Professional Documents
Culture Documents
History and Theory, Theme Issue 43 (December 2004), 3-30 © Wesleyan University 2004 ISSN: 0018-2656
RICHARD T. VANN
ABSTRACT
Of all the standard issues in the critical philosophy of history, the problem of the
propriety of value or moral judgments by the historian is the one that for almost
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4 RICHARD T. VANN
1. I was able to find only nine articles and one book in English that directly addressed this topic
in the years from 1959 to 1994. There was also a philosophical treatment of the relationship between
historicism and morality in Conoscenza storica e coscienza morale (Naples: Morano, 1966), by
Pietro Piovani. Although I wouldn’t claim that this search was exhaustive, I doubt that I missed too
many titles.
2. I have found three exceptions: besides the work of Piovani, these are William Dray, “History
and Value Judgments,” Encyclopedia of Philosophy IV (1967), 26-30 and Adrian Oldfield, “Moral
Judgments in History,” History and Theory 20 (1981), 260-277. It is a melancholy but unsurprising
fact that no historian has cited either of these two articles.
3. François Bédarida, “The Historian’s Craft, Historicity, and Ethics,” in Historians and Social
Values, ed. Joep Leersen and Ann Rigney (Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press, 2000), 69.
4. Lord Acton, “Inaugural Lecture on the Study of History,” reprinted in Essays in the Liberal
Interpretation of History, ed. William H. McNeill (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967), 351.
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6 RICHARD T. VANN
There are a number of grounds on which it has been argued, or at least asserted,
that moral evaluations are inappropriate in historiography. One, perhaps the most
basic, is based on a simple aversion to the role of moralist. As Gordon Wright
remarked long ago, “The idea of consciously reintroducing the moral dimension
into history runs counter to the basic training of most historians, and probably to
their professional instincts as well.”8 If we can judge “basic training” from the
introductions to historical studies that are frequently published, references to moral
valuations disappeared a hundred years ago and show no signs of reappearance.9
This aversion can be worked up into an argument based on a division of schol-
arly labors. Historians are supposed to be confined to establishing “what hap-
pened.” The fullest development of this argument was made by Butterfield, who
claimed that moral judgments of the “good men fighting bad men” sort were
characteristic only of the “heroic” or rudimentary stage of historical writing
about a given set of events. As historians do further work, he argued, they can
enter the mental world of all the participants, and when they do, a simple
dichotomy of good and evil looks increasingly crude. It is the task of what
Butterfield calls “technical history”—and the only task appropriate for the histo-
rian—to reach that higher level of understanding.
Bloch, who is with reason almost idolized by contemporary historians, used
different metaphors to make a similar point. He speaks of two kinds of impar-
tiality, that of the scholar and of the judge: “When the scholar has observed and
explained, his task is finished. It yet remains for the judge to pass sentence.”
Judges act impartially by submerging their personal inclinations and passing a
judgment according to law; but the law “no longer refers to any positive science”
and there is vast diversity among cultures as to what should be punishable as a
crime.10 Jurisprudence would of course be overturned if judges in pronouncing
sentence had first to survey all cultures to see if there were some that did not con-
sider murder worthy of punishment; but judges can do what they do, so long as
scholars don’t mistake themselves for judges.
Simply stipulating that historians are debarred by their profession from mak-
ing moral evaluations in their work requires a further argument that it is improp-
er for them to do so. This is supplied, after a fashion, by the related view that
moral evaluations can properly be made, but historians should not make them.
Once they establish what happened, they should leave any evaluation of this
either entirely to their readers or to other, more qualified experts. A well-known
American historian, Henry Steele Commager, has claimed that it would be futile
for historians to make moral evaluations, since readers would have their own
scale of moral values that would be impervious to any influence that a historian
might exert.11
8. Wright, “History as a Moral Science,” 2.
9. Ibid., 3; I have recently read eight history primers published in the last five years, without
encountering any discussion of “the moral dimension of historiography” to which Wright referred.
10. Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft, transl. Peter Putnam (Manchester, Eng.: Manchester
University Press, 1954), 139.
11. Henry Steele Commager, The Search for a Usable Past, and Other Essays in Historiography
(New York: Knopf, 1967), 300-322.
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12. Herbert Butterfield, “Moral Judgments in History,” in History and Human Relations (London:
Collins, 1951), 110.
