, William of Ockham, offers two alternative accounts of how the blessed in heaven might be unable to sin in his own commentary on the Sentences, though he does not endorse either one of these as more probable than the other. One possible explanation for the sinlessness of the blessed, he claims, is connected with his view that the actual act of heavenly love for God in the will is caused to be there by God alone, without any causal contribution from the created will itself. Ockham speculates that perhaps this divinely created act of beatific love is metaphysically incompatible with any sinful act, such that the very presence of such love precludes the will causing a sinful act, much as the will’s causing of any act A at some instant precludes it also causing not-­A at that very instant.33

Heavenly “Freedom”  207 An alternative possible explanation for the sinlessness of the blessed comes from Ockham’s account of divine concurrence. Like most medieval Christian theologians, Ockham holds that no created cause can produce its effect without God concurring with the created cause to produce the relevant effect; thus, it is possible for God to prevent any particular activity in the created world merely by refraining from concurring with the relevant cause.34 Ockham suggests that this could account for why the blessed are unable to sin in heaven: maybe, he says, God simply refuses to concur with any created will to produce a sinful act in heaven. Were God to hold back his concurrence in this way, no blessed will would ever produce a sinful effect (not for lack of trying, one might say, though without God’s concurrence the created will would be unable even to try to sin).35 On either of Ockham’s proposals, the sinlessness of the blessed is to be accounted for by God’s activity, much as we saw postulated by Olivi, Scotus, and Harclay. But Ockham is not inclined to agree that this divine activity in no way interferes with the freedom of the blessed. Rather, he straightforwardly insists, the blessed are not free in their loving of God, nor are they free to do the opposite and sin by hating God: There is no freedom [in the blessed] with respect to those acts that are caused by God alone or with respect to the opposites of those acts. This is because they cannot cease from the former acts [i.e., acts of loving God] (which are totally caused by God) and they cannot elicit the latter acts (because of the formal incompatibility between the latter acts and the former acts that are caused by God alone). So, since God totally causes the beatific act in the will of a good angel, that good angel does not have freedom with respect to the beatific act, nor with respect to its opposite (i.e., hating God).36 However, though the blessed are neither free in loving God nor free to sin, they are free with respect to any actions that are such that both performing that action and not performing it are compatible with the beatific love of God. For instance, if there are actions that are either merely morally permissible or morally supererogatory in heaven, then the blessed would be free either to perform those actions or to refrain from them, since the divinely caused act of beatific love neither necessitates nor precludes the existence of those acts.37 But this freedom possessed by the blessed is only a subset of the freedom enjoyed by those on earth who have such freedom with respect to all of their acts, including acts of loving God and of sinning. Elsewhere, Ockham adds a bit of nuance to this position, telling his reader that there are multiple senses of freedom. We can speak, somewhat improperly, of freedom as the absence of coercion or enslavement, in

208  Eric W. Hagedorn particular the enslavement to sin or punishment; the blessed in heaven are free in these senses – and, indeed, more free than those in the present life – because they are neither coerced nor enslaved in their choices. But the proper sense of freedom to be used in philosophical discussion is the ability to do otherwise than one does while holding all circumstances fixed (in Ockham’s definition, “that the thing has within its power to not produce as well as to produce, without any change on its part or on the part of anything else”); the blessed lack freedom in this philosophical sense.38 Walter Chatton, Ockham’s colleague and frequent critic, adds to the arguments of his predecessors. Similarly to Scotus, Chatton argues that the sinlessness of the blessed cannot be due to any habit that they possess, for no habit can completely expel from the will the freedom to choose between opposites.39 He objects in the same way to a proposal that the impeccability of the blessed is the result of some powerful volition by which “the will, from its liberty, plunges itself with such great effort and so efficaciously that it cannot pull back”; again, Chatton insists, no past volition can strip the will of its present freedom.40 Further, if it were possible for some habit or some powerful volition to make the blessed sinless, then it should be possible (at least in principle) to become sinless on earth as well by the same means; but this implication he presumes to be impossible (not to mention unorthodox).41 But Chatton offers no informative account of what does keep the blessed from sinning. Instead, he states only that the sinlessness of the blessed is the result of God’s promise that whoever remains good to the end of this present life will be made sinless. The offering of this promise is an act of divine mercy, Chatton claims, and its fulfilment an act of divine justice.42 In the end, although Scotus, Harclay, Ockham, and Chatton all offer somewhat different accounts of the process, they all agree on the fundamental point that the blessed are sinless not in virtue of some activity or feature of the created individual herself, but as a result of some activity on God’s part. This activity is variously described as God actively restraining the creaturely will (Scotus), holding it close (Harclay), refusing to cooperate with it (Ockham), or fulfilling God’s promise to it (Chatton), but in each case it is God who makes the blessed unable to sin. But then, how are the blessed free on these accounts? Despite Scotus’s protestations, it does not seem that having their wills determined by God is compatible with the blessed being free. Similarly, Harclay’s claim that the blessed have derivative freedom inasmuch as God’s preserving their wills is downstream of a free decision on their behalf also may seem like a subterfuge (though perhaps not a wretched one), especially if one wishes to affirm the traditional claim that the blessed are more free than those in this life.43 If the power to sin is an essential feature of creaturely freedom, as all these voluntarists follow Olivi in thinking, then Ockham seems to have the right

Heavenly “Freedom”  209 of it when he says that all these accounts (his own included) fail to preserve what is essential to freedom; the blessed are thus free only in some more limited sense, such as the sense of no longer being subject to sin or pain. 10.4 Marguerite Porete on the Annihilation of Creaturely Wills Now, maybe there is nothing for the voluntarist to do but admit the puzzle of heavenly freedom cannot be solved, given the assumption that the ability to sin is essential to freedom. Or maybe what is needed is a rather unorthodox suggestion, in every sense of that term. A near-­contemporary who is seldom mentioned in discussions of fourteenth-­century voluntarism was the beguine mystic Marguerite Porete (d. 1310).44 Her vernacular work The Mirror of Simple Souls contains many of the doctrines characteristic of voluntarism; it also offers a solution to the puzzle of heavenly freedom that can be seen as continuous with the proposals of Olivi, Scotus, et al., while also being a radical departure from their most basic assumptions. Porete’s book is structured as a dialogue among three figures (Reason, Love, and Soul) and offers an account of spiritual enlightenment and moral perfection. According to Porete, the ultimate goal of the soul should be a complete dissolution of one’s self into God, the ceding of all that is human and individual in exchange for full union with God. But apart from this call for an ultimate abnegation of self, and apart from her suggestion that one can achieve sinless perfection even in the present life,45 Porete presents in the Mirror many theses that are at least continuous with the views of the late medieval voluntarists. Like the paradigmatic voluntarists, Porete clearly holds that the will is more noble than the intellect: throughout the text of the Mirror, the reader is repeatedly reminded of the superiority of love (the will’s act) to reason (the intellect’s act). Porete details beatitude in terms continuous with the voluntarists, speaking of the ultimate end as divine fruition, perfect charity, and the union of the creaturely will with the divine will. Much as the scholastic voluntarists take freedom to be located in the will rather than the intellect, in the Mirror the character of Love speaks of the imperfect as being in servitude to Reason, while the perfected are free because of the presence of love.46 Moreover, there is reason to think that Porete identifies the source of individual personhood with one’s will, just as her contemporary Olivi did. She seems to agree with Olivi that the ability to sin is essential to the freedom of creaturely wills, and so it is impossible for the blessed to retain their creaturely wills, and to be free, and to be impeccable. However, rather than giving up on either the freedom or the impeccability of the blessed, Porete sees the solution as giving up on creaturely will: according to her, the solution to the puzzle of heavenly freedom is for the blessed to lose their wills altogether, replacing them with the divine will. Every party to

210  Eric W. Hagedorn the debate always agreed that God is completely free, despite being unable to sin; indeed, that was what Olivi thought was the defining difference between creaturely freedom and divine freedom. I take it, then, that Porete’s idea is that if creatures are able to possess divine freedom, then it necessarily follows that they will be unable to sin. Now, of course, Porete the mystic speaks in largely metaphorical ways of this replacement of the creaturely will with the divine will. At times she speaks as if the perfected soul has no will at all. She writes, for example: “[This Soul] has nothing to sin with, for without a will no one can sin;”47 and: “They no longer possess any will.”48 But in many other passages, which I think are closer to what she takes to be the literal truth of the matter, she speaks of the creature’s will being replaced by the divine will. For example, Porete says that it is impossible for creatures to make themselves perfect because of their finitude, but God makes creatures perfect by supplying his own will to the creature: If this Annihilated Soul wills the will of God – and the more she wills it, the more she would will to will it – she cannot possess this through the smallness of creaturehood. … But God wills that she would will this, and that she would possess such a will. Such a will is the divine will. … This divine will, which God makes her will, courses through her in the veins of divine Understanding and the marrow of divine Love and the union of divine Praise.49 And similarly: It is no longer her will which wills, but now the will of God wills in her.50 And again: Because all that this Soul wills in consent is what God wills that she will, and this she wills in order to accomplish the will of God, no longer for the sake of her own will. And she cannot will this by herself, but it is the will of God which wills in her. Which is why it appears that this Soul has no will without the will of God, who makes her will all that she ought to will.51 But if Olivi was correct when he argued that the will is the locus of human personhood, then to what extent does the individual even remain once their will has been supplanted by the divine will? Has Porete secured the freedom and sinlessness of the blessed in heaven only by expunging their very individuality? I presume that Porete sees this point and accepts the implication. This is why the full title of her work is The Mirror of Simple

Heavenly “Freedom”  211 Annihilated Souls, and why she speaks of perfected souls as having been “annihilated,” and why she says that in the end, “this Soul understands nothing except [God], and so loves nothing except Him, praises nothing except Him, for there is nothing except Him.”52 Porete believes that the only way to ensure the sinlessness of the blessed is to annihilate their very individuality, for that is the very source of their sinfulness. Of course, it goes without saying that the scholastic voluntarists would not accept this as the correct solution to their puzzle. Nevertheless, Porete does seem to have succeeded in producing a view that reconciles Olivi’s claim that creaturely freedom requires the ability to sin with the traditional commitment to the sinlessness of the blessed. In the end, the most promising voluntarist solution to the puzzle of heavenly freedom may be the annihilation of every will and every volition that is not God. Acknowledgements My thanks to Susan Brower-­Toland, Jenny Pelletier, and the editors of this volume for a number of helpful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. Notes 1 Peter Lombard, Sentences, lib. 2, d. 7, c. 2 (trans. Silano, 28). All translations are my own unless otherwise indicated. 2 Peter Lombard, Sentences, lib. 2, d. 25, cc. 3–4 (trans. Silano, 117–118). 3 For the contemporary debate, see, e.g., Sennett 1999; Pawl and Timpe 2009; Cowan 2011; Pawl and Timpe 2013; Brown 2015; Boeninger and Garcia 2017; Tamburro 2017; Kittle 2018; Matheson 2018; Kittle 2020; Hartman 2021. Much less discussed is the related puzzle concerning the doctrine of the “obstinacy” of the damned (i.e., why humans in hell and the fallen angels are unable to choose rightly), though see Hoffmann 2021, 243–262 for some discussion. 4 Aquinas claims that the wills of the blessed are free even though fixed in goodness in Summa contra Gentiles, lib. 3, c. 138, n. 2, and argues that their wills are fixed in their goodness as a result of the perfection of their intellects in Summa contra Gentiles, lib. 4, c. 92, nn. 6–7. For his definition of free choice, see, e.g., ST I, q. 83, art. 1, resp., as well as IaIIae, q. 13, art. 2, resp. Of course I cannot do justice here to the complexities of Aquinas’s views on free agency; for a more complete discussion that argues that Aquinas is not a compatibilist about freedom, see Hoffmann and Michon 2017; Hoffmann 2021, 40–54. 5 Bonnie Kent (2017, 1075) notes that, following Anselm, “Bonaventure, Robert Grosseteste, Albert the Great, Thomas Aquinas, and Giles of Rome all denied that freedom of choice requires the ability to sin.” 6 See Anselm, De libertate arbitrii, esp. cc. 1–3, 9, and 12–13. 7 As per Plantinga 1974, 166. 8 See Sennett 1999; Pawl and Timpe 2009. 9 E.g., Thomas Williams (2013, 168) states that voluntarism is “more an approach than a thesis or set of theses,” while Robert Pasnau (2022, 47) asserts

212  Eric W. Hagedorn that “no one has ever produced a clear and systematic account of what the voluntarist movement was.” 10 I set aside here two other schools of thought that are often labelled voluntarisms: (1) “psychological voluntarism,” which is typically characterized as little more than a decided interest in the appetitive powers and their place in human nature, and (2) “theological voluntarism,” the view that which moral obligations obtain is due to the free activity of the divine will. What I have in mind as the core notion of voluntarism is what others have labelled “ethical voluntarism,” in contrast to the psychological and theological varieties. For these distinctions, see Kent 1995, 94–96, but also Williams 2013, 168–169. 11 Voluntarists disagree about the extent of the will’s independence from determination by intellect, but even the most paradigmatic voluntarists admit of some measure of determination by the intellect in at least some cases. Ockham, for example, accepts that one’s will can be determined by an act of intellect together with some prior act of will; e.g., one’s choice whether to take a given medicine can be determined by a belief that this medicine is the only cure available, together with a prior volition opting to do whatever must be done to be cured. See William of Ockham, Quaestiones variae, q. 4 (OTh 8:126–127). 12 Hoffmann (2021, 71) identifies nine distinct theses that he claims are “characteristic of voluntarist approaches to free will.” In addition to those already mentioned or alluded to, he adds these: that command is an act of the will, not of reason; that the will is a self-­mover; that the object willed is not a sufficient condition for the will’s act; and that willing evil does not presuppose some deficiency in reason. 13 Pasnau 2022, 49. 14 Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum [= In II Sent.], q. 52 (ed. Jansen, 2:200): “A thing’s being a person [eius personalitatem] is the same as being a thing existing through itself that is free, capable of ruling [dominativa], and that possessively reflects (or can reflect) back on itself, so that it occupies itself by means of a certain free reflection.” For commentary, see Perler 2021. 15 For a fuller summary and analysis of Olivi’s case than I can give here, see Kent 2017. 16 Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 41 (ed. Jansen, 1:695). 17 Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 41 (ed. Jansen, 1:696). 18 Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 40 (ed. Jansen, 1:684). 19 Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 41 (ed. Jansen, 1:697): “If Anselm’s definition of freedom were sufficient and contained everything essential to freedom, then it would necessarily follow that demons and the damned do not have the use of free choice, nor do they perform any act that proceeds from freedom insofar as it is free … from which it follows that the only words or deeds of ours that would be caused by our free choice insofar as it is free would be those which are virtuous.” 20 Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 40 (ed. Jansen, 1:688). 21 Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 41 (ed. Jansen, 1:699). 22 See Peter John Olivi, In II Sent., q. 57 (ed. Jansen, 2:305–394). This passage is much commented on; see, e.g., the sources referenced in Kent 2017, 1075n5. 23 Olivi, In II Sent., q. 57 (ed. Jansen, 2:378). 24 While there are some articles focusing on Olivi’s earlier claim that human freedom requires the ability to sin (e.g., Kent 2017) and others focusing on the later claim that freedom requires only sourcehood (e.g., Pasnau 1999), I do not know of any that try to resolve the tension between these two accounts.

Heavenly “Freedom”  213 25 See Piron 2020a, 2020b. My thanks to Robert Pasnau for bringing this to my attention. 26 See John Duns Scotus, Ord. IV, d. 49, pars 1, q. 6, n. 350 (Vat. 14:377–378) “For example, even if someone who can see has the intrinsic power to see a given body, that body can nevertheless be perpetually impossible to be seen by the proximate power as a result of some extrinsic cause, e.g., if the power of sight became perpetually absent from that body, as if there were a perpetual obstacle between [the body and the power of vision].” 27 John Duns Scotus, Ord. IV, d. 49, pars 1, q. 6, nn. 349–352 and 368 (Vat. 14:377–378, 382–383). 28 John Duns Scotus, Ord. IV, d. 49, pars 1, q. 6, n. 365 (Vat. 14:381–382). 29 John Duns Scotus, Ord. IV, d. 49, pars 1, q. 6, n. 367 (Vat. 14:382). 30 Ibid. (emphasis added). 31 For a more complete discussion of causal orderings in Scotus, see Cross 2005, 21–23. 32 Henry of Harclay, Ordinary Questions, q. 7, n. 54 (ed. Henninger, 1:317). 33 William of Ockham, Rep. II, q. 15 (OTh 5:341). 34 For a detailed analysis of Ockham’s account of divine concurrence, see Toth 2019. 35 William of Ockham, Rep. II, q. 15 (OTh 5:343). 36 William of Ockham, Rep. II, q. 15 (OTh 5:344–345; translation from Hagedorn 2021, 240, slightly emended). 37 William of Ockham, Rep. II, q. 15 (OTh 5:345). 38 William of Ockham, Ord., d. 1, q. 6 (OTh 1:501–502; translation from Hagedorn 2021, 95, slightly emended). See also Rep. II, q. 15 (OTh 5:354–356). 39 Walter Chatton, Rep. II, d. 7, q. 1, n. 10 (ed. Wey and Etzkorn, 259). 40 Walter Chatton, Rep. II, d. 7, q. 1, nn. 17 and 20 (ed. Wey and Etzkorn, 260–261). 41 See Walter Chatton, Rep. II, d. 7, q. 1, n. 5 (ed. Wey and Etzkorn, 259): “This argument – that a habit in some degree renders it more difficult to suspend a praiseworthy act, and [a greater habit could render it impossible to suspend this sort of act] – would equally prove that a habit in this life could immobilize the will.” 42 See Walter Chatton, Rep. II, d. 7, q. 1, nn. 27–28 (ed. Wey and Etzkorn, 262). 43 It is perhaps worth noting here that the overwhelming focus of the contemporary discussion (see note 3) has been whether derivative freedom of much the sort that Harclay propounds counts as “significant freedom.” 44 Christina Van Dyke (2023) connects Porete with the early fourteenth-­century voluntarists, noting that “if one were discussing the comparative roles of reason and will, Marguerite Porete’s Mirror of Simple Souls would pair nicely with Duns Scotus’s views on the primacy of love over intellect.” Van Dyke notes elsewhere (2022, 174–175) that Porete is more extreme than the paradigmatic voluntarists, insofar as she thinks not merely that the intellect is less noble than the will but is even an impediment to union with God. Peter King (2018), by contrast, argues that Porete’s philosophical views are more closely aligned with those of her non-­voluntarist contemporary Godfrey of Fontaines, who downplays the importance of the will in human action. 45 According to Van Dyke (2018), Porete’s insistence that moral perfection was possible in this life, even without participation in the sacraments of the church, is what led to her execution for heresy. 46 See, e.g., Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 8 (trans. Babinsky, 85–86).

214  Eric W. Hagedorn 7 Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 89 (trans. Babinsky, 165). 4 48 Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 9 (trans. Babinsky, 86). 49 Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 12 (trans. Babinsky, 93, emphasis added). 50 Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 7 (trans. Babinsky, 85). 51 Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 11 (trans. Babinsky, 91). 52 Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, c. 118 (trans. Babinsky, 193).

Bibliography Primary Sources Anselm. On Freedom of Choice. In Anselm: Basic Writings, edited and translated by Thomas Williams, 145–165. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 2007. Aquinas, Thomas. Summa contra Gentiles. Edited by Commissio Leonina. 3 vols. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P. M. edita 13–15. Rome: Typis Riccardi Garroni, 1918–1930. ———. Summa theologiae. Edited by Commissio Leonina. 9 vols. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P. M. edita 4–12. Rome: ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1888–1906. Chatton, Walter. Reportatio super Sententias II. Edited by Joseph C. Wey and Girard J. Etzkorn. Studies and Texts 148. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2004. Henry of Harclay. Ordinary Questions. Edited by Mark G. Henninger. Translated by Raymond Edwards and Mark G. Henninger. 2 vols. Oxford: British Academy, 2008. Lombard, Peter. The Sentences, Book 2: On Creation. Translated by Giulio Silano. Mediaeval Sources in Translation 43. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2008. Olivi, Peter John. Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum. Edited by Bernardus Jansen. 3 vols. Bibliotheca Franciscana Scholastica Medii Aevi 4–6. Quaracchi: Collegium S. Bonaventurae, 1922–1926. Porete, Marguerite. The Mirror of Simple Souls. Translated by Ellen Babinsky. New York: Paulist Press, 1993. Scotus, John Duns. Ordinatio: Liber quartus a distinctione quadragesima tertia ad quadragesimam nonam. Edited by Barnaba Hechich et al. Opera Omnia 14. Rome: Typis Vaticanis, 2013. William of Ockham. Scriptum in librum primum Sententiarum: Ordinatio. Edited by Gedeon Gál and Stephen Brown. Opera Theologica 1. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1967. ———. Quaestiones variae. Edited by Girard J. Etzkorn, Francis E. Kelley, and Joseph C. Wey. Opera Theologica 8. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1984. ———. Quaestiones in librum secundum Sententiarum (Reportatio). Edited by Gedeon Gál and Rega Wood. Opera Theologica 5. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1981.

Heavenly “Freedom”  215 Secondary Literature Boeninger, Brian P., and Robert K. Garcia. 2017. “Resting on Your Laurels: Deserting Desert in Paradise?” In Paradise Understood: New Philosophical Essays about Heaven, edited by T. Ryan Byerly and Eric J. Silverman, 277–307. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brown, Christopher. 2015. “Making the Best Even Better: Modifying Pawl and Timpe’s Solution to the Problem of Heavenly Freedom.” Faith and Philosophy 32, no. 1: 63–80. Cross, Richard. 2005. Duns Scotus on God. Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Cowen, Steven B. 2011. “Compatibilism and the Sinlessness of the Redeemed in Heaven.” Faith and Philosophy 28, no. 4: 416–431. Hagedorn, Eric W., ed. and trans. 2021. William of Ockham: Questions on Virtue, Goodness, and the Will. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hartman, Robert J. 2021. “Heavenly Freedom and Two Models of Character Perfection.” Faith and Philosophy 38, no. 1: 45–64. Hoffmann, Tobias. 2021. Free Will and the Rebel Angels in Medieval Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoffmann, Tobias, and Cyrille Michon. 2017. “Aquinas on Free Will and Intellectual Determinism.” Philosophers’ Imprint 17, no. 10. http://hdl.handle. net/2027/spo.3521354.0017.010/ Kent, Bonnie. 1995. Virtues of the Will: The Transformation of Ethics in the Late Thirteenth Century. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. ———. 2017. “Our Inalienable Ability to Sin: Peter Olivi’s Rejection of Asymmetrical Freedom.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 25, no. 6: 1073–1092. King, Peter. 2018. “Marguerite Porete and Godfrey of Fontaines: Detachable Will, Discardable Virtue, Transformative Love.” Oxford Studies in Medieval Philosophy 6: 168–188. Kittle, Simon. 2018. “Some Problems of Heavenly Freedom.” TheoLogica 2, no. 22: 97–115. ———. 2020. “Heavenly Freedom, Derivative Freedom, and the Value of Free Choices.” Religious Studies 56, no. 4: 455–472. Matheson, Benjamin. 2018. “Tracing and Heavenly Freedom.” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 84: 57–69. MacDonald, Scott. 1998. “Aquinas’s Libertarian Account of Free Choice.” Revue internationale de philosophie 52, no. 2: 309–328. Pasnau, Robert. 1999. “Olivi on Human Freedom.” In Pierre de Jean Olivi (1248– 1298), edited by Alain Boureau and Sylvain Piron, 15–25. Paris: Vrin. ———. 2022. “Voluntarism and the Self in Piers Plowman.” In Gender, Poetry, and the Form of Thought in Later Medieval Literature, edited by Jennifer Jahner and Ingrid Nelson, 47–66. Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh University Press. Pawl, Timothy, and Kevin Timpe. 2009. “Incompatibilism, Sin, and Free Will in Heaven.” Faith and Philosophy 26, no. 4: 398–419. ———. 2013. “Heavenly Freedom: A Reply to Cowan.” Faith and Philosophy 30, no. 2: 188–197.

