Judgements and Reasonings

One could fairly well conclude from the things we said in the previous chapter that the understanding never judges, since it only perceives, or that judgments and reasonings, even on the part of the understanding, are only pure perceptions; that it is the will alone that truly judges, by acquiescing in what the understanding represents to it and by voluntarily resting in it; and that thus it is the will alone that throws us into error. But these things must be explained at greater length.

I say, therefore, that on the part of the understanding there is no difference between a simple perception, a judgment, and a reasoning, except that the understanding perceives a simple thing without any relation to anything else, by a simple perception; that it perceives the relations between one or several things, in judgments; and that finally it perceives relations that exist between the relations of things, in reasonings; so that all the operations of the understanding are only pure perceptions.

When, for example, one perceives two times two or four, that is only a simple perception. When one judges that two times two are four, or that two times two are not five, the understanding still only perceives the relation of equality that exists between two times two and four, or the relation of inequality that exists between two times two and five. Thus judgment, on the part of the understanding, is only the perception of the relation that exists between two or several things. But reasoning is the perception of the relation that exists, not between two or several things — for that would be a judgment — but the perception of the relation that exists between two or several relations of two or several things. Thus, when I conclude that four being less than six, two times two being equal to four, they are consequently less than six; I do not perceive merely the relation of inequality between two times two and six, for then that would be only a judgment, but the relation of inequality that exists between the relation of two times two and four, and the relation that exists between four and six, which is a reasoning. The understanding therefore only perceives, and it is only the will that judges and reasons, by voluntarily resting in what the understanding represents to it, as has just been said.

Judgments and reasonings depend on the will

When the things we consider are entirely evident, it seems to us that we consent to them no longer voluntarily; so that we are led to believe that it is not our will, but our understanding, that judges them.

In order to recognize our error, one must know that things appear entirely evident to us only when the understanding has examined all their aspects and all the relations necessary for judging them; from this it happens that the will, being able to will nothing without knowledge, can no longer act upon the understanding, that is to say, it can no longer desire that it represent something new about its object, because it has already considered all the aspects that relate to the question one wishes to decide. It is therefore obliged to rest in what it has already represented, and to cease agitating it and applying it to useless considerations; and it is this rest that is properly what is called judgment and reasoning. Thus this rest or judgment, not being free when things are in the highest evidence, also seems to us not to be voluntary.

But as long as there is something obscure in the subject we are considering, or we are not entirely assured that we have discovered everything necessary to resolve the question — as almost always happens in those that are difficult and involve several relations — it is free for us not to consent, and the will can still command the understanding to apply itself to something new; which makes us not so far from believing that the judgments we form on these subjects are voluntary.

However, most philosophers claim that even these judgments we form on obscure things are not voluntary, and they generally maintain that assent to truth is an action of the understanding, which they call acquiescence, assensus, in contrast to assent to good, which they attribute to the will and call consent, consensus. But here is the cause of their distinction and their error.

It is that in our present state we often see truths evidently without any reason to doubt them, and thus the will is not indifferent in the assent it gives to these evident truths, as we have just explained; but it is not the same with goods, and we know none without some reason to doubt that we ought to love it. Our passions and the inclinations we naturally have for sensible pleasures are confused reasons, but very strong because of the corruption of our nature, which make us cold and indifferent even in the love of God; and thus we manifestly feel our indifference, and we are inwardly convinced that we make use of our freedom when we love God.

But we do not perceive in the same way that we make use of our freedom when we assent to truth, especially when it appears entirely evident to us; and this makes us believe that assent to truth is not voluntary. As if our actions had to be indifferent in order to be voluntary, and as if the blessed did not love God very voluntarily without being turned away from it by anything, just as we assent to this evident proposition that two times two are four, without being turned away from believing it by any appearance of contrary reason.

But in order to recognize distinctly the difference there is between the will’s assent to truth and its assent to goodness, one must know the difference found between truth and goodness taken in the ordinary sense and in relation to us. This difference consists in this: that goodness regards us and touches us, and that truth does not touch us; for truth consists only in the relation that two or several things have to each other, but goodness consists in the relation of suitability that things have with us. This is why there is only one action of the will with regard to truth, which is its acquiescence or assent to the representation of the relation that exists between things; and there are two with regard to goodness: its acquiescence or assent to the relation of suitability of the thing with us, and its love or its movement toward that thing — actions that are quite different, although they are ordinarily confused. For there is a great difference between simply acquiescing and being carried by love toward what the mind represents, since one often acquiesces in things that one would wish were not the case and that one flees.

Now, if one considers these things well, one will visibly recognize that it is always the will that acquiesces — not in things if they are not pleasing to it, but in the representation of things; and that the reason why the will always acquiesces in the representation of things that are in the highest evidence is, as we have already said, that in those things there remains no relation that had to be considered which the understanding has not perceived. So that it is as if necessary for the will to cease agitating and fatiguing itself uselessly, and to acquiesce with full assurance that it has not been mistaken, since there is nothing left toward which it can turn its understanding.