13. Ibid., 103-110.
14. The first example is the way Joseph interpreted the meaning of his life, in which his brothers
inadvertently set in motion the chain of events that elevated him to “ruler over all the land of Egypt”
in Pharaoh’s court (see Genesis 45:4-11).
15. For Hegel, only the philosopher can attain this understanding, and then only after the owl of
Minerva has taken wing in the twilight of an era; for Marx, false consciousness blinds all but him-
self, Engels, and the most advanced part of the proletariat.
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8 RICHARD T. VANN
time that the local and temporary inconveniences of the overthrow of capitalism
would pale in comparison.
One implication of “moral futurism” is that actions that seem immoral now
will be seen eventually to have produced the most desirable outcomes.
Shortening the birth-pangs of the revolution may be admirable, and the deter-
minism of Marxism has notoriously inspired vigorous activism; but even greedy
capitalists are doing their bits for the dialectic, since the more they “suck the
blood of living labor,” the more quickly they bring catastrophe upon themselves.
Presumably if they were to take up altruism, they would be lengthening the birth-
pangs and would be liable to moral condemnation—if Marxism did not present
itself, implausibly, as purely scientific.
Butterfield is distinctive in not making the argument that has been so troubling
to many historians—that values in earlier times were not only different from ours
(which everyone would accept) but so different that any moral evaluation of past
actions or people amounts to an unjustifiable imposition by historians of their
own time-bound moral views. Butterfield believed that “life is a moral matter
every inch of the way,” and, I suspect, was too good a Christian to entertain the
possibility that morals varied between civilizations as much as Bloch believed.
However, many historians hold that it is some sort of injustice to the dead if they
are held to a moral expectation they would not themselves have regarded as rel-
evant, much less as binding; yet the task of recreating the entire normative world
of past agents seems extremely difficult. Furthermore, there may be future his-
torical discoveries that will invalidate anything we now say. And as usual, his-
toricism cuts both ways. Just as we must recognize that past agents had different
notions of morality than we entertain, so we must allow that our own moral con-
ceptions will look peculiar, if not aberrant, to future generations. This will viti-
ate the supposedly “undying penalty which history has the power to inflict upon
wrong.”
The most robust advocacy of this position comes from Bloch. He asserts that
for the historian to judge that some people or actions were good and others bad
is a category error, like a chemist’s judgment that chlorine is a “bad” gas and
oxygen a “good” one. Furthermore, in trespassing beyond the professional
boundary, the historian can find no acceptable basis for evaluation. Bloch poses
a rhetorical question:
Are we so sure of ourselves and of our age as to divide the company of our forefathers
into the just and the damned? How absurd it is, by elevating the entirely relative criteria
of one individual, one party, or one generation to the absolute, to inflict standards upon
the way in which Sulla governed Rome, or Richelieu the States of the Most Christian
King! Moreover, since nothing is more variable than such judgments, subject to all the
fluctuations of collective opinion or personal caprice, history . . . has gratuitously given
itself the appearance of the most uncertain of disciplines.16
Several historians emphasize the difficulties, and even the impropriety, of mak-
ing moral evaluations, but also claim that it seems impossible for historians to
avoid doing so. George Kitson Clark, who insists that the primary duty of histo-
rians is to establish as nearly as possible the truth about what actually happened,
nevertheless says they must record that “men and women have been inspired by
motives, or cultivated habits of mind, which must be called evil, if the word evil
17. Geoffrey Barraclough, “History, Morals, and Politics,” International Affairs 34 (1958), 6-7.
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10 RICHARD T. VANN
18. George Kitson Clark, The Critical Historian (London: Heinemann, 1967), 208.
19. Bernard W. Sheehan, “The Problem of Moral Judgments in History,” South Atlantic Quarterly
84:1 (1985), 37.