216  Eric W. Hagedorn Perler, Dominik. 2021. “Olivi on Personhood and Reflexivity.” In Peter of John Olivi: Construction of the Human Person, edited by Stève Bobilier and Ryan Thornton, 17–42. Rome: Editiones Collegii S. Bonaventurae. Piron, Sylvain. 2020a. “Chronologie des écrits de Pierre de Jean Olivi. Première partie: Avant 1279.” Oliviana 6. https://journals.openedition.org/oliviana/1035/ ———. 2020b. “Chronologie des écrits de Pierre de Jean Olivi. Deuxième partie: Après l’été 1279.” Oliviana 6. https://journals.openedition.org/oliviana/1050/ Plantinga, Alvin. 1974. The Nature of Necessity. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sennett, James F. 1999. “Is There Freedom in Heaven?” Faith and Philosophy 16, no. 1: 69–82. Tamburro, Richard. 2017. “The Possibility and Scope of Significant Heavenly Freedom.” In Paradise Understood: New Philosophical Essays about Heaven, edited by T. Ryan Byerly and Eric J. Silverman, 308–328. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Toth, Zita. 2019. “Ockham on Divine Concurrence.” Saint Anselm Journal 15, no. 1: 81–105. Van Dyke, Christina. 2018. “‘Many Know Much, but Do Not Know Themselves’: Self-­Knowledge, Humility, and Perfection in the Medieval Affective Contemplative Tradition.” In Consciousness and Self-­ Knowledge in Medieval Philosophy, edited by Gyula Klima and Alex Hall, 89–106. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. ———. 2022. “The Voice of Reason: Medieval Contemplative Philosophy.” Res Philosophica 99, no. 2: 169–185. ———. 2023. “From Meditation to Contemplation: Broadening the Borders of Philosophy in the 13th–15th Centuries.” In Pluralizing Philosophy’s Past: New Reflections in the History of Philosophy, edited by Amber Griffioen and Marius Backmann, 213–229. London: Palgrave. Williams, Thomas. 2013. “The Franciscans.” In The Oxford Handbook of the History of Ethics, edited by Roger Crisp, 167–183. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Part III

Theological Voluntarism

11 From Moral to Modal Voluntarism Descartes on the Status of Eternal Truths Sebastian Bender 11.1 Introduction What is the relation between our moral obligations and the divine will? This is a question that theist philosophers have grappled with for millennia. Broadly speaking, there are two camps. On the one hand, there are those who firmly deny that God could have willed for our moral obligations to be different. According to this view, championed by philosophers such as Thomas Aquinas and Leibniz, if God commands us not to steal, he issues this demand because he recognizes a moral truth that is independent of, and prior to, his will. This view is typically combined with a strong form of moral realism, according to which there are acts which are intrinsically and necessarily good or bad. Thus, despite being omnipotent, God cannot simply change the normative landscape at his discretion; the realm of morality is as it is independently of the divine will. Proponents of this camp are often described as intellectualists, because they take the divine intellect to be prior to the divine will, at least in some sense. On the other hand, there are those who hold that God could have willed our moral obligations to be different from what they actually are. According to this view, championed by philosophers such as John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham, God could have commanded us to steal, in which case we would have a moral obligation to steal. On such a view, at least some of our moral obligations are what they are because God willed them so.1 Thus, God can change the normative landscape (or at least some large chunks of it) at will. The realm of morality is thus dependent on the divine will. Proponents of this camp are often characterized as voluntarists, because they take the divine will to be prior to the divine intellect, at least in some sense. Descartes is clearly in the latter camp: he is a voluntarist. In a well-­ known passage from the Sixth Replies, he states: “It is impossible to imagine that anything is thought of in the divine intellect as good or true, as worthy of belief or action or omission, prior to the decision of the divine

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-15

220  Sebastian Bender will to make it so.”2 He thus clearly holds that morality depends on the divine will. In fact, the scope of Descartes’s moral voluntarism seems to be very wide: he seems to include all moral truths in his voluntarist claim. When asked by Burman whether “God could have commanded a creature to hate him, and thereby made this a good thing,” he replies: “Why should he not have been able to give this command to one of his creatures?”3 The choice of this example is telling: even many medieval voluntarists (most prominently Scotus) would in fact deny that God can issue this particular command.4 So the fact that Descartes specifically mentions this example suggests that the scope of his moral voluntarism is very wide, presumably including all moral truths. At the very least, Descartes never indicates that there are moral truths which are not included in his voluntarist doctrine, and whenever he formulates the doctrine, he strongly suggests that there are no such truths. Quite shockingly, however, Descartes goes much further than a “mere” moral voluntarist would. He holds that God freely creates not just the truths of morality, but all eternal truths, including, for example, the truths of mathematics. So, Descartes’s God not only could render stealing a praiseworthy action, but he could also change the truth value of a necessary truth like “7 + 5 = 12.” (For that matter, he could also change its modal status, turning it from a necessary truth into a contingent one.) Call this doctrine of the creation of the eternal truths modal voluntarism.5 It is a matter of debate what the exact scope of Descartes’s modal voluntarism is and which truths are under the control of God’s will.6 Importantly, however, the Cartesian eternal truths include propositions that are typically thought to hold necessarily and to have the same truth value in all possible worlds (including, for instance, the truths of mathematics).7 On the face of it, modal voluntarism is a bizarre view. It says, after all, that God has voluntary control over the modal status of propositions: he wills not only what is actually the case, but also that what is necessarily the case be necessary and that what is possibly the case be possible. Modal space is thus determined by the divine will. Moral voluntarism – the view that God has voluntary control over what is morally right and wrong – is a fairly widespread doctrine. It has many vigorous opponents, but there are also quite a few theists who find it attractive. This certainly cannot be said of Descartes’s modal voluntarism, which has left most of Descartes’s readers bewildered and confused. Why would he, or anyone for that matter, endorse such a seemingly outlandish doctrine?8 In this chapter, I will argue that, on Descartes’s view, the (seemingly weaker) doctrine of moral voluntarism in fact entails the (seemingly stronger) doctrine of modal voluntarism. Thus, because Descartes thinks that there are good reasons for endorsing moral voluntarism, he commits himself to endorsing modal voluntarism as well. But why does he think that

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  221 moral voluntarism entails modal voluntarism? I argue that there are systematic reasons in his metaphysics for why there cannot be any difference in modal status between moral truths and, say, mathematical truths; moral truths need to hold necessarily in exactly the same sense as mathematical ones. To see this, we need first to take into account Descartes’s views on divine freedom; second, we need to consider how Descartes construes the interplay of the divine will and the divine intellect; and finally, we need to investigate what the metaphysical consequences of his account are. The paper proceeds as follows. Section 11.2 explores Descartes’s views of divine freedom and his account of the interplay between the divine intellect and the divine will, and it contrasts this account with Descartes’s account of the human case. Section 11.3 introduces the views of some of Descartes’s scholastic predecessors and, in light of these views, discusses Descartes’s account of essences. Section 11.4 argues that Descartes is committed to treating eternal truths such as mathematical truths in exactly the same way he treats the truths of morality; somewhat ironically, it will turn out that this move is motivated in part by an intellectualist or rationalist assumption. Section 11.5 concludes. 11.2 Cartesian Freedom, Human and Divine Voluntarism is often characterized as the claim that the objects of the intellect do not (fully) determine the acts of the will.9 On the voluntarist view, then, the will can – in some sense at least – go against the intellect. In this section, however, we will see that rephrasing Descartes’s voluntarist doctrine in such terms would not be quite right. I will start by comparing Descartes’s account of the interplay of intellect and will in humans with his account of the interplay of intellect and will in God. This will allow us to gain a better understanding of what precisely Descartes’s voluntarism amounts to, and also how it should not be understood. In a key passage in the Fourth Meditation, Descartes compares the human will with the divine will. He writes: “It is above all in virtue of the will that I understand myself to bear in some way the image and likeness of God,” and goes on to say that the divine will “does not seem any greater than mine.”10 That the human will and the divine will are on a par, and specifically that God’s will is not “greater” than the human will, is a surprising claim.11 It would seem, after all, that the divine will extends much further than the human will. So why does Descartes claim that they are equally great? His idea seems to be that the will is nothing but the ability to “affirm or deny” or to “pursue or avoid” something,12 and that this ability taken by itself is the same in humans as in God. God’s will seems to be greater only because God’s intellect provides the divine will with more material on which it can operate. There is thus a sense in which God’s will

222  Sebastian Bender does extend further than the human will, and Descartes acknowledges this; but it is not the will itself which is greater in God, but something extrinsic to the will. However, Descartes’s suggestion that he can do justice to the imago Dei thesis by invoking the resemblance between the human and the divine will conceals the fact that he takes the human mind to be structurally rather different from the divine mind – much more different than most of his scholastic predecessors and early modern successors would be willing to grant. As will become clear shortly, two important corollaries of this structural dissimilarity are (1) that Descartes endorses an unusual mix of intellectualism (in the human case) and voluntarism (in the divine case), and (2) that his conception of human freedom is drastically different from his conception of divine freedom. To see all this, we need to take a brief look at how Descartes construes the relation between will and intellect in the human case and in the divine case. Let us start with the human case. Descartes characterizes the human will as an ability which “consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we feel we are determined to it by no external force.”13 There is thus a basic sense in which the human intellect is prior to the human will. The will cannot become active all by itself; it needs the intellect to provide it with some input in order to be able to operate in the first place.14 Beyond that, however, there is no agreement about how exactly Descartes construes the interplay of intellect and will in humans. Some commentators read him in a more voluntarist fashion, while others have proposed intellectualist interpretations.15 At least in the Fourth Meditation, the intellectualist tone seems to prevail. There he argues that “the indifference I feel when there is no reason pushing me in one direction rather than another is the lowest grade of freedom,” and goes on to say the following: For if I always saw clearly what was true and good, I should never have to deliberate about the right judgement or choice; in that case, although I should be wholly free [plane liber], it would be impossible for me ever to be in a state of indifference.16 This statement surely does not sound very voluntarist. At least in the human case, Descartes breaks the strong connection the voluntarist sees between freedom and indifference. While indifference plays some role in his account of human freedom, it is relevant only for the “lowest grade of freedom” (whatever that is supposed to mean). For the highest grade of freedom, however, indifference seems to be dispensable or even detrimental. Thus,

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  223 Descartes’s position, as far as humans are concerned, may be best described as intellectualist with a voluntarist touch. Indifference has a place in his account, but the freer we humans are, the less we are indifferent, and the more the will is determined by the intellect – exactly the opposite of what a voluntarist would typically say. Descartes’s account of divine freedom stands in stark contrast with his account of human freedom. He makes this contrast explicit in the Sixth Replies: “As for the freedom of the will, the way in which it exists in God is quite different from the way in which it exists in us.”17 Unlike his account of human freedom, his account of divine freedom is unambiguously voluntarist. Descartes repeatedly emphasizes that divine freedom is freedom of indifference. In the Sixth Replies, he maintains that “it is self-­contradictory to suppose that the will of God was not indifferent from eternity with respect to everything which has happened or will ever happen.”18 God thus seems to enjoy the kind of freedom that Descartes singled out as the lowest grade of freedom in the human case. But wouldn’t this be an odd thing to say? Unsurprisingly, some commentators have concluded that Descartes’s statements about indifference in the human case and in the divine case do not fit together particularly well.19 However, even though Descartes’s account of indifference is rather odd, I do not think that it is inconsistent. To see how his various statements are compatible and why he says that God possesses a kind of freedom which he sees as an inferior kind of freedom in humans, we need to investigate more closely how he construes the relation between the divine will and the divine intellect. The source of human indifference, as we have seen in this section, is the weakness of the human intellect, but this cannot be the source of divine indifference. God surely is not indifferent because of any kind of intellectual shortcoming; the divine will must be indifferent in some other sense. This becomes clear in the following passage: “If some reason for something’s being good had existed prior to his preordination, this would have determined God to prefer those things which it was best to do.”20 This shows that, on Descartes’s view, for the divine will to be free, it must be entirely undetermined.21 This excludes any kind of determination, including determination by the intellect.22 Thus, the divine will is indifferent because it can operate independently of input from the divine intellect.23 The divine will is thus not an ability which gets activated only when it is presented with something by the intellect (as is the case in humans); rather, it can become active on its own, without any input from the intellect. This leads Descartes to conclude that in God, the roles of the will and intellect are reversed, as compared with the human case. “Before” God wills something to be good or true, there is simply no fact of the matter of which the divine intellect could be aware, for if there were, this would determine the

224  Sebastian Bender divine will, and in Descartes’s view this would be an undue restriction of divine freedom.24 What this shows is that the divine will does not presuppose the divine intellect, not even in the most basic sense. Thus, Descartes’s characterization of the will in the Fourth Meditation – where he defines the will as an ability which “consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we feel we are determined to it by no external force”25 – cannot be meant as a characterization of the divine will, but only as a characterization of the human will. Descartes seems to assume instead that God’s intellect depends, at least to a certain extent, on God’s will, and that God even creates the objects of his own intellect, strange as this may sound. (I will return to this point in Section 11.3.) Having clarified how Descartes construes the interplay between the divine will and the divine intellect, and having seen how different the divine case is from the human one, we are now in a better position to appreciate what exactly his voluntarist position amounts to. Descartes’s claim is not that God’s will can somehow go against the intellect, or against what the intellect presents as good or true. In fact, he seems to claim, somewhat surprisingly, that God cannot do that. In the Conversation with Burman, Burman asks whether God could command his creatures to hate him. To this, Descartes replies: “God could not now do this: but we simply do not know what he could have done. In any case, why should he not have been able to give this command to one of his creatures?”26 The idea here seems to be that once God has created or established an obligation, there is a sense in which not even God can change this. This point deserves to be emphasized. Understandably, commentators typically focus on Descartes’s voluntarist statements; however, Descartes acknowledges that there is a sense of “can” in which God cannot order his creatures to hate him.27 The picture that emerges seems to be the following: With the eternal truths already created, God cognizes a particular moral truth with his intellect, and he then cannot but act on the basis of this moral truth. There is a sense, then, in which even Descartes maintains that God’s will is posterior to, and determined by, God’s intellect. Once God has created certain eternal truths, these truths serve as an input for the will.28 But this (secondary) intellectualist layer sits on top of the (primary) voluntarist layer. Descartes’s overall view is thus a bit more complex than is typically acknowledged. The core of Descartes’s voluntarist thesis is not that the divine will can somehow overrule, or go against, the divine intellect; his voluntarism is better understood as the claim that the divine will can become active all by itself, “before” it is presented with something by the

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  225 intellect. Once there are objects that the intellect can present to the will, however, Descartes’s theory starts to look a lot more intellectualist.29 Descartes seems to assume that these objects of the divine intellect are created by an act of the divine will. It is this issue to which I now turn. 11.3 Cartesian Essences Understandably, when discussing Descartes’s voluntarist claims, scholars are almost exclusively concerned with his unique and unusual claim of modal voluntarism. But as we have seen, Descartes is also a moral voluntarist. For the purposes of this section, I will take this latter claim as my starting point. The goal is to uncover what metaphysical claims Descartes takes himself to be committed to by his moral voluntarism. Ironically, we will see that his reasoning is driven by a rationalist truthmaker principle that is closely linked with the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) – not exactly what one would expect from a voluntarist.30 To appreciate what Descartes is up to, we need to take a step back and consider what kinds of intellectualist and voluntarist theories he was confronted with (and to which he is undoubtedly reacting). Let us start with intellectualism. The best-­known intellectualist position is that of Thomas Aquinas. According to Aquinas, there is a “natural law” which is discoverable by reason. The most important principle of the natural law is that the good is to be pursued and the bad is to be avoided, which Aquinas considers to be a self-­evident principle of practical rationality.31 As such, the natural law is binding by nature and holds necessarily – it could not have been different. Aquinas’s idea is that the natural law is somehow entailed by our nature as rational beings.32 Given that the natural law is a consequence of human nature, Aquinas seems to be committed ultimately to the view that the natural law results from God’s essence. Why is that? For Aquinas, non-­ divine natures, or essences, such as the essence of human beings, are somehow “included,” or “comprehended” in the divine essence; they are simply aspects or imperfect “imitations” of the divine essence. Consequently, the validity of the natural law is ultimately grounded in the divine nature. As Aquinas says, God’s nature or essence “can be cognized not only as it is in itself, but also as it can be participated in by creatures according to some way of likeness.”33 Strange as it may seem, this way of construing the relation between the divine essence and non-­divine essences is very common in scholastic and early modern philosophy. Leibniz, for example, makes the same point in the second half of the seventeenth century: “The essences of things are coeternal with God, and the very essence of God comprehends all other essences, to the extent that God cannot perfectly be conceived without them.”34

226  Sebastian Bender For these (intellectualist) authors, then, the divine essence necessarily gives rise to all the non-­divine essences there are. As a result, the natural law depends at least indirectly on the divine essence: the divine essence gives rise to the essence of human beings, which in turn gives rise to the natural law. There is thus a surprisingly strong connection between God’s nature and the natural law. One corollary of this is that what natures or essences there are is not the business of the divine will: after all, God cannot change his own nature at will. Let us now turn to the voluntarist end of the spectrum. As voluntarists typically see the matter, the intellectualist position is not reconcilable with divine freedom.35 At least to a certain extent, this is an understandable reaction: after all, intellectualists seem to be committed to the claim that there are certain things which God could not have failed to command. Voluntarists thus deny that there is as strong a relation between the divine essence and the natural law – or the truths of morality, for that matter – as intellectualists such as Aquinas claim. One view that was floating around (which is sometimes ascribed to John Duns Scotus, though it is notoriously unclear whether he actually held it36) goes roughly as follows: First, non-­divine essences are what they are (pace Aquinas and his followers) independently of God. So, they are not hiddenly included in, or comprehended by, the divine essence.37 Second, the norms which govern things that are created according to those essences – for instance, the norms governing humans – are not, or at least not entirely, a result of those essences themselves. Thus, it cannot simply be read off human nature that humans have certain obligations, as someone like Aquinas is prone to claim; instead, the picture is that God, through an act of will, attaches certain norms to certain essences. For example, God conjoins with the essence of human beings the norm that it is wrong to steal, but he was free to do otherwise: he could have attached another norm, or no norm at all. On this picture, then, God has established certain norms and obligations for humans, but these norms and obligations are by no means included in the human essence. Attached norms thus do not derive from essences and are not included in those essences. Now, I am by no means suggesting that voluntarists are committed to subscribing to this exact picture – in fact, there are many different ways of spelling out the voluntarist framework – but it is a fairly typical voluntarist framework (or at least, it is a framework that Descartes probably thought was a typical voluntarist framework). With these variations of intellectualism and voluntarism in mind, let us return to Descartes. Of course, he strongly opposes Aquinas’s intellectualist view that God has no voluntary control over what is morally right and wrong; more importantly for our purposes, he also rejects the metaphysical model that stands in the background of Aquinas’s position. As has been

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  227 emphasized by Tad Schmaltz, Descartes explicitly addresses the idea that the non-­divine essences are included in the divine essence in his correspondence with Mersenne.38 He writes: For it is certain that [God] is the author of the essence of created things no less than of their existence; and this essence is nothing other than the eternal truths. I do not conceive them as emanating from God like rays from the sun; but I know that God is the author of everything and that these truths are something and consequently that he is their author. … And it is certain that these truths are no more necessarily attached to his essence [conjointes à son essence] than are other created things.39 Presumably, Descartes is here reacting to something Mersenne said in a previous letter. Mersenne’s letters are lost, but he most likely held a position very similar to Aquinas’s,40 since Descartes here is rejecting the idea that non-­divine essences are included in the essence of God.41 Does this show that Descartes rejects all the elements of Aquinas’s intellectualism? Not quite: for one thing, he does maintain that non-­divine essences must depend on God in some way (though not in the way Aquinas claims). Moreover, the passage tells us nothing about the relationship between essences and norms. It may well be that even though Descartes denies that non-­divine essences are grounded in the divine essence, he nevertheless thinks that certain essences (e.g., the essence of a human being) encapsulate, or give rise to, certain norms (e.g., the norm that it is wrong to steal). As we will see shortly, this seems in fact to be Descartes’s view. It is noteworthy that Descartes, despite being a voluntarist himself, strongly opposes some elements of the typical voluntarist picture. For one thing, he denies that there is anything independent of God, and thus also rejects the idea that non-­divine essences exist independently of God. As he states in the Fifth Replies: “I do not think that the essences of things, and the mathematical truths which we can know concerning them, are independent of God.”42 Like Aquinas, then, Descartes holds that non-­divine essences and eternal truths depend on God (though the kind of dependence is of course different).43 Equally importantly, however, Descartes also seems to reject the second element of the voluntarist picture sketched earlier. That is, he denies that God adds or attaches moral norms or truths to essences as he sees fit. What is the reason for thinking that this is not Descartes’s view? First of all, he clearly holds that moral norms are among the eternal truths.44 Moreover, he holds that there is a close connection between essences and eternal truths; in the passage from the letter to Mersenne cited earlier, he even identifies the two. Whether or not this is his considered view, he at the very least holds that eternal truths are fully grounded in essences. There would be no eternal

228  Sebastian Bender truths about triangles, for example, without the essence triangle, and the essence triangle fully determines the eternal truths about triangles; all those truths are somehow included in the essence. Since moral norms are also eternal truths, Descartes seems to have the same model for them: they also derive from essences. For Descartes, then, the norms which are true for humans have their basis in the nature of human beings, just as Aquinas thought. What lies in the background here, I think, is the rationalist intuition that moral truths need truthmakers. That is, there must be something in virtue of which those truths hold. This truthmaker principle is often thought to be a straightforward consequence of the rationalist PSR: when God establishes certain moral truths, or certain norms, he must provide the truthmakers for those truths, since otherwise the moral truths would be brute facts and would be true in virtue of nothing at all. Thus, if God were to establish the moral truths and yet did not act in any way, the PSR would be violated. As a result, when God issues a command, he must do something – he must create something. Otherwise, the moral truths would lack truthmakers. Now, moral truths are clearly not ordinary contingent truths about the world; thus, the truthmakers that make moral truths true cannot be among the contingently existing entities in the created universe. So what does God create when he decrees the moral truths? The only candidates in the Cartesian framework are essences, so it seems that on Descartes’s view, when God gives a command, he does so in virtue of creating an essence. (It may seem odd to say that God must create something when he establishes the moral truths; but if he did not, he would be doing nothing at all, and the moral truths would have no truthmakers. Descartes seems to assume that all divine willing is closely connected with an act of creation.) What this shows is that Descartes rejects theories according to which there is a complete essence (e.g., the human essence) to which God then adds or attaches certain moral norms. In this attachment model, it remains unclear what God does when he makes it the case that stealing is wrong. Such a moral truth would amount to a free-­floating brute fact, a fact which lacks a truthmaker or a ground; in other words, it would be a violation of the rationalist PSR, since there would be nothing that explains this moral truth. Instead, Descartes accepts the part of Aquinas’s model according to which the human essence gives rise to certain moral norms and obligations. According to Descartes, then, when God creates a certain essence – for example, the essence of human beings – he thereby also creates certain moral norms. These norms thus hold in virtue of the essence, and so there is a sense in which they have an explanation and are not randomly attached to the essence. It must be emphasized, however, that Descartes follows the PSR only up to a point. For there is no explanation of the fact that God created these essences rather than some other ones. To be sure, if God had failed to create the essence of human beings, there would be no human

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  229 beings who are governed by certain norms. But God could have created another, very similar essence that would give rise to the norm that stealing is praiseworthy.45 And because God is entirely indifferent as to which essences to create, there is no explanation (i.e., no reason) for why he created the ones he did create and not some other essences. In the end, then, Descartes’s voluntarism is incompatible with the PSR. 11.4 From Moral Voluntarism to Modal Voluntarism Everything needed to appreciate why Descartes’s commitment to moral voluntarism leads him to endorse the (seemingly much stronger) doctrine of modal voluntarism as well is now on the table. As I see things, Descartes is confronted with a dilemma. On the one hand, he fully embraces the voluntarist criticism of Aquinas’s intellectualist position and argues – just as philosophers such as Scotus and Ockham did before him – that intellectualism is incompatible with divine freedom and with divine omnipotence. On the other hand, he is more sympathetic to certain aspects of the intellectualist model than is usually acknowledged. In particular, he holds that the truths of morality are grounded in essences. These truths need truthmakers and cannot float free of (non-­divine) essences. Why would this combination of views seem problematic? The trouble arises because Descartes seems to hold (1) that morality derives from the essences of things, and (2) that God freely commands what is morally right and wrong. But at least on the face of it, these two views seem to be incompatible with each other. All parties to the pre-­Cartesian debate presuppose that which essences there are not within the scope of the divine will – this is something both the intellectualists and the voluntarists traditionally agree upon (even though they disagree on whether or not the non-­divine essences are included in the divine essence). It is precisely this shared assumption which Descartes rejects. He bites the bullet and argues that the two views are in fact not inconsistent with each other after all. How is this possible? The only way to reconcile them is to give up the scholastic consensus that the non-­divine essences are beyond God’s voluntary control. And of course, this is precisely the bullet Descartes is prepared to bite: he assumes that God freely creates the essences. He does so in order, on the one hand, to safeguard divine freedom as he understands it and, on the other hand, to preserve the close connection between morality and essence. Thus, God could have issued different commands, but he could have done so only by freely creating different essences. We are now able to see why Descartes is committed to assigning the same modal status to both moral truths and other eternal truths such as mathematical truths. As we have just seen, Descartes thinks that subscribing to moral voluntarism commits one also to endorsing the view that God

230  Sebastian Bender freely creates the (non-­divine) essences. Thus, the way in which God commands us not to steal is by creating the human essence in a certain way. But of course, non-­moral eternal truths, such as “Humans are mammals,” also depend on this essence: when God creates this essence, he thereby establishes all kinds of eternal truths, not just moral ones. Thus, once Descartes has arrived at the view that God has voluntary control over the non-­divine essences, he is committed to assigning the same modal status to all the truths that derive from these essences. This shows that there is a clear path from moral voluntarism to modal voluntarism. Before I close, two comments are in order. First, one might wonder why a moral truth like “Humans should not steal” should have the same status as a conceptual truth like “Humans are mammals.” In other words, why is it that not only the latter but also the former is included in the essence of human beings? And does this entail that moral truths are conceptual truths as well? Philosophers like Aquinas, Descartes, and Leibniz seem to be committed to saying just that. But even if both “Humans should not steal” and “Humans are mammals” follow from the essence of human beings, this does not necessarily mean that the two propositions are exactly on par. It might be that while there are some conceptual truths that strike us as relatively obvious because they straightforwardly follow from a given essence, there might be others whose concepts are much more difficult to disentangle, at least for us. From a divine point of view, all these truths may be on a par, but they are not on a par from our epistemically limited point of view. Second, it should be emphasized that Descartes subscribes to a peculiar mix of fairly strong views. On the one hand, he holds that God is free and indifferent in a radical sense: there is literally nothing that determines or influences the divine will in any way, not even the divine intellect (something internal to God). On the other hand, he subscribes to the rationalist view that moral truths and norms are grounded in essences. It would be an understatement to say that combining these views in one philosophical system is unusual. It is perhaps not too surprising, then, that such an unusual combination of views leads to a doctrine as strange-­sounding as modal voluntarism. 11.5 Conclusion I have argued that Descartes subscribes to modal voluntarism primarily because of his prior commitment to moral voluntarism. He comes to the surprising conclusion that the former entails the latter. Why does he think so? Unexpectedly, his reasoning rests upon the rationalist or intellectualist assumption that moral truths derive from essences. Somewhat ironically, then, Descartes’s rather extreme version of voluntarism is based at least in part on a position that is rationalist or intellectualist in spirit. But perhaps we should not be too surprised: after all, some people think that Descartes is a rationalist.