One must chiefly notice that in our present state, we know things only imperfectly, and that consequently it is absolutely necessary for us to have this freedom of indifference by which we can prevent ourselves from consenting.

To recognize its necessity, one must consider that we are carried by our natural inclinations toward truth and toward goodness; so that the will, being able to move only toward things of which the mind has some knowledge, must move toward what has the appearance of truth and goodness. But because everything that has the appearance of truth and goodness is not always what it appears, it is clear that if the will were not free, and if it moved infallibly and necessarily toward everything that has these appearances of goodness and truth, it would almost always be mistaken. From this one could conclude that the author of its being would also be the author of its wanderings and errors.

On the use one ought to make of one’s freedom with regard to them

Freedom is therefore given to us by God so that we may prevent ourselves from falling into error, and into all the evils that follow from our errors, by never fully resting in verisimilitudes, but only in truth — that is to say, by never ceasing to apply the mind, and to command it to examine until it has clarified and developed everything there is to examine. For truth is almost never found except with evidence, and evidence consists only in the clear and distinct view of all the parts and all the relations of the object that are necessary for forming a sure judgment.

The use, therefore, that we ought to make of our freedom is to make use of it as much as we can; that is to say, never to consent to anything until we are, as it were, forced to do so by the inner reproaches of our reason.

It is to make oneself a slave against God’s will to submit to false appearances of truth; but it is to obey the voice of eternal truth, which speaks to us inwardly, to submit in good faith to those secret reproaches of our reason that accompany the refusal one makes to yield to evidence. Here, then, are two rules established on what I have just said, which are the most necessary of all for speculative sciences and for morals, and which can be regarded as the foundation of all human sciences.

Two general rules for avoiding error and sin

1. The first one concerns the sciences: One should never give full consent except to propositions that appear so evidently true that one cannot refuse it without feeling an inner pain and secret reproaches of reason; that is to say, without clearly knowing that one would make bad use of one’s freedom if one were unwilling to consent, or if one wished to extend one’s power over things over which it no longer has power.

2. The second, for morals, is: One should never absolutely love a good if one can without remorse not love it. From which it follows that one should love nothing absolutely and without relation except God, for He alone is the One whom one cannot refrain from loving in this way without remorse — that is to say, without evidently knowing that one does wrong, supposing one knows Him through reason or through faith.

Necessary reflections on these rules

When the things we perceive appear very probable to us, we find ourselves extremely inclined to believe them; we even feel pain when we do not let ourselves be persuaded by them; so that if we do not take good care, we are in great danger of consenting to them, and consequently of being mistaken; for it is a great chance that truth is entirely in conformity with probability. And that is why I expressly put in these two rules that one must consent to nothing until one sees evidently that one would make bad use of one’s freedom if one did not consent.

Now, although one feels extremely inclined to consent to probability, if nevertheless one takes the care to reflect on whether one sees evidently that one is obliged to consent to it, one will doubtless find that one does not. For if the probability is supported by the impressions of our senses — a probability that nevertheless does not deserve the name — then one will find oneself very inclined to yield to it; but one will recognize no other cause for it than some passion, or the general affection one has for what affects the senses, as will be seen sufficiently later.

But if the probability comes from some conformity with truth, as ordinarily probable knowledge is true, taken in a certain sense, then if one reflects on oneself, one will feel inclined to do two things: one, to believe; and the other, to examine further; but one will never find oneself so persuaded as to believe one is evidently doing wrong if one does not fully consent.

Now these two inclinations that one has with regard to probable things are very good. For one can and one ought to give one’s consent to probable things, taken in the sense that bears the image of truth; but one ought not yet to give full consent, as we put in the rule; and one must examine the unknown sides and aspects, in order to enter fully into the nature of the thing, and to distinguish well the true from the false; and then consent entirely if evidence obliges us to do so.

One must therefore accustom oneself well to distinguishing truth from probability, by examining oneself inwardly as I have just explained; for it is for lack of having taken care to examine oneself in this way that we feel ourselves touched almost in the same manner by two such different things. For in the end, it is of the utmost consequence to make good use of one’s freedom, by always refraining from consenting to things and loving them until one feels oneself, as it were, forced to do so by the powerful voice of the author of nature, which I have previously called the reproaches of our reason and the remorse of our conscience.

All the duties of spiritual beings, both angels and men, consist principally in this good use; and one can say without fear that, if they make careful use of their freedom, without unduly enslaving themselves to falsehood and vanity, they are on the path to the greatest perfection of which they are naturally capable: provided, nevertheless, that their understanding does not remain idle, that they take care to excite it continually to new knowledge, and that they render it capable of the greatest truths through continual meditations on subjects worthy of its attention.

For in order to perfect the mind, it is not enough always to make use of one’s freedom by never consenting to anything, like those persons who pride themselves on knowing nothing and doubting everything. Nor must one consent to everything, like many others who fear nothing so much as to be ignorant of something, and who claim to know everything. But one must make such good use of one’s understanding, through continual meditations, that one is often in a position to be able to consent to what it represents to us without any fear of being mistaken.