20. Commager, The Search for a Usable Past, 305.
21. Ibid., 321.
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In other words, the events themselves are charged with values imparted by those
who participated in them such that descriptions of them and their agents neces-
sarily morally evaluate them. The alternatives he proposes to this “automatic,” if
perhaps “semi-conscious,” evaluation are determinism and relativism. He identi-
fies determinism with the aspirations of sociology to discover laws of social (and
therefore historical) development, which would cause “doctrines of individual
responsibility” to “melt away.”23 Berlin does not deny that such historical laws
might be discovered in the future; but they are now literally inconceivable:
Social determinism . . . may, indeed, be a true doctrine. But if it is true, and if we begin
to take it seriously, then, indeed, the changes in our language, our moral notions, our atti-
tudes toward one another, our views of history, of society and of everything else will be
too profound to be even adumbrated. The concepts of praise and blame, innocence and
guilt, and individual responsibility . . . are but a small element in the structure, which
would collapse or disappear.24
22. Isaiah Berlin, Historical Inevitability (London: Oxford University Press, 1954), 6. This sev-
enty-nine-page book, replete with sentences over a hundred words long and with continual reformu-
lations of the same few points, is described as the first Auguste Comte Memorial Trust Lecture deliv-
ered at the London School of Economics; but even so rapid a talker as Berlin can scarcely have
uttered the whole text within the confines of a single evening.
23. Ibid., 48.
24. Ibid., 75.
25. Ibid., 54.
26. Ibid., 49-51.
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12 RICHARD T. VANN
mind, are in principle utterly different from such indispensable ‘non-moral’ cat-
egories of value?”27 He grants that it might be maintained that the category
“important” might be more “stable” than more obviously ethical valuations, but
not because these are more “objective.” There is no way that historians, or any-
one else, can make a hard and fast distinction between “what is truly factual and
what is a valuation of the facts.” In such fields as chemistry, however, such val-
uations would be genuinely irrelevant (as in Bloch’s “good” and “bad” gases).
Given our present conceptual world and the ordinary language in which histori-
ans must write about it, he concludes, historiography cannot be practiced with-
out an element of moral evaluation.
A critic of Berlin would doubtless come upon the objection that he is talking
about the (now rather old-fashioned) type of history that emphasizes actions by
individual agents, particularly statesmen or generals. However, it can be argued
that even in quantitative history, where we would look first for value-free histo-
ry, we wouldn’t find it. Eckart Schremmer has shown that while a time series for
a single datum, like wage rates, can be considered value-free, as soon as the his-
torian must make selections, values inevitably come into play. This is even more
true when several series have to be evaluated in order to answer such questions
as the degree of industrialization in different countries at different times. To
judge this, the data must be given weights for which there is no adequate theory
or decision rule. Schremmer gives the timely example of how to assess national
success in the Olympic games. Should gold medals count for five points, silver
for three, and bronze for one? Or gold for three, silver for two, and bronze for
one? Or should all medals, no matter how base the metal, be simply summed?
He has no difficulty showing that nations assign weights that enhance their sense
of success. When Norway had five gold medals to three for the United States, the
U.S. newspapers went to the 3-2-1 weighting. There is no way to eliminate this
evaluative element, he argues, short of something like a general field theory for
the human sciences, which is certainly not on the horizon. In the meantime,
“Value judgements are the price we pay for incomplete knowledge.”28
Berlin made his case at a time when “ordinary language” philosophy was dom-
inant at Oxford, but I think it has retained its cogency during the half-century since
it was propounded. It helps explain the observation of William Dray that “the
accounts we find in history books generally seem to be thoroughly value-impreg-
nated.” Dray notes that most historians feel that it is psychologically impossible
for them to avoid making moral evaluations in their writings. He raises the philo-
sophical question, however, whether it is logically impossible for them to do so—
in other words, whether they are intrinsic to historiography. To establish the pos-
sibility of a value-free historiography, he imagines alternatives to Berlin’s position.
Perhaps, he suggests, the moral saturation of language is only a practical difficul-
ty that could be circumvented if historians made great efforts to purge their lan-
guage of its moral connotations—speaking, for example, of murders simply as
14 RICHARD T. VANN
Franco-American pork trade in the decade following the American Civil War,
about which the first reader began his comments by saying “There are some
things about which it is possible to know too much.”
Just as there may be subjects too trivial to repay reading about, much less
researching and writing, there may also be subjects about which nobody should
write. As J. M. Coetzee has written, “There must be some limit to the burden of
remembering that we impose on our children and grandchildren.”34 The common
belief is that any well-done piece of scholarship “advances the frontiers of
knowledge” and thus is obviously good; but it is at least possible that there might
be subjects about which it would be ethically preferable for historians to rein in
their curiosity or suspend the application of at least some of the rules of histori-
cal method.