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  231 Acknowledgments I thank the editors for their helpful comments on an earlier version of this chapter. Notes 1 Different voluntarists may assign different scopes to their voluntarist claims. Scotus’s voluntarism, for instance, is more limited than Ockham’s. See Hoffmann 2017; Hagedorn 2021. 2 Descartes, Sixth Replies (AT 7:432/CSM 2:291). 3 Descartes, Conversation with Burman (AT 5:160/CSMK 343). 4 See the discussion in Ragland 1998. For a recent discussion of Ockham’s (more far-­reaching) voluntarism, see Hagedorn 2021. 5 The doctrine is called modal voluntarism because the modal status of propositions (i.e., whether they are true necessarily, possibly, or impossibly) depends on God’s will. 6 On this issue, see Frankfurt 1977, 47; Curley 1984, 592–596; Schmaltz 1991, 152; Perler 2001; Bender 2022. 7 Do truths about God (e.g., that God exists, that God is omnipotent) fall within the scope of Descartes’s modal voluntarism? It is difficult to say, and I will not address this issue in this chapter. See Bender 2022, where I argue that eternal truths about God have a different status from “ordinary” eternal truths and cannot be altered by God. 8 Descartes himself sometimes suggests that modal voluntarism is simply a corollary of the theological commonplace that God is absolutely omnipotent; see Descartes, letter to Arnauld, 29 July 1648 (AT 5:223–224/CSMK 3:358–359), and the Sixth Replies (AT 7:432/CSM 2:291–292). Put simply, the idea is that if God did not have voluntary control over eternal truths, he would not be omnipotent; but he is omnipotent, and therefore he does have control over eternal truths. Most commentators, however, maintain that this argument from omnipotence does not succeed. The problem is that Descartes must presuppose that the scope of God’s power includes not only whatever is possible, but also plenty of impossible things, which seems to beg the question against Descartes’s non-­voluntarist opponents (i.e., pretty much everyone). For an attempt to fix this problem, see Bender 2022. 9 See, e.g., Ward 2017. 10 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40). 11 Strictly speaking, Descartes here claims only that the divine will is not any greater than the human will. His intention, however, seems to be to communicate that there is a genuine similarity between the divine will and the human will. 12 Descartes: Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40). 13 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40). Oddly enough, this passage is from the very same paragraph in which Descartes claims that the human will and the divine will are on a par. As we will see, however, this description of the will applies only to the human will, not to the divine will. 14 That Descartes makes such a claim is unsurprising. There is a scholastic consensus that the will cannot operate by itself, but needs at least some cognitive input: it seems, after all, that the will must be directed at something. 15 For a thorough discussion, see the contributions in this volume by Stephan Schmid (Chapter 4) and Ariane Schneck (Chapter 8).

232  Sebastian Bender 6 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:58/CSM 2:40, my emphasis). 1 17 Descartes, Sixth Replies (AT 7:431/CSM 2:291). 18 Descartes, Sixth Replies (AT 7:431–432/CSM 2:291). 19 See, e.g., Schmaltz 1996, 207–209. 20 Descartes: Sixth Replies (AT 7:435/CSM 2:293, my emphasis). In this context, “preordination” simply means determination by God. 21 This is also pointed out in Kaufman 2003. 22 See Kaufman 2003, 401 and my discussion in Bender 2022, section 1. 23 In the Sixth Replies, Descartes emphasizes that the divine will is self-­determining in this way (and thus not determined by the intellect): “It is impossible to imagine that anything is thought of in the divine intellect as good or true, as worthy of belief or action or omission, prior to the decision of the divine will to make it so” (AT 7:432/CSM 2:291). This suggests that God is not indifferent in the sense of being indecisive, as humans might be. 24 A similar reading is developed by Kaufman 2003. Descartes’s conception of divine indifference seems to entail that God is completely irrational (or perhaps, rather, arational): God wills one thing rather than another for no reason whatsoever, for if there were such a reason, then the divine will would be determined by it, which is something Descartes does not accept. This indeed seems to be a result of his voluntarism. In fact, Descartes seems to assume that what counts as a reason in the first place also depends on God’s will. For Descartes, then, the norms of rationality are subject to the divine will. 25 Descartes, Fourth Meditation (AT 7:57/CSM 2:40). 26 Descartes, Conversation with Burman (AT 5:160/CSMK 343, my emphasis). 27 A similar point is made by Perler 2001. 28 Structurally, this resembles the distinction between absolute and hypothetical necessity (as found in Leibniz, for example). Note, however, that once God has created a particular set of eternal truths, he has not thereby created a world, for he can still choose among infinitely many possible worlds. 29 Somewhat surprisingly, then, it may be partly an intellectualist intuition which leads Descartes to endorse modal voluntarism. He seems to assume that if there were something in the divine intellect, it would inevitably determine the divine will (and once the eternal truths are created, even God is bound by them). But since such a determination is incompatible with divine freedom, Descartes ends up with the position that, at least at the outset, the eternal truths are not in the divine intellect. (To be sure, this is by no means the whole story, as the remainder of this chapter will show.) 30 In Bender 2022, section 4, I also argue for the surprising claim that the PSR might partly motivate Descartes’s modal voluntarism. The argument presented there, however, is very different from the one developed in the present chapter. 31 See Thomas Aquinas, ST IaIIae, q. 94, art. 2 (Leonina 7:169–170). 32 On this point, see Murphy 2019, section 1.2: “The precepts of the natural law are binding by nature: no beings could share our human nature yet fail to be bound by the precepts of the natural law. … It is sufficient for certain things to be good that we have the natures that we have; it is in virtue of our common human nature that the good for us is what it is.” 33 Thomas Aquinas, ST I, q. 15, art. 2 (Leonina 4:201–202). 34 Leibniz, “Comments on Spinoza’s Philosophy” (FC 24/AG 273, my emphasis). I discuss this “Comprehension Model,” according to which non-­divine essences are included, or comprehended, in the divine essence, in more detail in Bender 2022, section 2. 35 For an illuminating discussion, see Irwin 2020, chapter 10.

From Moral to Modal Voluntarism  233 6 Tobias Hoffmann (2009) argues that such a reading is in fact incorrect. 3 37 Passages like the following show why this view is sometimes attributed to Scotus: “And if, to assume the impossible, God did not exist and a triangle did, it would still be the case that having three angles is traced back to the nature of the triangle” (John Duns Scotus, Rep. I-­A, prol., q. 3, n. 250, ed. Wolter and Bychkov, 1:87). As Tobias Hoffmann (2009) forcefully argues, however, it is far from clear that Scotus’s considered view really is that non-­divine essences are independent of God. I discuss the “Independence Model” in more detail in Bender 2022, section 2. 38 See Schmaltz 1991, 149–152. See also the discussions in Karofsky 2001 and Bender 2022. 39 Descartes, letter to Mersenne, 27 May 1630 (AT 1:152/CSMK 3:25, my emphasis). 40 See Schmaltz 1991, 148. 41 See Bender 2022, section 3. 42 Descartes, Fifth Replies (AT 7:380/CSM 2:261). In a similar vein, Descartes writes in his letter to Mersenne of 6 May 1630 that “we must not say that if God did not exist nevertheless [the eternal] truths would be true” (AT 1:149– 150/CSMK 3:24). 43 This has been noted by many commentators: see Schmaltz 1991, 145–148; Karofsky 2001, 249–252; Kaufman 2002, 38–39. See also my discussion in Bender 2022, section 3. 44 Note that moral norms being eternal truths does not by itself entail that they have the same modal status as, for instance, mathematical truths. After all, it could be that there are different kinds of eternal truths with different modal statuses. 45 Note, however, that God cannot create the same essences and conjoin different norms with them. All he can do is not create it, and instead create nothing at all or a different essence.

Bibliography Primary Sources Aquinas, Thomas. Summa theologiae. Edited by Commissio Leonina. 9 vols. Opera Omnia iussu Leonis XIII P.M. edita 4–12. Rome: ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1888–1906. Descartes, René. Œuvres de Descartes. Edited by Charles Adam and Paul Tannery. 12 vols. Paris: Cerf, 1897–1910. [= AT] ———. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vols. 1–2. Edited and translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984–1985. [= CSM] ———. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. 3, The Correspondence. ­Edited and translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. [= CSMK] Leibniz, Gottfried W. Nouvelles lettres et opuscules inedits de Leibniz. Edited by Foucher de Careil. Paris: Firmin Didot, 1859. [= FC] ———. Philosophical Essays. Edited and translated by Roger Ariew and Dan Garber. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1989. [= AG]

234  Sebastian Bender Scotus, John Duns. Reportatio I-­A. Edited and translated by Allan B. Wolter and Oleg Bychkov. 2 vols. St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 2004–2008. Secondary Literature Bender, Sebastian. 2022. “Descartes’s Argument for Modal Voluntarism.” Inquiry. Published ahead of print, 16 November. https://doi.org/10.1080/00201 74X.2022.2143889/ Curley, Edwin. 1984. “Descartes on the Creation of the Eternal Truths.” Philosophical Review 93, no. 4: 569–597. Frankfurt, Harry. 1977. “Descartes on the Creation of the Eternal Truths.” Philosophical Review 86, no. 1: 36–57. Hagedorn, Eric W. 2021. “On Loving God Contrary to a Divine Command: Demystifying Ockham’s Quodlibet III.14.” Oxford Studies in Medieval Philosophy 9: 222–245. Hoffmann, Tobias. 2009. “Duns Scotus on the Origin of the Possibles in the Divine Intellect.” In Philosophical Debates at Paris in the Early Fourteenth Century, edited by Stephen F. Brown, Thomas Dewender, and Theo Kobusch, 359–379. Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 102. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2017. “Duns Scotus and William of Ockham.” In The Cambridge History of Moral Philosophy, edited by Sacha Golob and Jens Timmermann, 181–191. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Irwin, Terence. 2020. Ethics through History: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Karofsky, Amy. 2001. “Suárez’s Influence on Descartes’s Theory of Eternal Truths.” Medieval Philosophy and Theology 10, no. 2: 241–262. Kaufman, Dan. 2002. “Descartes’s Creation Doctrine and Modality.” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 80, no. 1: 24–41. ———. 2003. “Infimus gradus libertatis? Descartes on Indifference and Divine Freedom.” Religious Studies 39, no. 4: 391–406. Murphy, Mark. 2019. “The Natural Law Tradition in Ethics.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2019 Edition), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/natural-­law-­ethics/ Perler, Dominik. 2001. “Cartesische Möglichkeiten.” In Potentialität und Possibilität: Modalaussagen in der Geschichte der Metaphysik, edited by Thomas Buchheim, C. H. Kneepkens, and Kuno Lorenz, 255–272. Stuttgart and Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-­Holzboog. Ragland, C. P. 1998. “Scotus on the Decalogue: What Sort of Voluntarism?” Vivarium 36, no. 1: 67–81. Schmaltz, Tad. 1991. “Platonism and Descartes’ View of Immutable Essences.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 73, no 2: 129–170. ———. 1996. Malebranche’s Theory of the Soul: A Cartesian Interpretation. New York: Oxford University Press. Ward, Thomas. 2017. “Voluntarism, Atonement, and Duns Scotus.” Heythrop Journal 57, no. 6: 37–43.

12 Grounding the Principle of Plenitude, or Why Leibniz Rehabilitated Divine Will Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper

12.1 Introduction The relation between the metaphysical systems of Spinoza and Leibniz is puzzling. In his youth, Leibniz was certainly impressed and maybe even inspired by Spinoza’s Ethics, or perhaps, rather, some of its metaphysical claims.1 However, there are several fundamental differences between their approaches, and these differences are not just a matter of details; they touch upon the cornerstones of their respective systems. On the other hand, there is a strong parallel in the fact that the systems of both Spinoza and Leibniz rely heavily on the contention that all being is intelligible – a reliance which proves that both are committed to a radical, metaphysically grounded rationalism according to which being, and thus any entity just in virtue of its being, is intelligible. To be sure, they develop this rationalism in different directions, but it is hardly imaginable that any other great philosopher (apart from perhaps Parmenides and Hegel) would qualify as a radically rationalist one if Spinoza and Leibniz did not. It is also worth mentioning that their shared commitment to radical rationalism is not restricted to metaphysics: for they both apply it to issues of more immediate significance for human life, such as moral psychology, philosophy of religion, and politics. The question then arises: How can the differences between the approaches of Spinoza and Leibniz be accounted for without undermining the notion that both derive them from their radically rationalist convictions? That is, how can we make sense of the differences between Spinoza and Leibniz without presenting one of them as disloyal to some principle or other of radical rationalism? In this chapter, we will address this question by framing their approaches as a sequence of systems, where the later system originates in important respects from an attempt to solve a specific problem to which the earlier system gives rise. The problem we have in mind derives from the idea that Spinoza not only assumes that all being is completely intelligible, but also conceives

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-16

236  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper being in terms of perfection. That is, he is committed not just to what Leibniz refers to as the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR), but also to what historians of philosophy have termed the Principle of Plenitude (POP). According to the PSR, there is a sufficient reason for all that there is – in other words, everything is in principle explicable and intelligible. The PSR is therefore a principle to which any rationalism worth the name is in some way committed. Arguably, the PSR serves as a principle of reduction: if a reason for the existence of a thing or any of its features is lacking, then that thing or feature does not exist. The POP, by contrast, claims that there is as much as there can possibly be. Underlying this latter principle is the notion that being is good, more being is better, and as much being as there possibly can be is perfect. According to an influential reading of the Ethics, Spinoza also uses the PSR to argue against there being distinctions (between attributes, modes, etc.), to the effect that ultimately there is only one thing. This reading raises a problem, at least if one also attributes to Spinoza a commitment to the POP, for at first glance these two principles together seem to generate a tension between two tendencies, one towards explanatory parsimony, the other towards ontological plenitude. We will argue that while on some views Spinoza has the resources to resolve this tension, he cannot account in a satisfactory way for the existence of possibly existing things. The situation changes with Leibniz’s early metaphysics. According to the narrative that we propose, Leibniz manages to resolve this tension in a way that also provides him with the resources to explain the existence of possible entities. He does so by adopting a different conception of God, whom he regards as a person who is separate from the world he created. He thus also reconceptualizes God’s perfection in terms of personal capacities, a move which requires the rehabilitation of the notion of divine will, and along with it the restoration of genuine possibility, that is, there being real options for God in his choice of creation. But this rehabilitation of divine will does not commit Leibniz to divine voluntarism, for he nonetheless regards the will as subordinate to the intellect. As we will further argue, this is where the notion of harmony enters his metaphysics, the aim of which is, first of all, to balance the two aforementioned tendencies, and only secondarily to explain how minds and phenomena fit each other. We will argue that while this helps to save radical rationalism, it comes at a cost that a Spinozist would not be willing to accept, for Leibniz’s solution relies on the theologically grounded conviction that God, being a person and the creator of the world, is distinct from the world and thus cannot be identified with nature. We proceed in four steps. We begin with a short sketch of what we take to be the usual understanding of how one gets from Spinoza’s metaphysics to Leibniz’s (§2). We then discuss a feature that has recently been added to

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  237 this picture, and argue that this addition yields a new understanding of Spinoza’s metaphysical outlook (§3). We then explain how this new way of reconstructing Spinoza’s metaphysics generates a new problem (§4), and show how Leibniz’s metaphysics can be understood as an attempt to solve this problem (§5). We conclude by considering how Spinoza might have responded to Leibniz’s proposal (§6). Before we begin, let us say a few words about our methodology. Rather than simply reconstructing Spinoza’s and Leibniz’s approaches in argumentative terms, and producing a properly historical narrative, we reflect on a possible generative relation between their systems, which, moreover, we depict in a somewhat idealized way. That is to say, we do not intend simply to juxtapose Spinoza’s and Leibniz’s approaches, nor is it our ambition to show how in fact Leibniz developed his variant of metaphysical rationalism. Instead, we wish to elaborate on a problem in Spinoza that we regard as a possible motivation for an important aspect of Leibniz’s own philosophical approach – one that, together with Leibniz’s personalist theological concepts, forms a background that could well have been the origin of several strands of thought that he developed in his later metaphysics. In other words, we read Leibniz as if he was reacting to a difficulty that can be found in Spinoza, a difficulty that may therefore be seen as providing the basis for certain further developments in Leibniz. That we feel entitled to proceed in this way has to do with the character of the philosophies of both Spinoza and Leibniz. The kind of metaphysically grounded rationalism we encounter in their thought is a way of reflecting on the possible grounds of what there is. Moreover, Leibniz’s approach is in important respects a reaction to Spinoza’s; we therefore take it to be both legitimate and illuminating to think of their relationship in terms of possible reasons for the transition from the one to the other. That said, we are fully aware that understanding the origins of philosophical theories in these terms is a speculative enterprise. 12.2 From Spinoza to Leibniz: The Common View According to a widespread view, Spinoza’s metaphysics is shaped by a radical commitment to the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR), which states that all that there is and happens is in principle explicable. Advocates of this view, such as Michael Della Rocca, argue for the importance of this commitment by appeal to the axioms of part 1 of the Ethics.2 On this reading, everything – and thus also the most fundamental metaphysical assumptions – can be explained by appeal to a single principle. Substance monism, for example, follows, according to Della Rocca, from the fact that each attribute constitutes the essence of substance (E1d4)3 and from the conceptual independence of attributes in combination with the PSR. Extension as

238  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper an attribute cannot explain why a substance that has extension as its attribute lacks thought as another attribute, since nothing in one attribute (extension) can explain anything in another attribute (thought). To reason, as Descartes did, that extension excludes thought, is a violation of the PSR, since extension does not provide a reason for the non-­ possession of thought.4 A similar line of reasoning is also applied to Spinoza’s rational theology and his views on the concept of God.5 As is well known, Spinoza strictly rejects attributing will to God. He does so explicitly in E1p29, where he denies all contingency in nature, and in E1p33, where he argues that things could not have been produced by God in any other way than as they have in fact been produced. A key role is played by E1p15, where Spinoza defends the monist view that all that there is is in God and must be conceived through God, as well as by E1p16, where Spinoza argues that infinitely many things – which he equates with everything that can fall under the infinite intellect – follow from the necessity of God’s nature. The overall picture, then, is that there is only one subsistent being – God or Nature – and all other entities, both things and events, are modifications of this singular substance; even the infinite intellect is nothing but a modification of this substance. The most important point for our present concern, however, is that the infinite intellect is not supplemented by a further parallel modification constituting a divine will by which God or Nature actually commits to actions or produces things. Instead, all is determined in its essence by God’s intellect, and this is necessarily so. This reconstruction has several merits. Not only does it show Spinoza’s commitment to radical rationalism, by which he contributed to the idea of enlightenment, but it also brings out how austere the picture of the universe is in Spinoza’s philosophy, and how successfully it eliminates various metaphysical relics such as particular individuals. Spinoza’s metaphysics is indeed refreshingly sparse, and this with respect to not just the question of how many things there are, but even the notion of being itself. Spinoza’s appeal to the infinite intellect explains (1) the necessity of causation; (2) the essence and, by implication, the existence of God or Nature; and (3) the essence of all other things to be encountered in the world. What it does not explain, however, is no less worth mentioning. The metaphysical framework developed in part 1 of the Ethics cannot account for (4) the notion of possibility (as a genuine metaphysical option), (5) the existence of finite things, or (6) any phenomena related more or less essentially to the notion of temporal existence. One might say (perhaps rightly) that this is simply not what mattered for Spinoza’s metaphysical outlook, in which case we should credit him with having some reason for neglecting these points. Indeed, when it comes to the notion of possibility, Spinoza explicitly denies that it has any veridical meaning. For Spinoza, there are

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  239 no possible truthmakers for statements about possibilities: possibility, or contingency, he says in E1p33s1, is ascribed to things only because of a defect of knowledge. It is less clear, however, whether he can satisfactorily account for the existence of finite things and temporal being in terms of his theological-­metaphysical vocabulary. As it happens, he addresses this issue more or less explicitly only in part 2 of the Ethics, and on the basis of definitions and axioms that are newly introduced there. In any case, the troublingly counterintuitive implications of the ontological sparsity of Spinoza’s system might also have been troubling to Leibniz. In his later career Leibniz became a fervent advocate of thinking of the actual world in contrast to other possible worlds; strikingly, however, his earlier approach was in important respects quite close to Spinoza’s and seemingly not much less necessitarian in spirit. He not only commits himself explicitly to the PSR6 but even seems to have toyed with something akin to a Spinozistic monism. In “De existentia” (1676), for example, he states that there is one necessary thing, which, though numerically distinct from other particulars, entails all the conditions of all things7; and in “Quod ens perfectissimum sit possibile” (also 1676), he states that “all things are distinguished, not as substances (i.e., radically) but as modes.”8 Could it be that Leibniz developed some of his fundamental principles in reaction to problems arising from Spinoza’s sparse ontology? This is certainly a possibility; however, we think there is a more elegant way to make sense of his development, if we take an alternative reading of Spinoza’s metaphysics as his point of departure. 12.3 Adding the Principle of Plenitude In the past few years, several attempts have been made to develop a refined reconstruction of Spinoza’s metaphysics, one in which he embraces a richer outlook on what there is than the one provided by Della Rocca, who reconstructs all claims in terms of Spinoza’s commitment to the PSR. In particular, Sam Newlands has argued that, as a second metaphilosophical principle, Spinoza also adopts a version of the Principle of Plenitude (POP), according to which the fullest or maximal range of compossible existents exists.9 Whether or not Spinoza does in fact embrace a version of the POP is not entirely clear, but Newlands provides some arguments in favour of this view. In any case, assuming that Spinoza subscribes to this principle would substantially change our understanding of his rationalism. Let us take a brief look at how it would do so. Newlands’s phrasing of the POP states that if there were an intrinsically possible object (i.e., an object whose essence does not involve a contradiction), this object actually exists unless its existence is prevented by some incompatibility with some other existent thing. From this it follows that by

240  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper assuming the POP, Spinoza shifts the explanatory burden on the PSR from the need to account for all beings of any kind to the need to account for the non-­existence of some possible beings. For given the POP, the default case, so to speak, is for something to exist, and it is instead its non-­existence that would require explanation. Now, at first glance this move seems to restrict the number of objects calling for explanation from all beings to only one of its subsets, namely, non-­existent possible beings. However, by describing the non-­existent possible as being in a sense, it substantially increases the number of candidates for existents. As a result, the POP seems to undermine Spinoza’s rationalist commitment to a sparse ontology. In order to overcome this tension between ontological parsimony established by the PSR and ontological plenitude demanded by the POP, Newlands proposes to attribute to Spinoza an anti-­essentialist view on modality according to which the modal status of finite things depends on how they are accounted for – specifically, it depends on how narrowly or broadly they are conceived and which of their relations to other things are taken into account. Arguably, this entails a shift from the ontological to the conceptual level.10 It can be argued that Spinoza may indeed have adopted such a non-­essentialist understanding of modality, if one considers how he distinguishes between two ways in which existents are causally determined, in E1p21 and E1p22 on the one hand and in E1p24 and E1p28 on the other. According to E1p21 and E1p22, things exist necessarily insofar as they follow from the nature of God or any of his attributes, whereas E1p24 states that the essences of things produced by God do not involve existence, which is why their existence is necessitated by an infinite chain of existents rather than by God simpliciter. Considering the way in which E1p29dem turns on this difference, Newlands argues that Spinoza can be read as maintaining an intensional concept of modality.11 By this, Newlands means that “substitutions of co-­referring designators in sentences involving predications of modal properties do not guarantee truth value preservation in the resulting sentences.”12 In the same vein, Newlands also argues for a specific reading of Leibniz’s early modal metaphysics, according to which any existing finite substance (Leibniz’s analogue to Spinoza’s finite things) exists necessarily if all the things in the actual world are considered, while it may also be considered to exist contingently when only a particular subset of its properties – namely, its essence – is considered. Correspondingly, possibility can be precluded by considerations regarding a thing’s essence or because of a lack of causes.13 Hence, according to Newlands, for both Leibniz and Spinoza, “modal facts are sensitive to reasons involving objects’ relations to God,” and all finite existents in the world can be viewed as either necessary or contingent depending on the frame of reference.14

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  241 How shall we judge this outlook? Given that in the textual evidence provided by Newlands the ascribed views are mainly implicit and not explicitly articulated, it cannot be decided conclusively whether these were in fact Spinoza’s views or Leibniz’s. However, we find it illuminating to think of Spinoza’s approach as relying on a version of the POP, and on this basis to relate Leibniz’s approach to Spinoza’s. Unfortunately, however, we do not think that the way Newlands argues for a version of the POP in Spinoza solves all problems, or that ascribing the POP to Spinoza can solve even some of the most fundamental problems of his system. In the next section, we therefore argue that Spinoza’s approach faces a problem that he cannot solve by his own means, but which is later addressed by Leibniz’s theological framework, which, unlike the Spinozistic framework, allows not only for divine intellection but also for divine will. 12.4 A Problem On Newlands’s reconstruction, Spinoza is committed to the view that our world is metaphysically perfect; that is to say, it is characterized by the greatest possible variety in combination with maximal ontological parsimony. Hence, for Newlands’s Spinoza, the greatest perfection is to be found in a universe that is one and unique, while also containing infinite diversity. Therefore, God, as the most perfect being, entails not only every possible attribute, but also an infinity of modes, in which case the greatest perfection goes hand in hand with the satisfaction of the POP. At the same time, since Newlands’s Spinoza adopts an anti-­ realist stance towards modality, his metaphysics conforms with the PSR, with the result that he can embrace naturalism, that is, the claim that everything in the world can be understood through the same rules and principles. Given that on this view, what grounds modal claims are conceptual relations, it is also conceptual relations that make Spinoza’s combination of the PSR and the POP prima facie successful: they are what allows for the notion of infinitely many finite modes, but also what maintains the conceivability of the finite modes, and thus their necessity. But the solution just sketched comes at a price: as we said, there is a shift from the ontological to the conceptual level, a shift which turns Spinoza’s approach into an idealism in which conceptual relations form the “backbone” of the system.15 While this is a viable route to make the system consistent, one cannot explain on these grounds why a conceivably existing entity is ultimately necessitated. Newlands might respond by claiming that conceivably existing finite modes are necessitated simply when all the necessary conditions for its existence are satisfied. This works because actual things are the only possible things, but it also means that it is difficult to draw a line we are used to drawing and which we rely on in our

242  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper ordinary thought – namely, between merely possible but non-­ existent things on the one hand and possible and actually existing things on the other. In other words, there is no way to conclude from our full conception of any possibly existing finite thing that it actually exists. Consequently, Spinoza cannot account for what, over and above all the conditions that make a thing possible, makes it an actually existing thing. The question, then, is: Is there a way to understand the distinction between merely possible things and actually existing things, and thus to explain why some possibly existing thing in fact exists, without undermining the principles of Spinoza’s rationalism, namely, the PSR and the POP? We think there is, but we also think that it is a real shortcoming of Spinoza’s own system that it cannot account for this distinction. Moreover, if such an account were to be given, it would constitute such a major modification of the rationalist framework that one would end up with a very different picture of the world. It is against this background that, in the next section, we take a closer look at Leibniz’s development of such a system and his reasons (or what can be taken to have been his reasons) for departing from Spinoza’s version of a metaphysically grounded rationalism. 12.5 Leibniz’s Development, or His Views on the Actual Existence of Possible Beings As mentioned in Section 12.2, at an early point in his metaphysical journey, Leibniz proposed a kind of (substance) monism and a reduction of all finite things to mere modes of a single substance. This suggests that the young Leibniz held views that in some respects come close to Spinoza’s necessitarian version of radical rationalism. Note, however, that at the same time Leibniz already rejected the notion of God as a merely metaphysical entity “incapable of thought, will, [or] action,” since this would be the same as if one said “that God is nature, fate, fortune, necessity, [or] the world”; instead, Leibniz affirms, “God is a definite substance, a person, a mind”; he suggests that a reflection on this topic ought to bear the title De arcanis sublimium or De summa rerum.16 Thus, although Leibniz employs the same ontological vocabulary as Spinoza and indicates similar metaphysical consequences, his metaphysical thought develops against the backdrop of a fundamentally different theological picture, in which God (1) is a person, (2) is endowed with capacities required for spontaneous action, and (3) does not coincide with the world, but is distinct from it. Leibniz does not yet elaborate on whether this is a departure from (Spinozistic) monism, and if so, how,17 but it is likely that his dissatisfaction with Spinoza’s approach is grounded at least in part in the differences in their theological views. This is confirmed if we look at a few writings dating from 1677 and 1678, when Leibniz was studying Spinoza’s Ethics

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  243 in depth.18 As a byproduct of this study, he wrote an insightful commentary on part 1 of the Ethics, in which he sought to explain each proposition both in its own terms and as he interprets it according to his own philosophical assumptions. Most interesting for our concern here is his note on E1p33, which includes an intriguing discussion of the notion of divine will. Remarkably, in order to arrive at a position that is in opposition to Spinoza’s rejection of divine will, Leibniz does not simply invoke the notion of divine will, but instead develops his discussion as an emendation or clarification of Spinoza’s approach. However – and this is worth emphasizing – it is precisely with E1p33 that Spinoza prepares the ground for the ultimate denial in E1p33s2 that God has a will. Apparently, Leibniz thinks that the claim put forward in E1p33, that “things could have been produced by God in no other way, and in no other order than they have been produced,”19 is compatible with divine will. But how is this possible? Is this not entirely incoherent, not just in relation to Spinoza’s later denial of divine will, but also on its own terms? How can we even make sense of the idea of divine will without presupposing that things could have been produced differently or that a different order is at least conceivable? The possibility of non-­existent beings seems to be a requirement for the actual world to be freely chosen. But this explanation seems to raise more problems than it solves. First, it is questionable whether it relates to E1p33 at all, since according to this proposition, no being whatsoever could have turned out differently from how it actually is. Second, even considered in itself, there seems to be no point to this argument. Does it not seem entirely meaningless, if not outright contradictory, to claim that, given divine will, things could not have been produced at all unless they could have been produced differently? These problems are solved, however, if we pay attention to the difference in scope between Leibniz’s comment and Spinoza’s original proposition, and if we add a further premise to this background. Note, first, that the theme Leibniz deals with in his comment is not quite the same as the subject matter of Spinoza’s original proposition. Unlike E1p33, which is about the order of nature, Leibniz’s considerations touch upon the will of God as conceived in relation to God’s overall nature. Second, presumably the concept of divine will that Leibniz refers to here is grounded in a further prerequisite, namely, that God is absolutely perfect in every respect. Taking these two points on board, Leibniz’s train of thought seems to be as follows: Assume God is perfect; then, by hypothesis, the idea of divine will entails that God chooses to act in the best possible way. However, this notion of “acting in the best possible way” is meaningful only if there are different options for how things could have been produced.20 On this reading, it is Leibniz’s notion of God’s perfection that provides the reason for reintroducing the divine will. Given divine perfection, we must conceive of

244  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper God as evaluating real alternatives; thus, far from speculating about merely counterfactual hypotheses, Leibniz views God as deliberating about real possibilities. This suggests that Leibniz does not embrace a voluntarist outlook according to which God arbitrarily chooses any option and thereby creates what is good; instead, the emphasis is on the assumption that, given divine perfection, God will realize precisely that option that allows him to act in the best possible way, objectively speaking. But it also indicates that Leibniz does not depart from Spinoza as far as one might think. For his restoration of divine will is still in the service of understanding divine perfection in terms of divine intellection, and not, as one might think, in terms of God’s absolute power. In other words, it is not the case that where Spinoza is intellectualist, and by implication necessitarianist, Leibniz goes voluntarist; rather, where Spinoza reduces divine will, ontologically as it were, to God’s intellect, Leibniz merely subordinates it to the divine intellect. It is on these grounds that Leibniz also thinks that necessitarianism – that is, the view that “things could have been produced by God in no other way and in no other order than they have been produced” – is compatible with the acceptance of real possibilities and genuine choice. The difference between the approaches of Spinoza and Leibniz is thus the difference between two versions of intellectualism, one discarding divine will, the other accommodating it. This interpretation is corroborated by taking a look at another one of Leibniz’s texts written around the same time, entitled “The Elements of True Piety, or, On the Love of God above Everything.”21 This text contains in a nutshell many elements that are later developed more fully in Leibniz’s entire metaphysical thought. Leibniz begins by providing a definition of love in terms of the lover’s delight in the happiness of the beloved, from which he infers as a corollary that the good of the beloved is desired in itself. This corollary in turn provides him the occasion to define several related concepts: the beautiful, the good, happiness, joy (or delight), God, perfection, and finally harmony, this last term being defined in the most general terms as “unity in variety,” a definition that appears frequently in Leibniz’s writings. He then adds two further corollaries in which he elaborates on how the notions of perfection and harmony are realized in space and thought, before introducing the Principle of Sufficient Reason, called here “the great axiom.” With these elements in hand, Leibniz is in a position to provide a clearer idea of how he conceives of the will and its decisions. Specifically, he equates the will with “a judgement about good and bad,”22 a notion that obviously applies to both humans and God. Note that this definition taken by itself provides a rather intellectualist understanding of the activity of willing, since according to it, acts of will are simply value judgements. Thus, at this point Leibniz seems to go even further in dispelling any suspicion of having

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  245 embraced voluntarism – a position that he explicitly rejects in this particular text. The question might therefore arise: How, on the basis of this concept of will, can Leibniz’s approach provide a reason why some possibly existent thing actually does exist? In other words: What resources does he have to address the problem we have encountered in Spinoza? It is true that what we have obtained so far is only a criterion for why a possible thing should exist, but not why it actually does exist. It should exist because it is good in itself, which is also why it is judged to be good or desirable. But how can we account on this basis for why some thing is not simply the object of God’s “wishful thinking,” but actually exists? To address this question, we need to pay close attention to several conceptual moves Leibniz makes in this text, moves which, though he does not develop them in detail, are crucial for his entire philosophy. In fact, he relies on them heavily in many of his later metaphysical and theological texts. What speaks in favour of this early text, however, is that here these decisions come as a package, and taken together they can be viewed as providing a solution to our problem. So what are these decisions? Consider first how Leibniz complements his intellectualist definition of will in terms of judgement with a definition of judgement in terms of “practical thought, or the thought together with the endeavour.”23 Despite all we have seen so far, this is a strikingly voluntarist understanding of judgement; it indicates that although Leibniz conceptualizes the will in terms of judgement, he does not wish to reduce voluntary actions to instances of theoretical contemplation. Second, in line with his definition of will, Leibniz suggests that God, far from being the cause of the essences of things, is merely the cause of the existence of things; thus, to say that God is the cause of all things is not to say that he is the cause of the goodness that provides them with a reason to exist. This means that despite God being what brings about each thing’s existence, he is not by himself the rationale for his act of creation. Rather, the rationale for each thing’s existence is found in its own essence. Of course, these two points do not by themselves account for the actual existence of some things, but only for the mere possibility of all possibly existing things. At this point, therefore, a third decision needs to be mentioned which touches on the very idea of possibility. As Leibniz claims towards the end of this text, God is the cause (or creator) of that series of things, or of that world, which possesses the greatest reality or the most possibilities for existence; in short, he creates the most perfect, or most real of all possible worlds. Relying on his previously established concept of perfection as consisting in the “degree or quantity of reality,”24 Leibniz suggests that God creates out of all possible worlds the one that exhibits the highest degree of reality – a claim which amounts in effect to Leibniz’s own version of the POP. The better a world, the more reality it has, and the

246  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper more possibly existing things it contains.25 These determinations, however, do not designate mere options: they are not conceived of simply as mere possibilities, but as possibly existing things which as such always have “a disposition to exist.”26 Thus, in deliberating on which world to create, God is not concerned with mere possibilities, but with getting a grasp of and evaluating each thing’s potential to be actualized and the resulting overall potential of the world of which it is a member. On this basis, Leibniz has finally arrived at a point where he can provide the reason why a possibly existing thing actually exists. It exists because it contributes to the perfection of the world to which it belongs only insofar as it actually exists. In more mundane terms, it exists because as a possibly existing thing it has a disposition to exist, and thus it will exist unless it is prevented by other beings from doing so. On this picture, God’s will, although it is not conceived in strictly voluntarist terms, plays an ineliminable part, because, as practical thought accompanied by endeavour, it provides the world with the “oomph” needed to materialize in whatever is the best possible form. 12.6 A Spinozist Critique of Leibniz, and a Philosophical Last Word We have seen that Leibniz navigates carefully between the Scylla of ontologically reducing all willing to intellection, and the Charybdis of attributing to God something like a will that is omnipotent but blind. Instead, his view is that once God has deliberated on all the possibly existing beings and assessed their individual goodness, he will choose the most perfect or best world as the one to be brought into existence. This is so because, having finished his deliberation and comparison, he judges one possible world to be better than all the others, and this judgement qua judgement entails the endeavour to act accordingly. This solution, as we have seen, entails several key elements of Leibniz’s entire metaphysics: (1) an intellectualist conception in terms of value judgements that presupposes that the goodness of things – the rationale for willing something – is really distinct from the act of willing; (2) a nonetheless voluntarist conception of value judgements according to which the act of judging (and by implication, the act of willing) is accompanied by the endeavour to realize any possibly existing thing in accordance with the degree of goodness apprehended by the divine intellect; and (3) a gradualist conception of possibility according to which a thing’s possible existence or disposition to exist already entails a tendency towards obtaining reality. With these three elements, we have argued, Leibniz ultimately manages to account for the actual existence of possibly existing things, and does so in a way that respects both of the metaphilosophical principles of Spinoza’s rationalism. That is, he can explain, for any existing thing or event, why it exists or happens, thereby returning the PSR

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  247 to its former glory, and he does so by strengthening the idea of natural and divine perfection; thus, the POP is now affirmed in stronger terms such that, on Leibniz’s view, it is not satisfied by the mere notion of infinitely many things, but by a more robust conception of actual existence. That said, a Spinozist would probably not be satisfied with Leibniz’s solution, for one simple reason: at the core of Leibniz’s approach is an understanding of God as a person who is essentially and existentially independent of the world he creates. This view is certainly a drastic departure both from Spinoza’s monism and from the immanentist metaphysics it entails. Clearly, it is an idea that Spinoza could never accept, no matter how strong its explanatory value might be. To the extent that Leibniz’s solution is tied up with this departure, Spinoza would have to reject it. The question remains, however, whether this disagreement reveals a genuine opposition between two incompatible views. To be sure, the views that the historical Spinoza and the historical Leibniz actually held on God and his relation with nature and the world were so different that they could not possibly be bridged. But does this entail a philosophical impossibility? In particular, is it not possible to integrate the aforementioned key elements into an immanentist framework? Would it not be possible to conceive a Spinozist world – an immanentist one – within which there could be a place for a Leibnizian divine will? We think this is a viable option. In fact, there have been several recent attempts to integrate these key elements by attributing such a view to Spinoza. There has been a strong tendency to read into Spinoza’s doctrine of conatus a perfectionist drift, such that any existing thing’s striving to persevere in existence entails a striving for perfection;27 there have also been attempts to read a gradualist conception of being into Spinoza’s ontology.28 Without discussing this any further here, we should mention that we have some doubts as to whether these elements are already present in Spinoza’s philosophy. While we can see some tendencies towards different gradualist concepts of perfection, being, and power, we are not entirely convinced by any attempt to interpret the conatus doctrine as ontologically connected with, or even grounded in, the notion of perfection, as would be required for the concerns we have outlined in this chapter.29 We simply do not think Spinoza’s own works show us that this was his intention. Nevertheless, these views have a certain appeal, and however correct or incorrect they are as interpretations of Spinoza’s system, they are philosophically intriguing. And while we cannot discuss here how such a system would ultimately present itself, we think that these views at least open up the space for integrating those elements lacking in Spinoza’s own metaphysics into an immanentist way of thought. In the end, it might well be possible to be both a Spinozist immanentist and a Leibnizian perfectionist.

248  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper But whatever such a system would look like in its details, it seems clear that the will would have to be subordinated to the intellect. Notes 1 For an overview of various interpretations of the relation between Spinoza and the young Leibniz, see Lærke 2017, 434–436. 2 Della Rocca 2003, 80. 3 Spinoza’s Ethics will be cited in this chapter by part, p(roposition), d(efinition), s(cholium), and/or dem(onstration); e.g., E1d4 refers to Ethics, part 1, definition 4. 4 Della Rocca 2008, 46–58. 5 Garrett 1979, 201–211; Della Rocca 2008, 33–88. 6 Early versions of this principle can already be found in Leibniz’s “Demonstratio propositionum primarum” (Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe, Reihe 6, Philosophische Schriften, ed. Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften [hereafter: A 6], 2:483; trans. Robert C. Sleigh Jr. in Confessio philosophi: Papers Concerning the Problem of Evil, 1671–1678, 32), and “Catena mirabilium demonstrationum de summa rerum” (De summa rerum: Metaphysical Papers, 1675–1676, trans. G. H. R. Parkinson, 107), but its role had become more pronounced and fundamental by the time he composed the Discours de métaphysique (1686). 7 Leibniz, “De existentia” (De summa rerum, 112). 8 Leibniz, “Quod ens perfectissimum sit possibile” (De summa rerum, 93). 9 Newlands 2010, 70. 10 For a discussion of this claim, see Melamed 2021, 75–78. 11 See Newlands 2010, 77–83. 12 Newlands 2010, 65. 13 See Newlands 2010, 92–96. 14 Newlands 2010, 86. 15 See Newlands 2018, 7. 16 See Leibniz, “Selections from the Paris Notes (1676)” (Philosophical Papers and Letters, 2nd ed., ed. and trans. Leroy E. Loemker, 158). 17 It is not entirely clear whether the quoted passage has Spinoza as its main target: it was written in February 1676, at which time Leibniz had not yet visited Spinoza in The Hague and had only second-­hand knowledge of the claims of the Ethics, supplied to him by acquaintances he shared with Spinoza. See Antognazza 2009, 168–169; Lærke 2017, 437–440. 18 By 1675, Leibniz was aware that his correspondent Tschirnhaus had been granted access to a manuscript version of the Ethics, and asked to be provided with a copy. This request was relayed to Spinoza, who rejected it, and there is no indication that Tschirnhaus did not respect Spinoza’s wishes. So unfortunately, Leibniz had to wait for its posthumous publication in 1677 to see the full text. See Antognazza 2009, 167–169, 261. 19 Translation from Spinoza, Collected Works, ed. and trans. Edwin Curley, 1:436. 20 Leibniz, “On the Ethics of Benedict de Spinoza” (Philosophical Papers and Letters, 204). 21 Leibniz, “Elementa verae pietatis, sive de amore Dei super omnia” (A 6.4:1357–1366).

Grounding the Principle of Plenitude  249 22 Leibniz, “Elementa verae pietatis” (A 6.4:1360): “Voluntas est sententia de bono et malo.” 23 Leibniz, “Elementa verae pietatis” (A 6.4:1361). 24 Leibniz, “Elementa verae pietatis” (A 6.4:1358): “Perfectio est gradus seu quantitas realitatis.” 25 See Adams 1994, 20–21. How the degree of goodness or perfection of any world is to be calculated according to Leibniz is a debated question; for details, see Gale 1976, 69–87; Wilson 1983, 765–783, and 2000, 1–20; Brown 1987, 173–203. 26 Leibniz, “Elementa verae pietatis” (A 6.4:1363). 27 See Carriero 2011, 69–92; Garrett 2008, 4–25; LeBuffe 2010, 317–333. 28 See Della Rocca 2012a, 16–22, and 2012b, 157–164. 29 See also Renz 2022, 196–220.

Bibliography Primary Sources Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm. Confessio philosophi: Papers Concerning the Problem of Evil, 1671–1678. Translated by Robert C. Sleigh Jr. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005. ———. De summa rerum: Metaphysical Papers, 1675–1676. Translated by G. H. R. Parkinson. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992. ———. Philosophical Papers and Letters. 2nd ed. Edited and translated by Leroy E. Loemker. Dordrecht: Reidel, 1969. ———. Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe, series 6, Philosophische Schriften. Edited by Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften. Darmstadt and Berlin: Akademie-­ Verlag, 1930–. Spinoza, Benedictus de. The Collected Works of Spinoza. Edited and translated by Edwin Curley. 2 vols. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. Secondary Literature Adams, Robert M. 1994. Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Antognazza, Maria Rosa. 2009. Leibniz: An Intellectual Biography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brown, Gregory. 1987. “Compossibility, Harmony, and Perfection in Leibniz.” Philosophical Review 96, no. 2: 173–203. Carriero, John. 2011. “Conatus and Perfection in Spinoza.” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 35, no. 1: 69–92. Della Rocca, Michael. 2003. “A Rationalist Manifesto: Spinoza and the Principle of Sufficient Reason.” Philosophical Topics 31, no. 1/2: 75–93. ———. 2008. Spinoza. New York: Routledge. ———. 2012a. “Rationalism, Idealism, Monism, and Beyond.” In Spinoza and German Idealism, edited by Eckart Förster and Yitzhak Y. Melamed, 7–26. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

250  Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper ———. 2012b. “Violations of the Principle of Sufficient Reason (in Leibniz and Spinoza).” In Metaphysical Grounding: Understanding the Structure of Reality, edited by Fabrice Correia and Benjamin Schnieder, 139–164. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gale, George. 1976. “On What God Chose: Perfection and God’s Freedom.” Studia Leibnitiana 8, no. 1: 69–87. Garrett, Don. 1979. “Spinoza’s ‘Ontological’ Argument.” Philosophical Review 88, no. 2: 198–223. ———. 2008. “Representation and Consciousness in Spinoza’s Naturalistic Theory of the Imagination.” In Interpreting Spinoza: Critical Essays, edited by Charlie Huenemann, 4–25. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lærke, Mogens. 2017. “Leibniz’s Encounter with Spinoza’s Monism, October 1675 to February 1678.” In The Oxford Handbook of Spinoza, edited by Michael Della Rocca, 434–463. Oxford: Oxford University Press. LeBuffe, Michael. 2010. “Spinozistic Perfectionism.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 27, no. 4: 317–333. Melamed, Yitzhak Y. 2021. “Spinoza’s Metaphysics of Substance.” In The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza, edited by Don Garrett, 2nd ed., 61–112. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Newlands, Samuel. 2010. “The Harmony of Spinoza and Leibniz.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 81, no. 1: 64–104. ———. 2018. Reconceiving Spinoza. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Renz, Ursula. 2022. “Spinoza on the Good Life for Humans.” In Human: A History, edited by Karolina Hübner, 196–220. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wilson, Catherine. 1983. “Leibnizian Optimism.” Journal of Philosophy 80, no. 11: 765–783. ———. 2000. “Plenitude and Compossibility in Leibniz.” Leibniz Review 10: 1–20.