Two examples suggest themselves. The first is the story of the successful
insurrection of enslaved Africans against the crew of the Spanish ship Amistad in
1837. The Africans took over the ship, but did not know how to navigate it, and
it finally wound up in New London, Connecticut. Eventually the court decided
that all the Africans should be freed, and they returned to Africa. Their leader,
Cinque, became a hero of the civil rights movement. In the 1990s Steven
Spielberg made a movie about the Amistad uprising, a replica of the ship was
built, and a housing development in New Haven was named for Cinque.
Spielberg’s film ends with the Africans leaving the court as free men and the
bombardment by the British navy of a slave staging area on the West African coast.
The glow that the audience probably felt as they left the cinema35 would have been
diminished had they known that there is a possibility that Cinque, after returning
to Africa, went into the slave trade himself. Should Spielberg’s movie have carried
the story a bit further? Should historians—assuming they have the necessary lan-
guages and command of the possible archival sources—devote themselves to
investigating the possible implication of Cinque in the subsequent slave trade? I
can imagine moral reasons for not conducting such an investigation and letting the
story end as Spielberg did. To do otherwise would inevitably be an exercise in
debunking or muckraking, and if successful it would besmirch an exemplary fig-
ure who had shown African-Americans that resistance against the horrors of the
Middle Passage was not altogether futile. Yet I can imagine another historian of
equal moral concern who would believe it worthwhile either to exculpate Cinque
from the charge of becoming a slave trader, or, if convinced that he did become
one, would be able to draw the moral that not even Cinque was able to escape the
universal contamination of the slave trade. What I cannot imagine is a conscien-
tious historian making a decision without a thought for its moral implications.
The second example, taken from much more recent history, raises the question
whether historians are morally obliged to do absolutely everything to insure the
accuracy, as well as the completeness, of their accounts. Timothy Garton Ash
tells (and writes) of his experiences in studying the Stasi, the enormous state
34. J. M. Coetzee, Elizabeth Costello (London: Secker and Warburg, 2003), 20.
35. A glow considerably facilitated by the emphasis of the latter part of the film on benevolent
whites. John Quincy Adams, played by Anthony Hopkins, the bankable name in the cast, was the
attorney for the Africans.
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36. I rely here not only on Timothy Garton Ash, The File: A Personal History (London: Harper
Collins, 1997) but also on a lecture given by Ash to a Royal Historical Society colloquium on 16
February 2002.
37. In The File Ash devotes pages 126-129 to the conversation with her under the pseudonym of
“Frau R.” There are slight discrepancies between my notes on the lecture and the text of the book.
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16 RICHARD T. VANN
This was surely a decision, whether right or wrong, that was made—and
should be judged—on ethical grounds. Its context also illustrates how complex
such decisions would be. Ash hoped to give Frau R. “the grace of selective for-
getting” and risked publishing inaccurate information in order to spare the feel-
ings of his informant.38 He felt that this grace of benevolent amnesia justified
leaving some historical questions unresolved.
To sum up: I am convinced by the arguments that historians cannot avoid mak-
ing at least some moral evaluations. Given that they are inevitable, though, are
they desirable? Or shall we regard them as the impure residue of historiography
that cannot be entirely removed because historians can never be sufficiently aus-
tere or ascetic to refrain from using them in describing events that are charged
with values, or in deciding which events to describe? Pursuing answers to these
questions requires a further consideration of the grounds on which moral evalu-
ations have been queried or rejected.
The weaker arguments can be readily dismissed. The mere statement that histo-
rians feel uneasy about making moral evaluations has little weight. They also, as
Sheehan and Commager betray, feel uneasy about not making them—or at least
they should, if it is necessary for historians to do so. The assertion that historians
should not meddle with morals because this is not part of the professional job
description begs the question, since it builds abstinence from moral evaluations
into the definition of professional historiography. It must be accompanied by an
assignment of this responsibility to someone else; but it seems odd to hold that
moral evaluations should be made, but only by philosophers or the readers.
Philosophers undoubtedly have much to contribute to any discussion of moral
actions. Historians would benefit from adding some acquaintance with this dis-
cipline to their repertoire. Philosophers are very skilled at contriving examples of
ethical dilemmas to bring out the merits or awkward points of ethical theory; but
the examples are usually highly artificial. While historians are probably, by and
large, less subtle reasoners, they have invaluable knowledge of the complexities
of real historical situations. Also, historians have more tacit knowledge relevant
to moral evaluations than they need to, or even can, put explicitly into their books
or articles. It thus seems unlikely that merely delivering to philosophers a text
with an accurate account of some past actions would by itself equip them to make
the best possible moral evaluations. These are much more likely to emerge from
dialogue between the two.