13 Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism Ruth Boeker

13.1 Introduction Catharine Trotter Cockburn (1679?–1749) engages critically with voluntarist views developed by British moral philosophers and theologians during the first half of the eighteenth century. By closely examining Cockburn’s writings on moral philosophy and her critical responses to voluntarist views held by her contemporaries, I aim to shed light not only on her own arguments for an intellectualist position, but also on the variety of arguments that her philosophical opponents developed in support of voluntarist positions. Before I examine Cockburn’s arguments against theological voluntarism in detail, it is worth outlining her moral views. In her moral philosophy, Cockburn engages both with questions concerning the foundation or “ground” of morality – which we today might consider issues concerning the metaphysics of morality – and questions that concern the practice of morality, specifically moral motivation. Thus, I will begin by introducing her metaphysics of morality (§2) and then turn to her views on the practice of morality (§3). This will provide helpful background for turning to her arguments against theological voluntarism (§4). In particular, I examine first of all why she rejects a version of voluntarism that would allow God to change what is good or evil by arbitrary acts of divine will (§4.1). Even if one accepts Cockburn’s point that God cannot arbitrarily change what is good and evil after he has created the world, the question remains whether the initial creation of the actual world requires an act of divine will. I will show how Cockburn downplays the importance of the divine will during creation and instead shifts the focus to the divine understanding (§4.2). Furthermore, I consider her arguments against the view that moral obligation presupposes a superior lawmaker (§4.3). I conclude by showing how her arguments not only challenge voluntarist views but also offer support for her moral fitness theory (§5).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-17

252  Ruth Boeker 13.2 Cockburn’s Metaphysics of Morality Human nature plays a fundamental role in Cockburn’s moral philosophy. Throughout her philosophical writings, she states that human nature is the foundation, or “ground” of morality.1 Cockburn regards sensation and reflection as the sources of knowledge, and in her view, all our ideas are derived from sensation and reflection.2 Reflection plays an important role in her moral epistemology; more specifically, by reflecting on human nature we can come to understand what the essential components of human nature are and acquire moral knowledge.3 For Cockburn, a human being is “a rational and social as well as sensible being.”4 This statement makes explicit that rationality, sociability, and sensibility are all important components of human nature. Insofar as human beings are sensible creatures, they seek pleasure and try to avoid pain.5 Cockburn acknowledges that not only humans but also non-­human animals have a capacity to feel pleasure and pain, but she argues that humans are “manifestly superior to them,”6 since humans are also rational beings. As rational beings, humans seek to act in accordance with reason. Furthermore, she regards humans as social beings who tend to promote the good of others.7 Cockburn emphasizes that all three components – namely, sensibility, rationality, and sociability – are jointly important. Indeed, she criticizes not only those philosophers who focus merely on sensibility, but also Stoic philosophers who focus only on rationality and sociability and neglect sensibility, for giving “a partial consideration of human nature.”8 While it is important for Cockburn that we begin by carefully examining human nature, she does not stop with describing human nature, but argues further that moral obligations arise from the fact that humans have certain natures. She maintains that because humans have certain natures, it is suitable, or “fitting,” for them to act in accordance with their nature. For Cockburn this entails that humans have an obligation to act in accordance with their nature. She argues for this point as follows: A rational being ought to act suitably to the reason and nature of things: a social being ought to promote the good of others: an approbation of these ends is unavoidable, a regard to them implied in the very nature of such beings, which must therefore bring on them the strongest moral obligations. To ask, why a rational being should choose to act according to reason, or why a social being should desire the good of others, is full as absurd, as to ask why a sensible being should choose pleasure rather than pain.9 Cockburn not only describes her account of the foundation of morality in terms of human nature, but also often uses the language of fitnesses, especially in her two late works Remarks upon Some Writers (1743) and Remarks upon the Principles and Reasoning of Dr. Rutherforth’s Essay

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  253 (1747). Although she acknowledges that her terminology has shifted from her earlier works, she believes that her overall moral position has not changed.10 She continues to believe that human nature is the foundation of morality, but further specifies that different kinds of being have distinctive natures and that the various kinds of being form a “system of beings.”11 In Cockburn’s view, the various kinds of being stand in relations to each other, and these relations are necessary and eternal relations that are fixed by the natures of the kinds of being. She claims further that certain fitnesses or unfitnesses result from these relations.12 Fitnesses in her view concern what is suitable for beings with a certain nature, or what beings with such-­and-­such a nature ought to do.13 This suggests that when we ask what is fitting for beings with a certain nature, we ask a normative question, namely, what beings with this nature ought to do, or what is suitable for them to do. Cockburn’s moral metaphysics is first and foremost grounded in human nature, but it also involves fitnesses and unfitnesses that result from relations among kinds of beings, which in turn result from the nature of things. The fitnesses and unfitnesses concern normative issues, insofar as examining what is fit or unfit for beings with a certain nature is to consider what beings with this nature ought or ought not to do. This shows how normativity is built into Cockburn’s moral metaphysics. 13.3 Cockburn on the Practice of Morality Cockburn emphasizes that it is important to distinguish between “the first grounds of good and evil” and “the force of the law.”14 As we have seen already, for Cockburn the “first grounds,” or foundation of morality, consist in human nature and the relations and fitnesses that arise from it. By contrast, when Cockburn speaks of “the force of the law,” she is thinking about issues that concern the practice of morality, such as moral motivation.15 Although humans have a moral obligation to act in ways that are suitable or fitting to their nature, Cockburn also acknowledges that humans are not always sufficiently motivated to carry out their moral obligations. This makes it worth taking a closer look at her views concerning moral motivation. Following William Warburton (1698–1779), Cockburn maintains that the fitnesses of things, conscience (or moral sense), and the will of God “make a threefold cord,” and they each play a role with regard to moral motivation.16 Although Cockburn does not adopt all the details of Warburton’s view, it is helpful to outline how Warburton accounts for the motivational role of each of the three principles. He writes in Divine Legation: On these Principles then, namely the Moral Sense, — the Essential Difference in Human Actions, — and the Will of God, is built the whole Edifice of Practical Morality: Each of which Principles hath its distinct Motive to inforce it; Compliance with the Moral Sense being attended

254  Ruth Boeker with a grateful Sensation; Compliance with the essential Differences of Things being the promoting Order and Harmony of the Universe; and Compliance with the Will of God, the obtaining Reward and avoiding Punishment.17 Warburton observes that each of these three principles tends to act with stronger motivational force on some people than on others. He explains this with recourse to the varying degrees to which people are governed by the passions and/or reason: The first Principle, which is the Moral Sense, would strongly operate on those, who by the exact Temperature and Balance of the Passions, were disengaged enough to feel the Delicacy and Grandeur of the Moral Sense; and had an Elegance of Mind to be charmed with the Nobleness of its Dictates. The second, which is the Essential Difference founded in the natural Relations of Things, will have its Weight with the Speculative, the abstracted and profound Reasoners, and on all those who excel in the Knowledge of Mankind. And the third, which resolves itself into the Will of God, and takes in all the Consequences of Obedience, is principally adapted to the common Run of Men.18 For Warburton it is important that there be these three different motivational principles, for this ensures that everyone, irrespective of “Ranks, Constitutions, and Educations,” will be motivated to practise virtue by at least one of these principles.19 Cockburn is in agreement with Warburton that all three principles are relevant and that a problem with other moral views is that they focus on only one of the principles and neglect the others. She makes this point most clearly in a letter to Arbuthnot: Whilst our Modern Moralists have contended to establish Moral Virtue, some on the Moral Sense alone, some on the Essential difference and Relations of things, and some on the sole Will of God, they have all been deficient; for neither of these Principles are sufficient exclusive of the others but all three together make an immoveable foundation and obligation to Moral practise, the Moral sense or Conscience, and the Essential difference of things, discovering to us what the will of our Maker is.20 Yet in contrast to Warburton, Cockburn puts less emphasis on the importance of the will of God. For Warburton, “Compliance with the Will of God … hath the highest degree of Merit”;21 he also claims that a duty can only arise

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  255 from the will of God.22 He even goes so far as to argue that an atheist cannot acquire knowledge of morality.23 Cockburn rejects Warburton’s views concerning atheists, and claims that they can indeed be virtuous.24 She is able to argue for the virtue of atheists because she does not follow Warburton in regarding the will of God as having a more fundamental status among the three principles. Rather, for Cockburn, human nature provides the proper foundation of moral obligation. In her view, fitnesses or unfitnesses follow from the natures of things, and from these fitnesses follow moral obligations. For her, the moral sense or the will of God can offer a helpful additional motivation for the practice of morality, but neither is the first ground or foundation of it, and even conscience and God’s will are constrained by human nature and the fitnesses that arise from it. On this basis, let us take a closer look at what role conscience and the will of God play in Cockburn’s account of moral motivation and how they form, together with the fitnesses of things, a “threefold cord.”25 Cockburn acknowledges that conscience, or a moral sense, can play a motivational role and can influence the practice of morality.26 While she is willing to use the terms “conscience” and “moral sense” interchangeably, it is important for her to make clear that conscience, or the moral sense, is not a blind instinct.27 Following other moral philosophers of her day, Cockburn ascribes the view that the moral sense is a blind instinct to Hutcheson.28 She criticizes an instinctive account of the moral sense, for she believes that there has to be some prior moral standard that provides a foundation for moral approval or disapproval. For Cockburn, conscience, or the moral sense, is an internal principle by which we stand “self-­condemned” if we fail to act in accordance with moral obligations.29 As she states in the following passage, the important point is that conscience, or the moral sense, presupposes some prior obligation: The uneasiness we feel upon the practice of anything contrary to what moral sense approves, is a consequence of the obligation, not the foundation of it, and only shows, that we are conscious of being obliged to certain actions, which we cannot neglect without standing self-­ condemned; self-­condemnation manifestly presupposing some obligation, that we judge ourselves to have transgressed.30 Cockburn is aware that not all human beings are sufficiently motivated to act in accordance with moral obligations or, as she would put it, suitably to the fitnesses of things. They also often lack sufficient motivation to follow their own conscience. This leads her to argue that the will of God and retributions in a future state can provide a helpful additional motive to act in accordance with our moral obligations.31 Otherwise, in the absence of

256  Ruth Boeker divine sanctions, Cockburn claims, “many would be drawn by irregular passions, to deviate from the rule of their duty,”32 and as a result those who have steadily carried out their duty and acted in accordance with moral obligations “would be liable to great disadvantages.”33 Divine sanctions can rectify any unfair disadvantages experienced in this life. According to Cockburn, “it is plain” that taking into consideration God’s will and divine reward and punishment “introduces no new moral obligation, in the usual sense of that word; … on the contrary, the very notion of reward and punishment implies an antecedent duty or obligation, the conforming or not conforming to which, is the only ground of reward and punishment.”34 She further writes: When God was pleased to declare to the world this his determination, in making known to mankind more explicitly, that the law of their nature was likewise the will of their creator, he brought them indeed under an additional obligation to observe it, obedience to his will being one of the principal fitnesses resulting from the nature and relations of things. But in declaring, that he would eternally reward or punish those, who obeyed or disobeyed, he gave them only a new motive to the performance of their duty, but no new foundation of it: the rule, and reason, and obligation of virtue remained as before, in the immutable nature and necessary relations of things.35 Cockburn goes even further, insofar as she argues that God cannot arbitrarily decide which actions he will command to be morally right or wrong; rather, God’s commands are constrained by the fitnesses of things. This means that because God understands and knows what is morally fit and right, he commands that human beings act accordingly.36 Conscience and the will of God are motivationally important, but Cockburn also makes clear that they do not necessitate our actions. Rather, as free agents, we have the power either to act in accordance with moral obligations or to act against them. This means that whether or not we follow our conscience or God’s will is up to our free choice.37 If the opposite were the case and agents were necessitated to act in accordance with moral obligations, then, Cockburn argues, “there would be no longer any choice, and consequently no morality in actions; obligation would then differ nothing from compulsion.”38 Cockburn thus accepts that free agents have a power to act otherwise and can act contrary to moral obligations. However, if they act contrary to moral obligations, they will stand “self-­ condemned” by their own conscience.39 The important point for Cockburn is that the three principles – the fitnesses of things, conscience or the moral sense, and the will of God – mutually support each other and jointly provide strong motivation for the practice of morality.

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  257 13.4 Cockburn’s Arguments against Theological Voluntarism So far we have seen that Cockburn regards human nature and the relations and fitnesses that arise from it as the metaphysical foundation of moral obligations. Although human nature and the fitnesses resulting from it are the only proper ground or foundation of moral obligations, Cockburn acknowledges that conscience and the will of God can provide important further motivation to carry out one’s moral obligations. It is now time to examine how Cockburn builds on her moral philosophy to push back against voluntarist views held by her contemporaries. 13.4.1 Arguments against Arbitrariness

Cockburn is critical of any form of voluntarism that would give God the power to change what is good and evil by an arbitrary act of will. She writes: “God having made man such a creature as he is, it is as impossible, that good and evil should change their respects to him, as that pleasure can be pain, and pain pleasure.”40 As we have already seen, Cockburn defends an alternative view, namely, that human nature is the foundation or ground of moral laws. She puts this point as follows: And as this unalterable relation makes the real and immutable nature of virtue and vice undeniable; so also from thence it is plain, that nature of man is the ground or reason of the law of nature; i.e. of moral good and evil.41 Nevertheless, Cockburn is aware that some of her opponents may be reluctant to agree with her view that moral good and evil are grounded in human nature. In particular, she acknowledges that the anonymous author of Remarks upon an Essay Concerning Humane Understanding (1697), Second Remarks (1697), and Third Remarks (1699) interprets Locke differently than she does. According to the Remarker,42 Locke was a voluntarist, and, as Cockburn explains, the Remarker understands Locke’s view as follows: But the Remarker will object, that Mr. Locke does not establish morality upon the nature of man, and the nature of God, but seems to ground his demonstration upon future punishments and rewards, and upon the arbitrary will of the law-­giver; and he does not think these the first grounds of good and evil.43 In contrast to Cockburn, who founds morality upon human nature, the Remarker maintains that for Locke, morality presupposes a superior lawmaker who can enforce moral laws by means of rewards and punishments. On this interpretation, God can, by an arbitrary act of will, decide which

258  Ruth Boeker actions will receive reward and which punishment.44 Cockburn does not regard this as a satisfactory interpretation of Locke, and she accuses the Remarker of failing to distinguish between “the force of the law” and “the first grounds of good and evil.”45 She elaborates on this point in the following passage: So that, though Mr. Locke says, that the will of God, rewards and punishments, can only give morality the force of a law; that does not make them the first grounds of good and evil, since by his principles, to know what the will of God is (antecedently to revelation) we must know what is good by the conformity it has to our nature, by which we come to know the nature of God, which therefore may be to him the first ground or rule of good; though the will of God, &c can only enforce it as a law.46 Although it is questionable whether Locke would agree with Cockburn’s interpretation, her proposal to distinguish between the “force of the law,” which includes moral motivation, and the “first grounds” of morality offers a path for avoiding voluntarism. On Cockburn’s view, God’s will can help to enforce morality and provide an additional motivation to act morally, but moral obligations have a foundation that is independent of God’s will. One advantage of Cockburn’s position in comparison with the views of her opponents is that it makes it possible for us to acquire knowledge of our moral obligations by reflecting on human nature, and this requires neither divine revelation nor education by others.47 Of course, it does not follow from this that everyone is sufficiently motivated to inquire about their moral obligations or to act in accordance with divine law; however, for Cockburn these motivational problems concern the “force of the law,” which she separates from the “first grounds” of morality. 13.4.2 Arguments Concerning God as Creator

Cockburn’s opponents may accept that God cannot arbitrarily change good and evil, or pleasure and pain, after humans and other beings have been created, but there is a further objection that those who believe that the will of God plays a more fundamental role than Cockburn acknowledges can raise: One can argue that God’s nature and his will have a more fundamental status than human nature, because God creates the natures of humans and other beings by an act of will. In particular, one may raise the worry that human nature depends on God’s will, since an act of divine will is required to create humans and their natures.48 Here I want to focus on one type of response that Cockburn offers in Remarks upon Some Writers. In a nutshell, her proposal is that it is important to distinguish between the divine understanding and the divine will,

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  259 and that abstract ideas of the natures of things exist eternally in the divine understanding, but this does not depend on the divine will.49 In Remarks upon Some Writers, Cockburn engages with writers who oppose Samuel Clarke’s philosophy and who in Cockburn’s words “introduced the doctrine of founding moral good and evil on the sole will of God, in order to establish positive duties on the same ground with moral.”50 She is critical of their attempt “to overthrow the most solid and immutable foundation of moral virtue, and even to take away our only certain criterion of the will of God, the eternal immutable nature, and necessary relation of things.”51 One of Cockburn’s targets is Edmund Law (1703–1787). Law argues in his notes on William King’s An Essay on the Origin of Evil that we cannot imagine there to be relations that are “strictly eternal or independent of the Will of God, because they must necessarily presuppose the determination of that Will.”52 For Law, relations presuppose the existence of things, and things come into existence upon the determination of God’s will. Hence, Law infers that relations are dependent upon God’s will. In response, Cockburn draws attention to the importance of distinguishing between the divine understanding and the divine will, and argues that the necessary relations exist eternally in the divine understanding independently of the divine will: To this I answer, the necessary relations of all possible things are strictly eternal, as they are eternally perceived by the divine understanding to be unalterably what they are. This depends not on a determination of the will of God, tho’ the bringing any possible nature, with its necessary relations, into actual existence, proceeds solely from that determination. This distinction the writers on the other side are very apt either weakly or willfully to overlook, though a very obvious and a very important one in this controversy.53 We can assume that Law would not be satisfied by this answer. Indeed, he anticipates such a counterargument.54 Law points out that there are multiple possible worlds that God could create and that God has to decide which of the many possible worlds becomes the actual world. Contrary to Leibniz, Law argues that there is no best possible world among the many possible worlds, because whatever possible world one considers it could have been made better “by making more Creatures, or 2dly, more variety, or 3dly, giving the Creatures that are made more and stronger Appetites.”55 Yet as Law acknowledges, either of these options to make a world better can also lead to more evil in the world. Since there is no best world among the possible worlds, Law concludes that when God decides which possible world to make the actual world, he cannot be guided by his understanding, but rather is free to arbitrarily choose which world to create. Thus, for

260  Ruth Boeker Law, the initial act of creation is based on an act of divine will and cannot be explained by an act of the divine understanding.56 Cockburn gives Law credit for refuting Leibniz’s view that there is “nothing equal or indifferent in nature.”57 Moreover, she argues that even if God arbitrarily chooses, by an act of divine will, which possible world he will bring into actual existence, this does not “at all affect … the arguments of those, who maintain a fitness in things antecedent to the divine will.”58 Cockburn accuses Law of mingling these two issues together, which in her view are better kept separate: The defenders of this antecedent fitness, have no need of supposing, that the present system is absolutely best. There may be many possible, indeed actually created, worlds as good or perhaps better than this: each of these may have different systems producing different relations, and fitnesses resulting from them, which will be as eternal and immutable as those of our system are asserted to be; for the relations of all possible systems must be eternally in the divine mind, as the translator owns; they cannot therefore be dependent on will.59 Her point is that the view that there are antecedent fitnesses does not presuppose that there is one best possible world. She argues that irrespective of which world God chooses to create, “when he has fixed on any particular system, the relations and fitnesses resulting from it are necessary; and to act suitably to them, must be an immutable rule to that system of beings.”60 Building on her view that God cannot arbitrarily change what is good and evil,61 Cockburn here adds the further consideration that all creatures of the world form a system and stand in various relations to each other, from which certain fitnesses and unfitnesses result. Each possible world involves a system of kinds of beings, and the fitnesses that result from the necessary relations among the kinds of being are eternally perceived by the divine understanding. Once God has decided which particular world he intends to create, then the fitnesses and unfitnesses pertaining to this world, which were previously perceived in the divine understanding, will be the foundation of the moral obligations that actually obtain in the created world. This means that moral obligations are fixed in the divine understanding and cannot be changed after the initial creation of the actual world.62 Cockburn draws attention to a further problem with the reasoning by Clarke’s opponents in the appendix to her Remarks upon Some Writers.63 There she returns to the objection that relations and the fitnesses that result from them cannot be eternal or independent of the will of God, since they presuppose the existence of things, and God’s will brings things into existence. Cockburn claims that the reasoning of Clarke’s opponents is fallacious, since they fail to distinguish between particular existences and

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  261 general abstract ideas.64 In her view, Clarke’s opponents are mistaken to assume that Clarke and his followers accept that particular existences exist eternally and independently of God’s will. Instead, relations and fitnesses involve general abstract ideas, and as Cockburn argues, “the relations and fitnesses, they speak of, are truths eternally in the divine understanding, which proceed not from any determination of his will, but are the rules, by which his will is itself determined.”65 To sum up, all of Cockburn’s arguments considered in this section downplay the importance of the divine will and shift the focus instead towards the divine understanding. Law’s aim was to show that the creation of the actual world cannot be explained solely in terms of the divine understanding and that it involves an arbitrary act of will or free choice. Cockburn does not deny that God’s will is involved in the creation of the actual world, but she emphasizes that the creation cannot be understood solely in terms of acts of divine will. Rather, she draws attention to the role that the divine understanding plays and how the divine will is bound by the divine understanding. Law and Cockburn may be said to agree that both the divine will and divine understanding play a role in God’s creation, but Cockburn puts greater emphasis on the importance of the divine understanding. Her God is guided by his intellect and cannot execute his will independently of the rules of the divine understanding. 13.4.3 Arguments Concerning Moral Obligation and the Role of a Superior Lawmaker

If we accept Cockburn’s view that human nature is the foundation of morality and that moral obligations are grounded in the fitnesses that arise from human nature, then one may worry that her moral philosophy lacks the resources to explain what makes moral obligations binding. In particular, one may worry that if I establish the moral obligations, then they will not be sufficiently binding, since I can easily release myself from acting in accordance with the moral obligations that I set for myself. William Warburton raises a similar objection in The Divine Legation (1738), directed against the philosophy of Pierre Bayle.66 Since Cockburn comments on The Divine Legation,67 she was aware of Warburton’s worry that we cannot account for the bindingness of moral obligations unless there is a distinction between the obliger and the subject that is being obliged, or, as one may also put it, between a lawgiver and the being that is subject to the law. Warburton argues: Obligation in general necessarily implies an Obliger: The Obliger must be different from the Obliged: To make the same Man at once the Obliger and Obliged, is the same thing as to make him treat or enter

262  Ruth Boeker into compact with himself, which is the highest of Absurdities, in the Matter of Obligation. For it is an unexceptionable Rule of right Reason, that whoever acquires a Right to any thing, from the Obligation of another towards him, may relinquish that Right. If therefore the Obliger and Obliged should be one and the same Person, all Obligation there must be void of course; or rather there would be no Obligation begun.68 If the obliger and the subject that is being obliged are identical, then one can easily stop adhering to the obligation, and this would undermine the obligation itself. Thus, Warburton believes that the obliger has to be different from the subject that is being obliged and has to be in a position to make the obligation binding for the subject to adhere to it. Cockburn does not accept Warburton’s line of reasoning. In response, she states that the word “obligation” as it is commonly understood “implies only a perception of some ground or reason, upon which it is founded, but not necessarily a superior will.”69 The point of dispute between Cockburn and Warburton concerns the question of whether the foundation of moral obligation can be internal to human beings, or whether it is external and requires a superior lawgiver. Let us consider whether Cockburn’s response would satisfy Warburton. Warburton, who opposes Bayle (or “the Stratonic Atheist”70), anticipates that his opponent will say that obligation is founded on “Right Reason.”71 However, for Warburton, this response highlights “the very Absurdity” he is concerned about, “because Reason is only an Attribute of the Person obliged, his Assistant to judge of his Obligations if he hath any from any other Being: To make this then the Obliger, is to make a Man oblige himself.”72 Cockburn offers a further consideration in response, namely, that moral agents are free. She writes: “Very true, but it is just the same, whatever principle we suppose obligation to be originally founded on; a free-­agent must be always the immediate obliger of himself.”73 In this passage, Cockburn distinguishes between the original foundation of obligation and the immediate obliger. She acknowledges different possible candidates for the original foundation of moral obligation: the will of a superior lawmaker, necessary relations and essential differences of things, consciousness of right and wrong, and the prospect of rewards and punishments. But irrespective of what the original foundation of moral obligation is, Cockburn argues that in each case a judgement of the mind is involved, which means that it is “his reason, that obliges him to act accordingly; and this is so far from being an absurdity, that it is essential to moral choice and free agency.”74 Although Cockburn’s distinction between the original foundation of moral obligation and the immediate obliger is interesting, her response shifts the focus of the debate and might not fully satisfy Warburton or

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  263 other philosophers who believe that the source of moral obligation is external to the moral agent. When Warburton asks what the foundation of moral obligation is, he seems concerned about the original foundation of moral obligation. His view is that nothing “except a Law … can oblige a dependent reasonable Being endowed with a Will.”75 Moreover, he is committed to the view that a law supposes a superior lawmaker, and believes that moral obligation is founded on this superior status of a lawmaker, since a superior lawmaker has the power to make it obligatory for dependent beings to act in accordance with the laws of the superior lawmaker.76 Of course, this does not entail that humans lack the power to choose to act against moral laws. Nevertheless, I take it that Warburton would argue that if agents deliberate by means of reason about which choice to make, there is only one morally correct choice, namely, to act in accordance with the moral laws, or the divine will. This means that they will be guided by the original foundation of moral obligation, which for Warburton consists in the will of a superior lawmaker. Thus, contrary to Cockburn, Warburton would argue that agents cannot be immediate obligers; rather, in his view, the obliger is an external superior lawmaker. Warburton also comments on the question of free agency, which sheds further light on his concerns about grounding morality in the nature of things. He assumes that nature is “blind” and “unintelligent” and governed by “the Law of Necessity,”77 which leads him to argue that nature can neither be a lawgiver nor serve as a foundation for moral obligation.78 Warburton here adopts a conception of nature that leaves no scope for agency, since for him nature is void of cognition and is a purely material, non-­thinking entity that is governed by necessity. Though this argument was directed against Bayle rather than Cockburn, it is helpful to consider what resources Cockburn’s philosophy offers for avoiding the problem that Warburton raises. Cockburn does not share Warburton’s conception of nature. Her account of human nature does not presuppose any particular metaphysical constitution of the nature of human beings; rather, she remains largely agnostic about the exact details of their metaphysical constitution and does not take a stance on whether human minds are material or immaterial entities.79 She is committed only to the view that humans are by nature sensible, rational, and social beings. Her account of human nature does not have to be understood in terms of necessity, and thus leaves room for free agency. Moreover, Warburton’s remarks about nature being blind and unintelligent do not apply to her account of human nature, since rational, social, and sensible beings are intelligent rather than unintelligent. Cockburn’s arguments against Warburton bring to light that it is not necessary to postulate a superior divine lawmaker in order to explain the foundation of morality, and her position offers a viable alternative to views that claim that the source of moral obligation has to be external to human beings.

264  Ruth Boeker 13.5 Conclusion In this chapter, we have seen that Cockburn offers several intelligent arguments that challenge the views of her voluntarist contemporaries. She rejects the view that God can by an arbitrary act of will change what is good and evil. One may concede this point and argue instead for another version of voluntarism according to which God’s initial creation of the world is based solely on an act of divine will. Cockburn also challenges this version of voluntarism and draws attention to the role that the divine understanding plays in creation. Her point is that even if an act of divine will is involved in the initial creation, this does not undermine moral fitness theory, for the divine understanding also plays a role and the relations and fitnesses are perceived eternally in the divine understanding. She also distances herself from views that appeal to an external superior lawgiver in order to establish the bindingness of moral obligation. She further comments on this issue in a letter to Thomas Sharp: But I would ask, if the will of God is supposed to be the only foundation of moral obligation, upon what grounds we are obliged to obey his will? I can conceive no other, but either his absolute power to punish and reward; or the fitness of obedience from a creature to his creator.80 Cockburn disapproves of the first option, which would ascribe arbitrary power to God. However, if this option is rejected, she argues, “the other returns us to that reason, nature, and essential differences of things, into which, I apprehend, all obligation must at last be resolved.”81 This means that the view collapses into her moral fitness theory. Here we see once more how Cockburn not only draws attention to the shortcomings of the views of her voluntarist opponents, but also highlights the advantages of her own preferred moral view. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Sonja Schierbaum and Jörn Müller for inviting me to contribute to this volume and for their helpful feedback on earlier drafts of this chapter. I presented an earlier version of this chapter at the “Varieties of Voluntarism in Medieval and Early Modern Ethics” conference in July 2021 and would like to thank the audience for helpful comments and discussion. Notes 1 See Cockburn, A Defence of Mr. Locke’s Essay of Human Understanding, in Philosophical Writings, ed. Patricia Sheridan [hereafter: Defence], 43–47; Remarks upon Some Writers in the Controversy Concerning the Foundation of Moral Virtue

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  265 and Moral Obligation, in Philosophical Writings, ed. Sheridan [hereafter: RSW], 107, 114–115, 119, 124–125, 127–128, 130; Remarks upon the Principles and Reasonings of Dr. Rutherforth’s Essay on the Nature and Obligation of Virtue, in Philosophical Writings, ed. Sheridan [hereafter: RR], 184–186, 195, 205–210. 2 See Cockburn, Defence, 40–41, 50, 52. 3 For further discussion of Cockburn’s moral epistemology, see Sheridan 2007, 2022. 4 Cockburn, RSW, 119. All emphases within quotes in this chapter appear in the original sources. 5 See Ibid. 6 Cockburn, RR, 184. 7 See Cockburn, RSW, 119. 8 Cockburn, RSW, 130. It is worth noting that Cockburn’s criticism of Stoic philosophers targets their analysis of the essential components of human nature, but she shares their ethical ideal of following nature. For further discussion of Cockburn’s account of human nature, see Boeker 2023, 29–37; Bolton 1993; Green 2015; Sheridan 2007, 2018a. Cockburn’s account of human nature is also discussed in De Tommaso 2017 and Sheridan 2018b, but these papers focus only on rationality and sociability and do not acknowledge that sensibility is a further component of her account of human nature. 9 Cockburn, RSW, 119. 10 She makes this claim in a footnote which was added to the 1751 edition of Defence. See Cockburn, Defence, 46–47n. For further discussion, see Green 2019. 11 Cockburn, RSW, 107. 12 See Cockburn, RSW, 106–108. 13 Several interpreters describe her moral philosophy as a moral fitness theory. For instance, see Green 2015; Sheridan 2007, 2019; Sund 2013; Thomas 2017. 14 Cockburn, Defence, 47. 15 In a letter to her niece Ann Arbuthnot, dated 8 September 1738, Cockburn speaks of our “obligation to Moral practise” (Broad 2020, 186). For further discussion of Cockburn’s views concerning the practice of morality, see Boeker 2023, 40–45. 16 Cockburn, RSW, 109. Warburton (The Divine Legation of Moses Demonstrated [1738], 38) mentions the “threefold cord.” For further discussion, see Sund 2013, chapter 3. Sund argues that the fitnesses of things, conscience or the moral sense, and the will of God form the foundation of Cockburn’s theory of moral obligation. Her interpretation rests on Cockburn’s letter to Ann Arbuthnot from 8 September 1738, in which she states that “all three [principles] together make an immoveable foundation and obligation to Moral practise” (Broad 2020, 186). I read this statement as concerning obligation to moral practice, rather than just obligation. 17 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 37. 18 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 37–38. 19 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 37. 20 Cockburn, letter to Ann Arbuthnot, 8 September 1738 (Broad 2020, 186). 21 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 38. 22 See Warburton, The Divine Legation, 37. Warburton reiterates this view in the preface that he wrote for Cockburn’s Remarks upon the Principles and Reasoning of Dr. Rutherforth’s Essay (see Cockburn, RR, 149–150). 23 See Warburton, The Divine Legation, 42.

266  Ruth Boeker 24 See Cockburn, RSW, 137–143. For helpful further discussion of Warburton’s and Cockburn’s views regarding the question whether atheists can acquire moral knowledge, see Broad 2021. 25 Cockburn, RSW, 109. 26 Lustila 2020 offers helpful discussion of Cockburn’s account of conscience, but does not explicitly consider her views on conscience in relation to her two other motivational principles, namely, the fitnesses of things and the will of God; thus, Lustila may be said to overemphasize the role of conscience. For further discussion of Cockburn’s discussion of conscience in her early philosophical work Defence, see De Tommaso 2017; Waithe 1987–1995, 3:110–112. The role of conscience in Cockburn’s early plays is discussed in Myers 2012. 27 See Cockburn, RSW, 109, 116–117; RR, 157; letter to Ann Arbuthnot, 20 November 1744 (Broad 2020, 224), letter to Ann Arbuthnot, 2 October 1747 (Broad 2020, 242–243). 28 See Cockburn, RR, 157; letter to Ann Arbuthnot, 2 October 1747 (Broad 2020, 242). For Hutcheson the moral sense is a type of perception by means of which we approve or disapprove of morally good or bad actions. However, it is questionable whether he would have been happy to accept that some of his contemporaries and eighteenth-­century critics describe it as a blind instinct. See Boeker (2022) for further details. Eighteenth-­ century moral philosophers, whose works Cockburn read and who describe the moral sense as a (blind) instinct, include Gay (1732 [1731], xxxi–xxxiii), Johnson (1731, 29–30), Rutherforth (1744, chapter 5), and Warburton (1738, 36). 29 Cockburn, RSW, 109. See also Defence, 76–77, 79; RR, 179–180. 30 Cockburn, RSW, 109. 31 See Cockburn, RSW, 114–115. 32 Cockburn, RSW, 114. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid. 35 Cockburn, RSW, 114–115. 36 See Cockburn, RSW, 121, 144. 37 See Cockburn, RSW, 138–143; RR, 170–171. 38 Cockburn, RSW, 139. 39 Ibid. 40 Cockburn, Defence, 43. 41 Ibid. 42 Here I follow Cockburn and refer to the anonymous author of Remarks, Second Remarks, and Third Remarks as “the Remarker.” Although it has been widely assumed that the author of these three pamphlets was Thomas Burnet of Charterhouse, convincing evidence has been offered by Walmsley, Craig, and Burrows 2016 that it is more likely that the author was Richard Willis, who was successively bishop of Gloucester, Salisbury, and Winchester. 43 Cockburn, Defence, 46. 44 Locke argues in Essay, book 2, chap. 27, §§5–8, that a law presupposes a superior lawmaker who can enforce the law by means of reward and punishment. He distinguishes three types of law – namely, divine law, civil law, and the law of opinion or reputation – and argues that divine law is “the only true touchstone of moral Rectitude” (Essay, book 2, chap. 28, §8). See also Locke’s “Of Ethic in General.” The question of whether Locke was a theological voluntarist or intellectualist is not settled among interpreters; for further discussion, see Green 2019; Randall Ward 1995; Tuckness 1999.

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  267 5 Cockburn, Defence, 47. 4 46 Ibid. 47 In this respect Cockburn’s view departs from Locke’s moral epistemology, as Locke (Essay, book 2, chap. 28, §8) leaves open whether we come to know divine law by means of reason (the “light of Nature”) or revelation. See Cockburn, RR, 178–179, 207. Cockburn argues against Thomas Rutherforth that even those who are not fortunate to have a guide to teach them their moral duties can acquire moral knowledge (RR, 207). 48 See Cockburn, Defence, 43–44; RSW, 107–108, 121–122, 143–144. 49 See Cockburn, RSW, 107–108, 122. See also Defence, 42–43n. For a discussion of related issues in Leibniz’s philosophy, see the contribution by Ursula Renz and Sarah Tropper in this volume (Chapter 12). 50 Cockburn, RSW, 107. 51 Ibid. 52 Law, Remarks I, in An Essay on the Origin of Evil by Dr. William King, 85. Cockburn cites the relevant passage from Law in RSW, 107. 53 Cockburn, RSW, 107. Cockburn offers a similar response to Thomas Johnson, the author of An Essay on Moral Obligation (1731). Johnson claims that “every Thing, every Relation, every Habitude, every Fitness (or whatever other Affection soever may be ascribed to the Nature of things) is owing to God’s will in the first Instance, and ultimately referred to that” (An Essay on Moral Obligation, 22). According to Johnson, when God through an act of volition determines “the Existence of certain Things, he also determines their Modes, Relations, and every thing else belonging to them” (ibid.). This leads Johnson to conclude that even if morality is supposed to arise immediately from certain relations, “yet still it must be ultimately resolved into the Will of God, the Author of Nature, as its first and true Foundation” (ibid.). Cockburn challenges the conclusion that Johnson draws: instead of accepting his view that morality “must be ultimately resolved into the Will of God,” she argues that “morality may indeed be ultimately resolved into the divine understanding” (RSW, 122). 54 See Law, An Essay on the Origin of Evil by Dr. William King, note Q, 294–300. 55 Law, An Essay on the Origin of Evil by Dr. William King, note Q, 297. 56 See Law, An Essay on the Origin of Evil by Dr. William King, note Q, 296– 299; and note 53, 301–314. Law’s argument is directed against Leibniz. For helpful further discussion, see Thomas 2017. 57 Cockburn, RSW, 110. 58 Ibid. 59 Ibid. 60 Ibid. 61 See Section 4.1. 62 Cockburn is mainly concerned with showing that it is possible to establish a moral fitness theory independently of the view that there is a best possible world. However, her discussion leaves open whether God has a criterion for choosing one world over the many other possible world. Her text does not explicitly address this issue. 63 See Cockburn, RSW, 143–144. 64 See Cockburn, RSW, 144. Cockburn sometimes switches from speaking about “eternal and immutable relations” to speaking about “essential differences of things” (RSW, 140, 143). Her claim that eternal and immutable relations and

268  Ruth Boeker the fitnesses that arise from them should be understood in terms of abstract ideas and distinguished from particular existence, can also be understood as the claim that (abstract) essences should be distinguished from (particular) existences. 65 Cockburn, RSW, 144. 66 See Warburton, The Divine Legation, 47–48. 67 See Cockburn, RSW, 137–143. 68 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 47. 69 Cockburn, RSW, 140. 70 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 47. 71 Ibid. 72 Ibid. Cockburn paraphrases and quotes parts of this passage from Warburton in RSW, 140. 73 Cockburn, RSW, 140. 74 Ibid. 75 Warburton, The Divine Legation, 48. 76 See ibid. 77 Ibid. 78 The relevant passage reads in full: “Moral Obligation, that is, the Obligation of a free Agent, further implies a Law, which enjoins and forbids; but a Law is the Imposition of an intelligent Superior, who has Power to exact conformity thereto. But blind unintelligent Nature is no Law-­giver, nor can what proceeds necessarily from it, come under the Notion of a Law: We say indeed, in common Speech, the Law of Reason, and the Law of Necessity; but these are merely popular and figurative Expressions: By the first, we mean the Rule that the Law-­giver lays down for judging of his Will, and the second is only an Insinuation that Necessity hath, as it were, one property of a Law, namely that of forcing” (Warburton, The Divine Legation, 48). 79 See Cockburn, Defence, 60–61, 83–84; RSW, 101–103. See also Boeker 2023, 14, 21–23. 80 Cockburn, letter to Thomas Sharp, undated (probably August or September 1743), in The Works of Mrs. Catharine Cockburn, 2:359. 81 Ibid.

Bibliography Primary Sources Anonymous. Remarks upon An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding in a Letter Address’d to the Author. London: printed for M. Wotton, 1697a. ———. Second Remarks upon An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding in a Letter Address’d to the Author, Being a Vindication of the First Remarks against the Answer of Mr. Lock, at the End of His Reply to the Lord Bishop of Worcester. London: printed for M. Wotton, 1697b. ———. Third Remarks upon An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding in a Letter Address’d to the Author. London: printed for M. Wotton, 1699. Cockburn, Catharine Trotter. A Defence of Mr. Locke’s Essay of Human Understanding (1702). In Philosophical Writings, edited by Patricia Sheridan, 35–85. Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2006a.

Catharine Trotter Cockburn against Theological Voluntarism  269 ———. Remarks upon Some Writers in the Controversy concerning the Foundation of Moral Virtue and Moral Obligation (1743). In Philosophical Writings, edited by Patricia Sheridan, 87–146. Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2006b. ———. Remarks upon the Principles and Reasonings of Dr. Rutherforth’s Essay on the Nature and Obligation of Virtue (1747). In Philosophical Writings. Edited by Patricia Sheridan, 147–223. Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2006c. ———. The Works of Mrs. Catharine Cockburn. Edited by Thomas Birch. 2 vols. London: printed for J. & P. Knapton, 1751. Gay, John. “Preliminary Dissertation Concerning the Fundamental Principle of Virtue or Morality.” In An Essay on the Origin of Evil by Dr. William King, Late Lord Archbishop of Dublin, Translated from the Latin, with Notes and a Dissertation Concerning the Principle and Criterion of Virtue and the Origin of the Passions, edited by Edmund Law, xxviii–lvii. London: printed for W. Thurlbourn Bookseller in Cambridge, 1732. Johnson, Thomas. An Essay on Moral Obligation: With a View towards Settling the Controversy, Concerning Moral and Positive Duties. London: printed by J. S. for W. Thurlbourn Bookseller in Cambridge, 1731. Law, Edmund, ed. and trans. An Essay on the Origin of Evil by Dr. William King, Late Lord Archbishop of Dublin, Translated from the Latin, with Notes and a Dissertation Concerning the Principle and Criterion of Virtue and the Origin of the Passions. Second edition corrected and enlarged from the author’s manuscripts. London: printed for W. Thurlbourn Bookseller in Cambridge, 1732. Locke, John. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690). Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975. ———. “Of Ethic in General” (1686–1688?). In Political Essays, edited by Mark Goldie, 297–304. Edited by P. H. Nidditch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Rutherforth, Thomas. An Essay on the Nature and Obligations of Virtue. Cambridge: printed by J. Bentham, Printer to the University, 1744. Warburton, William. The Divine Legation of Moses Demonstrated on the Principles of a Religious Deist, from the Omission of the Doctrine of a Future State of Reward and Punishment in the Jewish Dispensation. London: printed for Fletcher Gyles, 1738. Secondary Literature Boeker, Ruth. 2022. “Hutcheson and His Critics and Opponents on the Moral Sense.” Journal of Scottish Philosophy 20, no. 2: 143–161. ———. 2023. Catharine Trotter Cockburn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bolton, Martha Brandt. 1993. “Some Aspects of the Philosophical Work of Catharine Trotter.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 31, no. 4: 565–588. Broad, Jacqueline, ed. 2020. Women Philosophers of Eighteenth-­Century England: Selected Correspondence. New York: Oxford University Press. Broad, Jacqueline. 2021. “Catharine Trotter Cockburn on the Virtue of Atheists.” Intellectual History Review 31, no. 1: 111–128.

270  Ruth Boeker De Tommaso, Emilio Maria. 2017. “‘Some Reflections upon the True Grounds of Morality’: Catharine Trotter in Defence of John Locke.” Philosophy Study 7, no. 6: 326–339. Green, Karen. 2015. “A Moral Philosophy of Their Own? The Moral and Political Thought of Eighteenth-­ Century British Women.” The Monist 98, no. 1: 89–101. ———. 2019. “On Some Footnotes to Catharine Trotter Cockburn’s Defence of the Essay of Human Understanding.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 27, no. 4: 824–841. Lustila, Getty L. 2020. “Catharine Trotter Cockburn’s Democratization of Moral Virtue.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 50, no. 1: 83–97. Myers, Joanne E. 2012. “Catharine Trotter and the Claims of Conscience.” Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature 31, no. 1/2: 53–75. Randall Ward, W. 1995. “Divine Will, Natural Law and the Voluntarism/ Intellectualism Debate in Locke.” History of Political Thought 16, no. 2: 208–218. Sheridan, Patricia. 2007. “Reflection, Nature, and Moral Law: The Extent of Catharine Cockburn’s Lockeanism in her Defence of Mr. Locke’s Essay.” Hypatia 22, no. 3: 133–151. ———. 2018a. “On Catharine Trotter Cockburn’s Metaphysics of Morality.” In Early Modern Women on Metaphysics, edited by Emily Thomas, 247–265. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2018b. “Virtue, Affection, and the Social Good: The Moral Philosophy of Catharine Trotter Cockburn and the Bluestockings.” Philosophy Compass 13, no. 3. https://doi.org/10.1111/phc3.12478/ ———. 2019. “Catharine Trotter Cockburn.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2019 Edition), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.­ stanford.edu/archives/spr2019/entries/cockburn/ ———. 2022. “Locke and Catharine Trotter Cockburn.” In The Lockean Mind, edited by Jessica Gordon-­Roth and Shelley Weinberg, 27–32. Abingdon and New York: Routledge. Sund, Elizabeth M. K. A. 2013. “Catharine Trotter Cockburn’s Moral Philosophy.” PhD dissertation, Monash University. Thomas, Emily. 2017. “Creation, Divine Freedom, and Catharine Cockburn: An Intellectualist on Possible Worlds and Contingent Laws.” In Women and Liberty, 1600–1800: Philosophical Essays, edited by Jacqueline Broad and Karen Detlefsen, 206–220. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tuckness, Alex. 1999. “The Coherence of a Mind: John Locke and the Law of Nature.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 37, no. 1: 73–90. Waithe, Mary Ellen, ed. 1987–1995. A History of Women Philosophers. 4 vols. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Walmsley, J. C., Hugh Craig, and John Burrows. 2016. “The Authorship of the Remarks upon An Essay concerning Humane Understanding.” Eighteenth-­ Century Thought 6: 205–243.