As for the readers, they are in the last analysis the discerners of the meaning
of any text, but this doesn’t imply that ordinary readers are better moral evalua-
tors than either the historian or the philosopher. Moreover, I see little evidence—
certainly not from histories aimed at a mass readership—that the wider public
38. Incidentally, Ash, even after making a strenuous effort of memory and consulting all his
diaries, concluded that in some respects his Stasi file was a more accurate source for his life during
that period than he could supply himself. As he puts it, “What a gift to memory is a Stasi file. Far bet-
ter than Proust’s madeleine” (The File, 10).
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18 RICHARD T. VANN
The great stumbling block for most historians is reconciling the historicism
with which they have been indoctrinated—emphasizing the differences between
past epochs and our own—with moral evaluations that are believed to be neces-
sary but must be made in the moral climate of the twenty-first century rather
than, say, the nineteenth or the twenty-third. But the argument that we must not
make moral evaluations because subsequent exculpatory evidence might turn up,
or that we can never know enough to make them, would prove too much.
Believing this would stop historians making any judgments at all, for every judg-
ment—or, for that matter, every theory in the natural sciences—must be made in
the awareness that subsequent generations will know more and that the future
may hold some surprises for us.43 To claim we must withhold every judgment,
provided we have done the best we can with all the evidence at hand, is a coun-
sel of self-stultification.
The variability of past views of values poses a more serious problem. We must
acknowledge that historians are right to be on the alert against the importation of
anachronism into their accounts of the past, and that a scrupulous concern for just
treatment of dead historical agents is itself a moral position, although its benefits
accrue to us and not to them. Just how difficult it can be for a historian to cling
to this position and yet justify some sort of moral evaluations of those agents can
be seen in the intellectual writhings of Sheehan. As we have seen, he thinks these
evaluations are “risky (albeit necessary).” As his arguments develop, all the risks
and none of the necessities crowd in. It is the relativity of values that bothers him,
and by the end of the article he takes his stand on the
quite moderate principle that even an erroneous conscience binds, a principle that at once
recognizes the existence of an objective moral law (otherwise a conscience could not be
erroneous) and accepts the value of human autonomy. Moreover, it assumes that the indi-
vidual conscience takes form under the guidance of a culture that other moral critics are
bound to respect. People can be condemned morally only on their own ground, not on the
basis of a value system foreign to their loyalties, and certainly not on the foundation of a
universal code which fails to concede the legitimacy of culture.
43. This point is made by Oldfield, “Moral Judgments in History,” whom I follow closely in these
paragraphs.
44. Sheehan, “Problem of Moral Judgments,” 49.
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45. Wolfgang Mommsen, “Moral Commitment and Scholarly Detachment: The Social Function
of the Historian,” in Historians and Social Values, ed. Leersen and Rigney, 46-47.
46. Bloch, The Historian’s Craft, 139. One should bear in mind that Bloch was deprived of any
chance to revise this (unfinished) manuscript, and had he done so he might have thought better of
some of the things that he says in it.
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20 RICHARD T. VANN
were “civilizations” (or cultures) that had an “opinion” that murder was not cul-
pable, but the difference to which Bloch is referring must be that some acts of
homicide (in a feud or duel, for example) would be considered murder in some
cultures and not others. For Bloch’s view to be convincing, he would have to pro-
duce an example of a culture that considered no homicides to be culpable and so
had no conception of “murder.” I very much doubt this can be done. A medieval
historian as great as Bloch, F. W. Maitland, believed that observing its trials for
murder would give the best insight into the values of any culture.
We need to distinguish between mores and morals (a distinction that is not
always carefully made). This problem is as old as historiography itself. Herodotus
knew that Greeks did their duty to their dead fathers by placing their corpses on
a funeral pyre. He also knew of “barbarians” whose custom was (or so he says)
to eat the dead bodies of their fathers, and who recoiled in horror from the idea
of burning them. These are certainly very different practices, but only at the level
of modality. Both Greeks and barbarians acknowledged a duty to pay last honors
to the bodies of their fathers in the culturally mandated or preferred manner. That
mores vary widely does not mean that moral ideals are equally dissimilar.
If, say, murder, treachery, or cowardice are universally held to be blamewor-
thy, this does not bring us very far. These are spectacular moral failures that the
historian would seldom encounter, and evaluations of them would be trite. Acton
clearly meant more than this when he said in his inaugural lecture at Cambridge
that “Opinions alter, manners change, creeds rise and fall, but the moral law is
written on the tablets of eternity.”47 Can we go any further along this path? The
answer might lie with those philosophers who have attempted to find a founda-
tion for ethical behavior that would be independent of varying cultural values.
We can examine three schools of ethicists. The first, virtue ethics, focuses on
character. It does not seek to supply decision rules for making correct moral deci-
sions, but trusts to a proper upbringing to create a person who habitually does the
virtuous thing.48 A singular contemporary example of virtue ethics is Philip
Hallie’s account of the behavior of villagers in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, in the
Haute-Loire department of southeastern France, under the German occupation in
World War II. Hundreds of Jews fled to Le Chambon in hopes of getting assis-
tance to cross the border into Switzerland (which was none too disposed to
receive them). Assisting Jews to escape was a crime potentially punishable by
death. Nevertheless, the villagers took the Jews into their homes, gave them the
needed assistance, and by various acts of social solidarity managed to keep the
occupying forces from razing the village and massacring its inhabitants (with
some assistance from the major in command of the local Wehrmacht unit, who
blocked efforts by the SS to take over the village).
Hallie was an ethicist, but, as he says in the preface to his book, he wrote it not
“to make Le Chambon an example of goodness or moral nobility.” His goal was
rather “understanding their story” and he “was going to use the words of philo-
49. Philip Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed (London: Michael Joseph, 1979), 4. For the help
given by the German major see Hallie, Tales of Good and Evil, Help and Harm (San Francisco:
Harper Collins, 1967).
50. This is not true of the philosophers I have read, who usually discuss the appropriate response
to good behavior “beyond the call of duty” (that is, works of supererogation).
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22 RICHARD T. VANN
The “deontological” position, associated with Kant, holds that moral decisions
must be made entirely without regard for their consequences. They should be
made so that the agent can without logical contradiction will that everyone—and
Kant means everyone—acts on the same principle that he or she is employing.
This is the famous “categorical imperative.” It looks like the Golden Rule of
Leviticus and the gospels in philosophical dress—Nietzsche called Kant “a
sneaking Christian”—but Kant thinks there are duties to oneself as well as to oth-
ers, such as developing one’s powers to the fullest and abstaining from commit-
ting suicide.51 Any decision made on any other grounds Kant calls a “hypotheti-
cal imperative,” calculating the likely results of alternative courses of action and
easily sliding into treating other people as means to an end desired by the agent,
rather than ends in themselves.52
Kant’s position is one of absolutes, allowing no excuses, exceptions, or
exemptions. He defended the proposition that one must never lie, since universal
freedom to lie would destroy all trust, and therefore the possibility of making any
assertion whatsoever, and thus the possibility of lying—so that to universalize
the principle that it is permissible to lie is self-contradictory and therefore not
something one can indeed will. So even if killers came to your door, intending to
murder someone who had taken refuge there and demanding to know whether he
was there, your duty is to answer truthfully. Truthful hosts could not be sure what
would happen if they told the truth, but this is not their concern as moral agents,
which is to do the right thing (that is, to act in accord with the Categorical
Imperative) no matter what the consequences. Such hosts would not have a moral
responsibility for evil actions the killers might do.
There is no point in further commentary about this example, but the view that
acts must be made and judged in accordance with some principle that is inde-
pendent of its consequences may have some relevance to historical moral evalu-
ations. If, as has been argued, history is about the unintended consequences of
actions, and if historians must think themselves back to the situation in which
actions were pondered, the failure of agents to foresee the unintended conse-
quences of them may be morally excusable. The effort to re-enter or recreate the
mental world in which actions were taken is often urged upon historians. It is, as
is well known, what Collingwood saw as the essential task of historiography and
the basis of historical knowledge. Some historians have carried this principle to
the point of making strenuous efforts to sever a decision from any of its conse-
quences. C. V. Wedgwood, for example, treats as a “continuous obstacle to the
development of a sense of the past” the fact that “by his position in time, the
modern student knows too much. . . . None of this knowledge formed a part of
the situation at the time. Yet it is nearly impossible to expel it from the mind and
to study a problem in the past as though the outcome was still unknown.”53 She
51. Immanuel Kant, Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten [1785], translated by H. J. Paton as
The Moral Law: Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals (London: Union Hyman, 1948),
especially 63-68.