14 Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation An Alternative to Theological Voluntarism? Sonja Schierbaum 14.1 Introduction There is a whole battery of objections against certain kinds of normative and metaethical views that are commonly called theological voluntarism.1 A common feature of these views is that they assume that God’s will is crucial to determining the moral status of some classes of entities, such as states of affairs or acts.2 The underlying assumption of these views is that divine freedom is consistent with some version of the freedom of indifference insofar as the divine acts that determine the moral status of such entities are not necessary, but contingent.3 It is hardly surprising, then, that one of the perennial objections raised against theological voluntarism is that it entails that morality is arbitrary.4 In this chapter, I focus on the account of the German philosopher and theologian Christian August Crusius (1715–1775). This topic is of historical interest insofar as Crusius, who is mostly discussed as the adversary of Wolff and as a predecessor of Kant, is still an undeservedly neglected thinker.5 My aim is twofold. First, I want to investigate whether Crusius is a theological voluntarist. In the rather sparse secondary literature on Crusius’s conception of obligation, scholars seem to presuppose that Crusius should be counted as a theological voluntarist.6 To answer this, I will argue that this view should be qualified. To this end, I discuss Crusius’s rebuttal of the arbitrariness objection.7 I argue that Crusius is committed to the view that the relevant acts of divine will determining the moral status of actions are necessary. The necessity of these divine acts, however, obviously precludes the non-­ necessity of the divine will required by theological voluntarism. There are two central claims to which theological voluntarists are commonly committed, namely, the dependence of the very existence of moral obligation on God’s will on the one hand (call it the dependence claim), and God’s authority to hold us accountable for complying with our moral obligations on the other hand (call it the divine authority claim).8 It is unclear, however, how these two claims are related, but without an

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300069-18

272  Sonja Schierbaum argument for a strong connection between them, as for instance in the form of entailment or implication, theological voluntarism seems not to be appropriately motivated.9 Thus, secondly, I want to show that Crusius, unlike theological voluntarists, can provide an explanation of how the dependence claim and the divine authority claim are connected. This explanation, however, is not compatible either with theological voluntarism or with any rationalist account that rejects the essential role of authority or any other interpersonal relation for moral obligation.10 It should then become clear that Crusius’s account commits him to a voluntaristic conception of human freedom of indifference, as his theist view on the grounding of morality entails human freedom of indifference. I proceed as follows. I first present Crusius’s version of the arbitrariness objection and his rebuttal of it, against the backdrop of his own conception of moral obligation (§2). I then explicate Crusius’s commitment to the dependence claim and the divine authority claim together with how they are necessarily connected (§3). Finally, I assess Crusius’s conception of moral obligation as entailing human freedom of indifference as a necessary feature of his account (§4). 14.2 The Arbitrariness Objection: Crusius’s Version The arbitrariness objection was raised in Crusius’s day by rationalists such as Wolff.11 Crusius directly addresses the following version of it: Although I posited the ground of the moral goodness of things in God’s will, it would be wrong to think that moral goodness would therefore become arbitrary and changeable. Insofar as the divine law is concerned with something inseparably connected with the essential perfection of things, the divine will that bestows on it the very nature of a law, is not free or contingent; rather, it is a necessary willing. But whatever inseparably depends on a necessary ground is itself necessary.12 Crusius explicitly distinguishes between the arbitrariness and the contingency of moral goodness, the latter in the guise of “the changeable.”13 Arbitrariness and contingency are distinct, albeit related aspects.14 One can hold that the moral goodness or badness of actions is contingent while rejecting the idea that moral goodness or badness is arbitrary, in the sense that there is no reason at all for an action being morally good or bad. By giving the reason for an action’s moral goodness, one is explaining why it is morally good. The reason why is the explanatory reason.15 Thus, it is not inconsistent to think that the explanatory reason for an action being morally good (or bad) can be contingent.16

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  273 However, it is a different matter to hold that an action being good or bad depends only on some act of will. In that case, the act of will seems to be a mere act of stipulation, such as the act of stipulating that a certain gesture be the sign for someone to perform or omit a certain action (e.g., that the wife’s coughing at dinner be the cue for the invitee to insist that it is time to leave).17 The problem is that if the only reason for an action being good is that God wills it so, then nothing is thereby explained, since the same reason – “because God wills it so” – could also be given to explain the badness of the action if God were to will the same action to be bad.18 If, however, one and the same reason is supposed to explain opposite things, it does not explain anything.19 Hence, it seems that if the only “reason” for an action’s goodness or badness is an act of divine will, there is no explanatory reason at all for why it is good or bad. However, if there is at least a contingent reason for God’s willing, then the action being good or bad is not arbitrary. Crusius, however, rejects both contingency and arbitrariness by arguing that the divine will’s act of establishing the moral law is necessary. Accordingly, Crusius’s version of the arbitrariness objection (AO) can be put as follows: (AO) If contingent acts of divine will are the only ground of moral goodness, then moral goodness is arbitrary. If contingent acts of divine will are the ground of moral goodness in connection with something else, then moral goodness is contingent. To fully appreciate Crusius’s rebuttal of AO, it is necessary first to consider two of the central notions of his account: moral goodness and the divine, or moral law. 14.2.1 Moral Goodness and the Moral Law

What does it mean to say that an action is “morally good”? Crusius explicates moral goodness in relation to God’s will. To say that an action is morally good entails that the action promotes those ends that God wills to see promoted by human agents using their powers of reason and free will. This is also what it means for an action to comply with divine law, namely, by being consistent with the actions that God wills human agents to do rationally and freely. Crucially, Crusius’s account of moral goodness is relational: something is morally good only in relation to, or as measured by divine law.20 If the divine law were not actually in force, nothing would be morally good (or bad). Thus, moral goodness is not an intrinsic property that actions could have independently of their relation to divine law.21 In general, Crusius conceives of goodness as essentially relational insofar as any kind of goodness involves a will and its ends. Something is good (or bad)

274  Sonja Schierbaum only in relation to what a rational free agent wills as an end.22 Physical and moral goodness differ as to who wills something as an end for whom: an action that contributes to attaining something willed by a human agent as his end is physically good, whereas an action that promotes the end willed by the divine agent for the human agent is morally good.23 According to Crusius, human agents necessarily desire their own perfection.24 Thus, if an agent performs an action only for the reason that he desires to perfect himself, then his action is physically good. If, however, an agent performs an action for the reason that God wills him to perform it in order to perfect himself, as an end that God gave him, his action is morally good. Thus, a physically good action and a morally good one can be extensionally the same, though they necessarily differ as to their moral value. The point is that an action is morally good if and only if the human agent performs it for the reason that God wills him to perform it. Let us now turn to the notion of a divine or moral law.25 Crusius writes: Out of obedience to the command of your maker, … do what is in accordance with the perfection of God and with the essential perfection of your own nature and all other creatures, … and omit the opposite.26 First, let us consider what kind of divine act is involved here. In my view, it is possible to render (1) God necessarily wills that human agents act in accordance with perfection as (2) God commands human agents to act in accordance with perfection.27 Divine command theorists hold that moral obligations to perform actions derive from God’s commands; in other words, that moral obligation is grounded in a divine command. But as Thomas Carson notes, the notion of a command is difficult to explain.28 It seems plausible to take it as some kind of speech act or performative act, but one notorious problem with this approach is that commands need to be communicated to people in order to be binding on them.29 In the natural law tradition, on which Crusius clearly draws,30 it is commonly held that the moral law is “written on our hearts in our individual consciences.”31 According to Crusius, we have an innate idea of the moral law as well as an innate desire to comply with it. He calls the latter the “drive of conscience.”32 Two components are to be distinguished here: the content of the law, that is, what is willed or established, and the act of establishing the law as a kind of speech act. Note that Crusius also calls the divine law itself a will, and even a “general” will.33 He writes:

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  275 I demand … a kind of generality of the law in any case, so that it might be distinguishable from particular commands. This, however, is only for the purpose of exactly determining the concept [of divine law]. Since with respect to the obligation to God’s will, there is no difference, whether [this divine will] might be a general will or a particular command; however, in philosophy we do not know anything of the latter.34 In this passage, Crusius distinguishes between the general moral law and particular commands. He restricts philosophical discussion of moral obligation to the general divine will, that is, to universal law; particular divine commands, such as commanding Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, are properly discussed in theology.35 At the same time, he stresses that particular commands are just as obligatory as God’s general will. It is plausible that particular commands and the universal divine law differ only with respect to the scope of their content.36 The content is restricted by compliance with God’s willing perfection. Divine law can be described as a “general command,” where “general” specifies the scope of what is commanded.37 Crusius conceives of the act of establishing divine law as an act of commanding.38 Against the backdrop of the notions of moral goodness and the divine or moral law, we can now return to Crusius’s rebuttal of AO. His argumentative strategy in the passage quoted earlier (see the beginning of §14.2) is to argue that the divine act of will establishing the law is necessary and not contingent. The point is that if God decides to create at all, then this contingent act of will entails a series of further necessary acts of divine will that are determined by God’s necessarily willing perfection. Crusius’s argumentation can be paraphrased as follows: (AO) If contingent acts of divine will are the only ground of moral goodness, then moral goodness is arbitrary. If contingent acts of divine will are the ground of moral goodness in connection with something else, then moral goodness is contingent. ( 1) Something can be morally good only in relation to the divine law. (2) The divine law has to be established by an act of divine will. (3) The act of divine will (i.e., the act of commanding) which grounds divine law is necessary. (4) Whatever is grounded in or established by something necessary is itself necessary. (C) Therefore, moral goodness is necessary, and neither contingent nor arbitrary.

276  Sonja Schierbaum Underlying premise 1 is the relational conception of moral goodness discussed earlier. As to premise 2, Crusius holds that the ground of moral law is a necessary act of divine commanding insofar as the moral law is established by virtue of such an act. As Crusius puts it, this necessary act “bestows on it the very nature of a law.”39 The nature of a law, as opposed to a recommendation, for instance, is that it is obligatory to comply with the law, whereas it is merely advisable or prudential to accept a recommendation, but not obligatory.40 14.2.2 Crusius’s Conception of a Ground

It has not yet become clear, however, what it amounts to, according to Crusius’s approach, to say that a divine command is the ground of moral law. This can be stated more precisely by means of the conception of a ground. According to Crusius, that A is the ground or reason of B means that A produces (yields, brings about, establishes), wholly or in part, B.41 Note that the relation between A and B can be causal but need not be.42 If it is causal, then the ground is an efficient cause. Crusius distinguishes between grounds of being and grounds of knowledge, depending on whether what is produced – causally or non-­causally – is an external extramental thing or a mere cognition of something.43 Efficient causes are one kind of ground of being, along with a non-­causal kind of ground that determines things by “their mere existence.”44 Crusius’s favourite example of a non-­causal ground is taken from geometry: the three sides of a triangle and their relation to each other are the (non-­causal) ground for the quantity of the triangle’s angles.45 He further distinguishes between grounds (or reasons) of physical existence and grounds (or reasons) of moral existence: Existence is either physical, where something actually is [the case], or moral, where something ought to be [the case]. … A reason is either a reason of physical existence, by means of which [quo fit] something is real or can be real – for instance, the sun is the reason of light – or a reason of moral existence, by which it comes to be that something ought to be done or is allowed. For instance, avoiding an imminent danger is the reason why one ought to act with caution.46 Concerning reasons of either physical or moral existence, it can be said that if something is a reason of physical existence, it is a reason why a thing exists or happens, whereas if something is a reason of moral existence, then it is a reason why a thing ought to exist or happen.47 Accordingly, Crusius’s example of physical existence involving the sun can be rendered as follows: That the sun is shining is the reason why there is light. As an example of a reason of moral existence, he offers the end of avoiding

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  277 imminent danger. Crusius explicates an end in the broad sense as “that which a mind wills.”48 Something is an end insofar as it is willed.49 Avoiding an imminent danger can be a reason of moral existence for an agent if it is the agent’s end to avoid it, that is, if he wills to avoid it. Thus, the second example can be rendered as follows: That an agent wills to avoid an imminent danger is the reason why he ought to act with caution. Analogously, we can say that the necessary divine act of establishing the moral law is the reason why human agents ought to comply with it. Put differently, that God commands human agents to act in accordance with divine law is the reason why human agents ought to comply with divine law.50 The divine act of will makes compliance with the law obligatory. This divine act is thus a reason of moral existence, not of physical existence. In this sense, the divine act of will grounds the divine law, as stated in the reconstruction of Crusius’s rebuttal of the arbitrariness objection: (3) The act of divine will (i.e., the act of commanding) which grounds divine law is necessary. It is in this sense also that God’s willing brings about the very existence of moral obligation. Crusius argues further: (4) Whatever is grounded in or established by something necessary is itself necessary. From this it follows that the moral law is necessary: it is necessarily in force, since its ground, the divine act of commanding, is necessary. Since an action is morally good (or bad) only in relation to or as measured by moral law, it further follows that if an action is morally good (or bad), then it is necessarily good (or bad): for since God necessarily wills human agents to comply with divine law (to act in accordance with perfection), it follows that if an action complies with divine law, it is necessarily good.51 Accordingly, Crusius concludes: (C) Therefore, moral goodness is neither contingent nor arbitrary. It seems, then, that whether something is morally good or bad is not caused by the moral law’s being in force; rather, the law being in force determines non-­causally whether actions are actually morally good or bad. Thus, according to the distinction of reasons given here, the reason of moral goodness (or badness) of actions can be rendered as follows: It being obligatory to act in accordance with divine law is the reason why an action that is performed in accordance (or not in accordance) with divine law is morally good (or bad). In other words, the divine law being in force is the non-­ causal ground of being of moral goodness.52 It is therefore not appropriate

278  Sonja Schierbaum to describe Crusius’s account as a form of theological voluntarism, since there is no divine act relevant to the process of bestowing moral value on actions that is not necessary. Nevertheless, Crusius is committed to the dependence claim – that the existence of moral obligation depends on God’s will. 14.3 Divine Authority It should further become clear in what follows that Crusius is also committed to the divine authority claim – that God has the authority to hold us accountable for complying with our moral obligations. Unlike theological voluntarists, however, Crusius has no difficulties in explaining the necessary connection between the existence of moral obligations being dependent on God’s acts of will and God’s authority to hold us accountable.53 The point is that God’s authority to hold human agents accountable follows from his authority to establish the moral law. The underlying idea is that the force of a law entails that sanctions will be imposed in order to make the law effective in case of non-­compliance.54 Therefore, the authority to establish a law implies the authority to impose sanctions. To show this, it is first necessary to clarify how God’s authority to establish the moral law is grounded, in order to see then how this law-­establishing authority entails God’s authority to hold human agents accountable. To see how God’s authority to establish the moral law is grounded, it is helpful first to look at Crusius’s argument for the very existence of the moral law. He writes: Without doubt, since God is the most perfect being, he necessarily does not will anything which does not harmonize with the essential perfection of things. The most perfect being can in no way be conceived without love for perfection. Hence, if he creates the world, he necessarily wills that minds endowed with reason exist, and that they should live in accordance with their own perfection and with divine perfection.55 According to Crusius, the divine act of creating the world is free insofar as God could have created the world sooner or later or could have even not created it at all.56 God could have also created a world different from the actual world.57 Thus, insofar as Crusius rejects Leibniz’s idea of the best of all possible worlds, there is leeway in God’s creation,58 but once God contingently chooses to create a world at all, then (as explained earlier) a series of acts of divine will necessarily follow (as explained earlier).59 Since God necessarily wills perfection, he can choose only among good actions. One might think of this as a restriction of divine freedom, but Crusius explains that God’s freedom is the most perfect, since it is a freedom to choose only

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  279 among all possible good actions; divine freedom is “freedom for the good.”60 Human freedom, by contrast, is not perfect, since humans can choose among good and bad actions.61 The idea seems to be that the range of possible objects of choice constitutes the freedom’s degree of perfection. God necessarily wills human agents to act rationally and freely in accordance with perfection; this is the very end for which he creates them. Thus, the law being in force is only hypothetically necessary, that is, on condition of the world actually existing. Crusius even advances a metaphysical argument for the possibility of moral action as the (hypothetically necessary) end of creation. The upshot of his argument is that the possibility of acting morally is a necessary ingredient of any world, since otherwise the divine action of creating the world threatens to be futile.62 An action is futile if by it nothing becomes actual or at least possible that would not be actual or possible without it. Futility is incompatible with perfection. Although having the very power of freedom and reason depends on divine will, it does not depend on God’s will how human agents actually use the powers they are necessarily endowed with. Therefore, creating the world is not futile only if there are free rational agents who are able to act in accordance with divine moral law. Once God creates rational, free agents as necessary parts of the world, he is also not free as to whether or not to establish the moral law.63 As Crusius states, “God must give his free and rational creatures a law by virtue of him necessarily willing perfection.”64 Remarkably, it is not only the end of human agents that they act in accordance with perfection, but also part of God’s own end of creating the world, since it pleases him if human agents act in accordance with perfection. Pleasure, however, is nothing but the state resulting from the awareness of one’s willing being satisfied.65 If human agents act in accordance with moral law, then thereby “something is brought into existence that, by itself, is an object of the basic desires of his will.”66 The relevant divine desire here is, again, God’s necessarily willing perfection.67 Human non-­compliance with perfection, by contrast, displeases God. Since the kind of compliance with moral law that God wills for human agents presupposes human freedom, it also implies the possibility of not complying with the law. It is an empirical fact that human agents often act in a way contrary to how they ought to act. Admitting the very existence of morally bad actions, however, is compatible with God’s necessarily willing perfection only insofar as bad actions are punished, and necessarily so.68 If morally bad actions occur, then God necessarily wills to punish them, and hence does punish them.69 That God necessarily wills to punish morally bad actions is entailed by his necessarily willing perfection.70 God’s contingent act of creating the world entails a whole series of necessary divine acts, first of all, (1) an act of creating rational human agents

280  Sonja Schierbaum capable of acting freely and rationally in accordance with moral law. This act entails (2) the act of establishing the moral law, which, in connection with God’s admitting of morally bad actions, entails (3) the imposition of sanctions for non-­compliance with moral law. Against the backdrop of the necessary relation between the establishment of the moral law (2) and the imposition of sanctions for violating it (3), we can start to see how the dependence claim and the divine authority claim are connected according to Crusius. 14.3.1 The Grounding of God’s Double Authority

To understand the connection correctly, however, it is necessary to determine what constitutes God’s authority to establish the law. Once we see this, we will also be in a position to see how the authority to impose sanctions follows. Crusius explains: If … obligation were not founded on our dependence on God as our commanding creator, but in the nature of things, considered in abstraction from God, or in the dependence of our happiness from certain and individual means, certainly nothing would truly be permitted by God’s command to his creatures. For plainly, his will would not produce obligation, and God would not be a lawgiver, but a teacher, who would not command, but teach and explain those [actions] to which we were already fully obligated without his command.71 Crusius’s point is that if obligation were founded in the very nature of things, then God’s willing that we ought to act in accordance with perfection would be a mere recommendation, but not, strictly speaking, a command that is morally binding. God’s willing, however, makes it morally obligatory to act in accordance with perfection because human agents depend on God. Crusius writes: Dependence among minds is nothing but such a relation of one [mind] to another where one receives certain goods by the will of the other. That is, if this [sc. other] will were to disappear, those goods would also no longer exist. Therefore, it is evident that we totally depend on God.72 The idea is that humans have certain goods, such as their power of reason and of will, only by God’s will, since it is by his will that he created them.73 One should keep in mind that God creates humans as both rational and free for a certain end, since he necessarily wills rational agents to act freely in accordance with perfection. In general, obligation (Verbindlichkeit), by Crusius’s definition, is the state in which a moral necessity obtains: that something, namely, an action,

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  281 is obligatory means that it is morally necessary in the sense that the agent can understand that it ought to be done on account of a certain end.74 In other words, that an action is morally necessary means that there is a reason why it ought to be performed; this is a reason of moral existence. In the case of moral obligation, this is the end for which God creates the rational agent, and which is also part of God’s own end of creating, as opposed to other ends the rational agent might also have.75 Recall that Crusius distinguishes between kinds of goodness by means of the kind of agent involved.76 An action that contributes to attaining something willed by a human agent as his end is physically good, whereas an action that promotes the end willed by the divine agent for the human agent is morally good.77 Crusius does not ground God’s authority to oblige human agents in their mere ontological dependence on him, but rather in their teleologically qualified dependence on his will.78 The fact that God wills that free and rational agents exist for this purpose makes it morally necessary, that is, obligatory, for them to act in accordance with this purpose.79 One might still wonder why this dependence, however qualified, should make it morally obligatory for human agents to act in the way God wills them to act and for the very reason that he wills them to act in that way.80 If one can accept the idea that willing an end can create a reason why, in view of that willed end, one ought to act in a certain way, then perhaps the idea that moral obligation is just a special case of creating reasons of moral existence in Crusius’s sense becomes more palatable. The idea is that in the special case in which the divine agent wills something for human agents as part of his own end creates a reason for these very agents to act in the way he wills them to act. Again, the divine end in creating the world is that human agents act rationally and freely according to the moral law. Seeing human agents act in this way pleases God: it is his reason for creating. That is, if one admits the possibility that an agent can be part of the end of another agent’s action, then one should also be ready to admit the possibility that this can create a reason to act in a certain way for this other agent. According to Crusius, the authority to create reasons of moral existence for other agents, in the case of moral obligation, is grounded in this very dependence of human agents on God’s will. This answer might not satisfy the objectors. However, it seems to me that the real issue here is not so much whether the authority to create moral reasons for other agents can be grounded in any kind of dependence; it is rather the very idea of an authority to create moral reasons for other agents. What is particularly interesting in Crusius, I think, is that human agents are conceived of as part of God’s own end of creating, and are therefore addressees of the moral reasons entailed by their being willed by God as an end. This is consistent with the idea that willing something as an end can create a reason of moral existence in Crusius’s sense, and all the more

282  Sonja Schierbaum in the case of a necessarily perfect divine agent. It seems to me that this is a satisfactory answer to the question of why this dependence should create moral obligation for us. 14.4 Conclusion God’s contingent decision to create the world, together with his willing perfection, entails the existence of moral obligation in the relational sense I have explained and the imposition of sanctions in cases of non-­compliance. On the one hand, the content of moral obligation is constrained by the required compatibility with perfection: the content of moral obligation is determined by God’s necessary nature, not by his will. On the other hand, it is only because God wills human agents to act in accordance with perfection that they are obligated to do so; moreover, they are so obligated because he wills them to so act. Crusius’s point is that human agents ought to promote perfection for the reason that they depend on God’s will in the teleologically qualified sense I have laid out. Although acting in accordance with perfection is also the means to attaining happiness, a person would not act morally if she acted in accordance with perfection only for the reason that she wanted to become happy.81 Rather, she acts morally only if she acts for the reason that she owes it to the one who has the authority to command her to do so because he provides her with the goods she has. Here, the social aspect of obligation becomes apparent: it involves a relationship between persons – in this case between the divine and human persons – in which one person is justified in making demands on the other.82 Moral obligation implies the command of the divine authority to rational human agents who are to obey the command because they owe it to God insofar as they are nothing but ends of divine action.83 Characterizing Crusius’s view as a kind of theological voluntarism is precluded by the very necessity of God’s willing that is involved in moral obligation. Unlike those committed to some form of theological voluntarism, Crusius has an argument for the necessary connection between the dependence of morality on God’s will and his authority to hold us accountable. This can be explained as follows: Moral obligation exists only insofar as God wills human agents to comply with the end for which he creates them, and this willing establishes a reason why they ought to comply with what God wills for them (in Crusius’s terms, a “reason of moral existence”). Furthermore, God necessarily punishes cases of non-­compliance, for the existence of moral obligation combined with God’s necessary willing of perfection entails the imposition of sanctions for non-­compliance. In this sense, the existence of moral obligation entails that God is central to holding us accountable for complying with the moral law.

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  283 Crusius’s commitment to a voluntaristic conception of human freedom follows from the necessary features of God’s willing that constitute the metaphysical framework of moral obligation. The divine act of creation is consistent with perfection only if there is room for independent, free, and rational action by human agents (see Section 14.3). Thus, the metaphysical requirements for Crusius’s conception of moral obligation render the existence of some form of freedom of indifference hypothetically necessary: in other words, necessarily, if there is a world, there is freedom of indifference. Thus, for Crusius, it is not human freedom of indifference that is the starting point of his moral theory, but rather divine freedom for the good.84 The former is just an implication of the latter. Notes 1 For an overview of these objections, see Quinn 1999, 65–71; Evans 2013, 88–117. 2 Following Quinn 1990, I prefer the label “theological voluntarism” to “divine command theory,” since the former remains neutral as to the relevant kind of act of the divine will. For the general characterization here, I rely heavily on Murphy 2019. 3 Or at least some divine acts are contingent. On this, see Murphy 2002, 83–85. 4 For a nuanced presentation of the arbitrariness objection in its different versions, see Sullivan 1993. 5 For a broad and general presentation and discussion of different aspects of Crusius’s philosophy, see the volume edited by Grunert and Hahmann (2020). 6 See Rivero 2018, 229n32; Klingner 2021. 7 For a detailed discussion of Crusius’s rebuttal of the arbitrariness objection concerning human freedom of indifference, see Schierbaum 2020. 8 I stress the dependence on God’s will here because there are also theist theories that are not committed to a divine will-­dependence, such as the divine attitude theory (see Jordan 2009) or the divine desire theory (see Miller 2009). 9 See Murphy 2019. 10 According to Wolff, for instance, moral obligation is grounded in the nature of things: whether it is obligatory to perform an action depends on its nature, that is, whether it promotes a thing’s proper perfection or not. The latter, however, is not determined by virtue of some divine act of will. See Wolff, Deutsche Ethik, §9. For an extensive discussion of Wolff’s account of obligation and morality, see Schierbaum, Walsh, and Walschots, forthcoming. 11 A version of the arbitrariness objection can be found in Wolff’s Anmerkungen zur Deutschen Metaphysik, chap. 3, §134. 12 Crusius, Entwurf, §286; all translations are my own. I use the terms “ground” and “reason” interchangeably throughout. In this, I follow Crusius’s own usage, though I tend to use “ground” if the matter is constitutive and not epistemological, as in the passage quoted here. I discuss the distinction between constitutive and epistemological reasons in §14.2.2. 13 By definition, what is contingent (zufällig) is changeable (veränderlich), since that a thing is contingent means that it can be different. See Crusius, Entwurf, §120.

284  Sonja Schierbaum 14 If moral goodness (or badness) is arbitrary, it is also contingent; the converse, however, does not hold. 15 See Della Rocca 2010; Alvarez 2010, 197. 16 For discussion of the contingency of explanatory reasons of moral goodness, see Murphy 2011, 47–49. 17 In contemporary discussions of the source of normativity of reasons, Ruth Chang (2013, 179–180) defends a view according to which it is possible to create reasons for action by willing in some cases. These cases are metaphysically and normatively constrained, i.e., by the reasons given to us and by other normative facts. In this way, Chang is able to avoid the difficulties raised by the “pure voluntarist” view. 18 The problem of the grounding of the good and its relation to divine willing dates back at least to Plato; see Euthyphro 10a. 19 Crusius himself answers this version of the arbitrariness objection raised against human freedom of indifference. See Crusius, Anweisung, §48. 20 In this respect, Crusius’s account is importantly similar to the account of William of Ockham, although Ockham’s metaethical view is commonly described as a form of theological voluntarism. For a concise overview of the scholarly debate, see Eardley 2013, 77–82; for a recent discussion of Ockham’s theological voluntarism, see Hagedorn 2021. 21 Again, Crusius’s account is thus inconsistent with a rationalist view like Wolff’s. See note 10. 22 See Crusius, Entwurf, §195. 23 Crusius, Anweisung, §26. 24 Crusius calls the desire for perfection a “basic desire” (Grundverlangen); it is both innate and necessary. See Crusius, Anweisung, §111. For a recent discussion, see Lyssy 2021. 25 Note that I will follow Crusius in using the terms “divine law” and “moral law” interchangeably throughout. 26 Crusius, Anweisung, §174 (italics mine). See also Anweisung, §133; De appetitibus, §§59–60. 27 For ease of exposition, I use the short formula “to act in accordance with perfection” as the content of divine law, that is, what the law requires human agents to do. 28 See Carson 2012, 466n12. 29 See Carson 2012, 466n12. Robert Adams (1999, 262–270) is aware of this problem. On speech acts, see Austin 1975. 30 See Crusius, Anweisung, §§362–403 (“Von dem Rechte der Natur überhaupt”). For a recent discussion of Crusius’s conception of natural law, see Recknagel 2021. 31 Carson (2012, 467) holds that, given how fallible conscience is, this view is very problematic. This is illustrated by the fact that people commit terrible acts in perfectly good conscience: being knowable is not sufficient for the moral law to be communicated in a way that precludes or at least minimizes the danger of error and misunderstanding of the moral law. 32 See Crusius, Anweisung, §132. For discussion of Crusius’s conception of conscience, see Sticker 2021. 33 See Crusius, De appetitibus, §53; Anweisung, §165. 34 Crusius, Anweisung, §165 (italics mine). 35 See Gen. 22:1–19.

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  285 36 It can be asked whether the scope of the content corresponds to the scope of the addressee group. It seems that the more particular the content of what is commanded, the more restricted the group addressee group. Thanks to Jörn Müller for making me aware of this correlation. 37 In my view, Crusius calls the divine law a “general will” (i.e., the act of commanding that human agents ought to act in accordance with perfection) in the sense in which, for example, the worry that there will be a recession because of the pandemic can be called a “general worry”: “general” refers to a feature of the content, whereas “worry” and “will” refer to the kind of act or attitude it is. 38 Of course, it is by no means clear what exactly this “general act of commanding” amounts to. Is it the same act as the act of creating human rational agents with an innate idea of the moral law and the desire to obey it? In any case, what is crucial is that in both cases human agents are addressed and bound by an obligation. 39 Crusius, Entwurf, §286. 40 See Crusius, Anweisung, §165. See Section 14.3.1 in this chapter for discussion. 41 Crusius, Entwurf, §34. 42 Crusius accounts for causality in terms of an asymmetrical dependence relation between two things A and B. That B is caused by A means that the reality of B asymmetrically depends on the reality of A in a way that differs from and is irreducible to B being simultaneous with or consequent upon A or being a part, determination, or accident of A. Causality cannot be defined, however, because its concept is simple; according to Crusius, the concept of causality can only be abstracted from examples. See Crusius, Entwurf, §32. 43 Note that an efficient cause can also function as a “ground of knowledge” insofar as it is possible to understand an effect by understanding its cause. The point, however, is that this cognitive aspect is not essential to the cause, and thus contributes nothing to defining it as a ground. 44 Crusius, De usu, §36. 45 See Crusius, Entwurf, §36. 46 Crusius, De usu, §34. 47 To clarify matters, one can conceive of “moral” and “physical” as one-­place sentence-­forming logical operators when applied to “existence.” 48 See Crusius, Anweisung, §13. 49 According to Crusius, then, “mindless” nature does not have a teleological structure, since there are no “natural ends” independent of some willing mind. It would be misleading to say that natural ends are those that God wills for or on behalf of “mindless” things: natural, “mindless” entities can be (part of) ends, but they do not have ends themselves, since they cannot will anything themselves. See Crusius, Entwurf, §380. 50 See Crusius, Entwurf, §131. 51 Crusius explicitly states that an action is necessarily good if the end on account of which the action is performed is necessarily willed by the agent. The point here is that God necessarily wills human agents to act in accordance with perfection. See Crusius, Entwurf, §195. 52 Put this way, the reason – namely, “that it is obligatory to act in accordance with divine law” – is not a reason of moral existence, since what the reason “produces,” or brings about, is not that something ought to exist or happen. This is not a problem, however, since the question of whether an action is

286  Sonja Schierbaum morally good or bad is not about how an action ought to be, but about how it actually is. 53 See Section 14.1 in this chapter; I come back to this point in Section 4. Robert Adams is said to struggle with this difficulty. See Adams (1973) 1987a, (1979) 1987b; for discussion of Adams, see Murphy 2012. 54 See Crusius, Anweisung, §§189–190; De appetitibus, §60. The effectiveness of the law is not to be confused with its obligational character: sanctions do not establish the obligational character of the law, as Crusius emphasizes. See Entwurf, §194. 55 Crusius, De appetitibus, §60 (italics mine). 56 See Crusius, Entwurf, §309. 57 See Crusius, Entwurf, §386. In this respect, Crusius agrees with late medieval voluntarists who emphasize the contingency of God’s act of creation and the possibility of an alternative world that is equally good both metaphysically and morally. For discussion, see Müller 2005. 58 See Crusius, Entwurf, §§385–389. 59 For Crusius’s idea of creation as a free divine action, see Entwurf, §281. 60 See Crusius, Entwurf, §308. Human freedom, by contrast, is not perfect, since humans can choose among good and bad actions. 61 See Entwurf, §451. 62 For a detailed analysis of Crusius’s argumentation on the “non-­futility” of the divine act of creation, see Schierbaum 2019. 63 See Crusius, Entwurf, §309. 64 Crusius, Entwurf, §284. 65 See Crusius, Anweisung, §24. 66 Crusius, Entwurf, §301. 67 Crusius emphasizes that in ascribing the basic desire for perfection to God, one does not thereby ascribe some deficiency to God. A desire is a kind of willing whose object can be “something present” or “something future” (Entwurf, §278). God necessarily desires the perfection of his own essence, and since God is necessarily perfect, his desire is accompanied by a constant, maximal enjoyment, or beatitude. By contrast, the enjoyment of human agents who also desire perfection can vary greatly, since unlike the divine person, they have to seek appropriate objects of their desire outside themselves. Thus, the possibility of variation in enjoyment is a sign of imperfection, or deficiency; see Entwurf, §279. Note that it seems to follow that Crusius is not committed to what is called in contemporary debates the “death of desire” principle: that it is not possible to desire something one believes one already has. See Lauria and Deonna 2017, 46–50. 68 See Crusius, Entwurf, §301. 69 According to Crusius, God’s willing to φ entails his φ-­ing. See Entwurf, §313. 70 See Crusius, Entwurf, §301. 71 Crusius, De appetitibus, §59 (italics mine). 72 Crusius, Anweisung, §133. 73 Crucially, not only the initial reception, but also the maintenance or preservation of these goods depends on God’s will. It is common in the medieval discussion to distinguish between the initial causation or creation of x by God and the preservation (conservatio) of x by God. 74 See Crusius, Anweisung, §160.

Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  287 75 Crusius also calls moral obligation “lawful obligation of virtue” or “true obligation in the narrower sense”; see Anweisung, §162. 76 See Section 14.2.1 in this chapter. 77 Crusius, Anweisung, §26. 78 Quinn (1999, 92) points to the tendency among theists to include a “strong doctrine of sovereignty” in their philosophical theologies based on God’s power to create and maintain the actual world. One advantage of Crusius’s “qualified” dependence view is that he can give a more plausible account of the ground of divine authority issuing moral obligation and holding human agents accountable. 79 See Crusius, Anweisung, §165. 80 I thank Jörn Müller for raising this issue. 81 See Crusius, Anweisung, §176. Recall that human agents have a basic and necessary desire for perfection. 82 In the contemporary discussion, Robert Adams (1987c, 264; 1999, 245–246) defends such a view of obligation as social. See also Evans 2013, 27. 83 Crusius also calls this the “lawful obligation of virtue” or “true obligation in the narrower sense.” See Anweisung, §162. 84 On divine freedom for the good, see note 60.

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Crusius against the Arbitrariness of Moral Obligation  289 Scotus.” In Kreativität: XX. Deutscher Kongress für Philosophie 26.–30. September 2005 in Berlin, Sektionsbeiträge, vol. 1, edited by Günter Abel, 489–503. Berlin: Universitätsverlag der TU Berlin. Murphy, Mark C. 2002. An Essay on Divine Authority. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ———. 2011. God and Moral Law: On the Theistic Explanation of Morality. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2012. “Restricted Theological Voluntarism.” Philosophy Compass 7: 679–690. ———. 2019. “Theological Voluntarism.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2019 Edition), edited by Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.­ stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/voluntarism-­theological/ Quinn, Philip. 1990. “An Argument for Divine Command Ethics.” In Christian Theism and the Problems of Philosophy, edited by Michael Beaty, 289–302. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. ———. 1999. “Divine Command Theory.” In The Blackwell Guide to Ethical Theory, edited by Hugh LaFollette, 53–73. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Recknagel, Dominik. 2021. “Pflicht aus Liebe zu Gott. Prinzipien und Inhalte des Naturrechts bei Christian August Crusius.” In Christian August Crusius (1715– 1775): Philosophy between Reason and Revelation, edited by Frank Grunert and Andree Hahmann, 319–332. Berlin: De Gruyter. Rivero, Gabriel. 2018. “Von der Abhängigkeit zur Notwendigkeit. Kants Perspektivwechsel in der Auffassung der Verbindlichkeit zwischen 1785 und 1797.” Aufklärung 30: 217–236. Schierbaum, Sonja. 2019. “Freedom of Indifference: Its Metaphysical Credentials According to Crusius.” Fudan Journal of the Humanities and Social Sciences 12, no. 3: 385–405. ———. 2020. “Choosing for No Reason? An Old Objection to Freedom of Indifference.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 37, no. 2: 183–202. ———. 2021. “Crusius on Moral Motivation.” In Christian August Crusius (1715–1775): Philosophy between Reason and Revelation, edited by Frank Grunert and Andree Hahmann, 251–278. Berlin: De Gruyter. ———. 2022. “Christian Wolff über motivierende Gründe und handlungsrelevante Irrtümer.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 104, no. 1: 131–163. Schierbaum, Sonja, John Walsh, and Michael Walschots, eds. Forthcoming. Wolff’s German Ethics: New Approaches and Perspectives. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schneewind, Jerome B. 1998. The Invention of Autonomy: A History of Modern Moral Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sticker, Martin. 2021. “Sleeping Conscience – Crusius on Moral Fallibility.” In Christian August Crusius (1715–1775): Philosophy between Reason and Revelation, edited by Frank Grunert and Andree Hahmann, 279–300. Berlin: De Gruyter. Sullivan, Stephen J. (1993). Arbitrariness, Divine Commands, and Morality. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 33, no. 1: 33–45.

Index

Pages followed by “n” refer to notes. accountability 10, 50, 181–185, 189–190, 193 act of faith: as cognitive process 107–109; as movement of the will 109–110 akrasia 7–8, 43n31, 43n39, 47–50, 53–57, 59–61, 101n27 Alanen, Lilli 149, 157n18, 158n21, 158n31 Álvarez, Diego 139n23, 168, 178n12, 284n15 Anselm of Canterbury 8, 67, 74, 76–77, 200, 203 Aquinas, Thomas 10, 48, 51, 53, 55–57, 74–75, 88, 106–107, 111, 114, 126–127, 136, 138n6–n12, 139n31, 163, 166–167, 200, 203, 219, 225–230 arbitrariness 21n3, 257–258, 271–287 Aristotle 5, 7–8, 14, 46–50, 52–58, 60, 62n6–n7, 62n9–n10, 64n63, 67–71, 74–76, 78, 82n41, 88, 100n10, 168, 189, 196n60 Aubert, Roger 117n1 Augustine 8, 22n23, 54, 62n29, 67, 69, 74, 76, 109, 126, 128, 161, 166 Augustinian Deficiency Thesis 7, 53 Bayle, Pierre 101n40, 102n46, 261–263 Bellarmine, Robert 167, 178n10 Bender, Sebastian 16–17, 21n11, 231n6–n8, 233n37–n38, 233n41, 233n43

Bernard of Clairvaux 8, 22n30, 51, 54, 62n17, 67, 74, 76–77, 126 Beyssade, Michelle 147–148, 157n18, 158n26 Boeker, Ruth 18, 265n15, 266n28 Bramhall, John 161–162, 171–172, 177 Cajetan, Thomas 108, 118n17 Cassirer, Ernst 144, 157n9 cause, causation 2, 6–8, 10, 13–14, 27, 30–32, 34–40, 42n11, 69, 96, 106, 110–112, 129–132, 135, 164–165, 168–170, 172–174, 176, 184–185, 189, 194, 195n22, 204–207, 213n26, 245, 276, 285n44 Chatton, Walter 204–209, 213n39–n42 Christofidou, Andrea 148, 158n22, 158n28 Cicero 116 Clarke, Samuel 259–261 coactio 13, 166–167, 171, 176–177 condemnation of 1277 7, 46, 49, 54–55 contingency 1–4, 15–16, 19, 21n5, 21n9, 161–168, 170, 173, 176, 178, 238–239, 272–273, 284n16, 286n58 Cristóbal-Sebastián, Antonio San 125 Crusius, Christian August 16–21, 271–283 Davidson, Donald 59, 61, 102n44 deliberation 4, 30, 39, 50, 52, 56, 58, 71–74, 110, 127, 134–135, 180, 246

Index  291 Descartes, René 9, 11–13, 16–17, 86–99, 99n1–n6, 100n17–n19, 100n21–n24, 143–156, 184–185, 219–231, 231n2–n3, 231n8, 231n12–n13, 233n39, 238 determinism 1, 4–6, 12, 29–33, 51, 53, 143, 145, 148, 157n2, 181, 193 de Vitoria, Francisco 10, 106–117, 118n6, 118n9, 118n11–n12, 118n15–n18, 118n20–n22, 119n23–n27, 120n46–n48, 120n51 doxastic voluntarism 9, 12, 91–92, 97, 105 essences 16–17, 88, 225–230, 232n34, 233n37, 233n45, 240, 245 evil 8–9, 18–20, 50–52, 55–57, 60, 67–71, 78, 79n6, 79n9, 90, 161, 165, 172, 176, 183, 187, 189–193, 199, 202, 212n12, 251, 253, 257–260, 264 faculty 9, 12–13, 22n27, 27, 29–34, 39, 86–87, 89, 92–97, 100n23, 101n34, 106, 111, 149–150, 163, 167, 170, 175, 181–185, 189 Fonseca, Pedro da 168 Frankfurt, Harry 21n2, 145, 157n12, 231n6 freedom 1–2, 4, 9–15, 18–20, 28–32, 37, 46, 53–54, 57, 60, 73, 92, 97–98, 115, 125, 127–128, 130–132, 135, 143–157, 161–169, 172, 174–178, 181–183, 185–193, 200–211, 221–224, 226, 229, 271–272, 278–279, 283, 284n19–n20 Giles of Rome 53, 62n36, 211n5 God 2, 4, 10, 14–18, 20, 31, 38–39, 42n28, 43n42, 106–110, 114–117, 129–130, 153, 162, 165–167, 171–172, 180, 184–186, 191, 201–211, 213n44, 219–230, 231n7–n8, 232n20, 232n23–n24, 232n28–n29, 233n37, 233n42, 233n45, 236, 238, 240–247, 251, 253–261, 264, 266n26, 267n53, 267n62, 273–275, 277–282, 285n50, 285n52, 286n68, 286n74

Godfrey of Fontaines 28, 30, 37–38, 67, 70–71, 80n17, 125 Gonsalvus of Spain 60, 64n65, 64n73, 72, 81n38 Grellard, Christophe 10, 117n1, 118n6, 118n14 Haara, Heikki 13, 195n39, 196n66 habituation 13, 37, 181, 190–194 Hagedorn, Eric 14–15, 213n36, 213n38 Henry of Ghent 6–8, 11–12, 29–30, 33–38, 42n18–n19, 42n22–n23, 43n34, 43n37, 47, 51–54, 57–58, 68–72, 74, 77, 113, 125–137, 138n4–n5, 140n45–n49, 204, 206 Henry of Harclay 204–209, 213n32 Henry Totting of Oyta 113 Hobbes, Thomas 12–13, 161–165, 169–177, 178n13–n22, 178n24–n28, 181, 185–187, 191 Hoffmann, Tobias 8, 20, 21n13, 22n14, 41n5–n6, 47, 61n5, 62n30, 79n2, 79n6, 80n15, 157n4–n5, 212n12, 233n36–n37 Holcot, Robert 10, 105, 111–116, 119n35–n36 Hugh of Saint-Victor 105, 117n2 Hugolin of Orvieto 113 ignorance 50, 53–57, 60, 69, 117, 146, 178 intellectualist 3–4, 7–8, 10–12, 14–16, 18, 20, 29, 39, 41, 46–49, 51–53, 55–57, 60–61, 63n39, 64n65, 125, 137–138, 144, 147, 150–151, 153, 155–156, 219, 221–226, 229–231, 232n29, 244–246, 251, 266n44 irrationalism 27–30, 37–39, 61, 63n37 Irwin, Terence 21n1, 29, 39, 41n4, 43n40, 194n3 John of Damascus 72, 81n27 John of Murro 131, 139n36–n37 John of Pouilly 8, 60, 63n56, 67, 71–78, 79n1, 80n23–n24, 81n25, 81n29–n30, 81n34–n38, 82n40, 82n42–n43, 83n48, 83n51, 83n55–n56

292 Index Judgement-Volition Conformity 7–8, 47–49, 52, 55, 60, 67–68, 71–74, 76, 78, 82n42

Olivi, Peter John 8, 14, 47, 57–59, 63n57–n59, 64n61–n64, 200–211, 212n16–n19, 212n20–n24

Kenny, Anthony 102n44, 147–148, 158n20, 158n24–n25 Kent, Bonnie 22n15, 22n18, 46, 56, 61n2–n3, 62n11, 62n14, 63n39–n40, 63n44, 63n55, 80n19, 211n5, 212n10, 212n15, 212n22, 212n24 King, William 259, 267n54–n56

passion 7, 12–13, 22n26, 29, 43n31, 43n39, 48–50, 52, 54–57, 60–61, 63n44, 68, 70, 75–77, 96, 102n43, 129–132, 144, 152–155, 174, 176, 181–182, 185–190, 193–194, 195n35, 196n50–n51, 254, 256 Payne, Robert 173 Perler, Dominik 6, 11, 43n38, 87, 231n6, 232n27 Peter of Ailly 111–114, 117, 119n37 pia affectio 109–111, 113 Pink, Thomas 12, 194n7 Plato 48, 184, 284n18 Porete, Marguerite 15, 200, 209–211, 213n44, 214n47–n52 Principle of Plenitude (POP) 17, 236, 239–242, 245, 247 Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) 4–6, 17, 21n5, 225, 228–229, 232n30, 236–242, 246 Pufendorf, Samuel 13–14, 180–194, 194n2, 194n9, 194n11, 195n12– n28, 195n30, 195n35–n38, 195n41–n49, 196n52–n58, 197n88–n91 Putallaz, François-Xavier 31, 22n22, 41n7, 42n12–n13, 63n39, 63n56

Leibniz, G. W. F. 1, 4–6, 9, 16–17, 21n5, 21n9, 86–87, 91–99, 101n29, 102n41–n42, 184, 186, 219, 225, 230, 232n34, 235–237, 239–247, 248n1, 248n6–n8, 249n22–n26, 259–260, 278 Lennon, Thomas 144, 148, 157n1, 157n6, 157n16, 158n22 liberum arbitrium 9–10, 12–13, 22n17, 75, 109, 126, 129, 140n43, 145, 162–164, 166–168, 171, 174, 176 Locke, John 88, 100n12, 257–258, 266n44 Lombard, Peter 22n27, 57, 164, 178n4, 199, 211n1–n2 Macken, Raymond 41n6, 125, 138n1 Mair, John 106, 111–114, 117, 120n39 Malcolm, Noel 173, 178n23 modal voluntarism 16–17, 220–221, 225, 229–230, 231n5, 231n7–n8, 232n29–n30 moral law 4, 257, 263, 273–282, 284n26, 284n32, 285n39 Moore, G. E. 21n4 Müller, Jörn 7–8, 21n6, 42n18, 71, 80n21, 100n24, 138n2, 139n33, 140n40, 140n44, 287n81 Newlands, Sam 239–241, 248n9, 248n11–n15 obligation 2, 15, 18–20, 180, 189–192, 212n10, 219, 224, 226, 228, 251–258, 260–264, 265n15–n16, 267n53, 268n78, 271–283, 285n39, 286n55, 287n76, 287n79, 287n83–n84 O’Connor, Timothy 22n14

Ragland, C. P. 148–149, 157n1, 158n19 Renz, Ursula 17, 21n9, 267n49 Rocca, Michael Della 237, 239, 248n4, 249n28 Schierbaum, Sonja 18, 41, 78, 99 Schmaltz, Tad 227, 231n6, 233n38 Schmid, Stephan 9, 12, 231n15 Schneck, Ariane 11–12, 195n29, 231n15 Schopenhauer, Arthur 11 Scotus, John Duns 21n7, 58, 61, 61n2, 64n74, 72, 204–209, 213n27–n29, 219, 226, 229, 231n1, 233n37 Searle, John 56, 63n50 self-determination 11–12, 52, 149, 151, 154–156, 161–163, 166–168, 170–171, 173–175, 177–178, 183–184, 188, 193

Index  293 Siger of Brabant 6, 29–34, 37–39, 41n8–n9, 55, 63n45 Simmons, Alison 98, 99n1, 102n48–n49 Socrates 48 Socratic Deficiency thesis 7–8, 47–48, 51–53, 55, 60, 67–69, 71, 78 Spinoza, Baruch de 15–17, 232n34, 235–247, 248n1, 248n3, 248n13 Suárez, Francisco 9, 86, 88, 90, 93, 100n11, 100n14–n16, 168, 183, 185 syllogism 8, 43n35, 48–51, 54, 58, 60, 72, 75–77, 80n24, 82n40 Szlachta, Michael 11, 19, 42n18, 63n37

101n33, 102n42–n43, 102n49, 127, 130–131, 152–153, 155, 158n45, 181, 185–188, 193, 208, 211, 212n11, 267n53 voluntarium 164, 176

Tempier, Stephen (Étienne) 42n17, 68, 79n3 Teske, Roland 128, 133, 139n25, 140n40 truth, eternal 16–17, 21n11, 220–221, 224, 227–230, 231n7–n8, 232n28, 233n42, 233n44

Walter of Bruges 7, 47, 49–54, 58, 62n11–n16, 62n18–n19, 63n49, 138n14, 139n39 Warburton, William 253–255, 261–263, 265n16–n19, 265n21–n23, 266n24, 268n66, 268n75 William de la Mare 7, 47, 55, 63n46–n48, 63n51, 63n53–n54, 63n60, 64n65 William of Auvergne 133, 140n42–n43 William of Ockham 10, 14, 27–28, 41n2, 58, 73, 81n32, 87–88, 100n8, 111–112, 115, 119n31–n33, 204–208, 212n11, 213n34, 219, 229, 231n1, 284n21 Wolff, Christian 1, 18, 21n5, 271–272, 283n10

volition 3, 5–9, 15, 28, 30–40, 48, 68–69, 78, 87, 89, 93, 95–99,

Zanchi, Girolamo 161–162, 165–167, 176, 178n6–n8