52. Ibid., 78.
53. C. V. Wedgwood, “The Sense of the Past,” in Truth and Opinion: Historical Essays (London:
Collins, 1960), 37.
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54. See Arthur Danto, Analytical Philosophy of History (Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University
Press, 1965).
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24 RICHARD T. VANN
good of posterity as the criterion of moral behavior.55 One of the most pressing
ethical issues of our time is whether we have any obligations to future genera-
tions—such as, for example, moderating our consumption of fossil fuels so as to
leave them a habitable world. The ethicist Michael Zimmerman concedes that it
is “perhaps plausible” to “ascribe desert to entities that do not exist, have not
existed, and perhaps never will exist. For example: ‘Members of future genera-
tions deserve a clean environment.’”56 Our total posterity (unless there is some
nuclear catastrophe) will be vastly larger than the number of people now alive,
but since they don’t yet exist (or vote) and will live in the more or less remote
future, there has been comparatively little consideration of what they might
deserve. This is no less a problem with any other group of “greatest numbers”
with whom it is hard to empathize. They are easy to leave out of our calculations,
and in any case it is difficult to ascertain what weight to ascribe to them in con-
sequentialist calculations.
Consequentialists must calculate the outcomes of present actions, so their view
of ethical decisions is as much future-oriented as that of the deontologists is pres-
ent-oriented. However, inasmuch as the future cannot be an object of knowledge,
consequentialists must call on many more or less speculative predictions, and
evoke imaginary worlds based on contrary-to-fact conditions. This could allow
for kinds of “moral futurism” (like that of Marxism or, for that matter, free-mar-
ket fundamentalism), promising that ultimately an action taken now will lead to
future bliss that will far outweigh any pain inflicted at the moment.
Consequentialists take the awkward position that the results of inaction must
also be calculated. It is not just simple negligence in the performance of a job that
would be culpable (such as, for example, failure to insert the screws in the rails,
which causes a train accident). The person confronted with an appeal from a
charity must compute whether the pleasure that comes with retention of fifty
pounds for future consumption outweighs the pain suffered by others from whom
that money is withheld—perhaps offset, in turn, by the pleasure in having per-
formed a philanthropic act.
Historians have the advantage that at least the more immediate consequences
of actions undertaken in the past have already manifested themselves. They also
may be able to form a more extended set of “the greatest number” than was avail-
able to the agents at the time. For these reasons, despite the problems I have out-
lined in applying it and the critiques that have been advanced by other ethicists,
consequentialism offers more guidance to historians, though no prescriptions for
them.
Unfortunately, except for those historians committed to an ideal of moral law
grounded in religious doctrines, there seems to be no foundation for moral action
agreed upon by all or almost all philosophers that could be applicable at all times
or places. Although there may be some well-nigh universal cultural standards,
these are of limited applicability to the sort of complex questions that historians
55. Carl Becker, The Heavenly City of the Eighteenth-Century Philosophers (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1962).
56. Michael Zimmerman, An Essay on Moral Responsibility (Totowa, N.J.: Rowman & Littlefield,
1988), note 19.
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Examination of past sermons, diaries, private letters, conduct books, court cases,
and the like—a necessary step in reconstructing the moral climate—would cer-
tainly bring to light variations in moral ideas that Gallie mentions; but besides
differing from present ones, they would differ among contemporaries. In any
complex culture there is no reason to think there was much more consensus about
what moral values were and how to apply them than there is in our own. Even
so, some deeds of historical agents, when judged by the standards of the time,
were blameworthy (or praiseworthy) and historians need not fear anachronism in
evaluating them as such.
In fact, failure to acknowledge that some such actions outraged the conscience
of contemporaries would amount to an incomplete if not tendentious representa-
tion of the historical record. In the mid-nineteenth century, when historians need-
ed to apologize for not making moral evaluations, William Hickling Prescott
prefaced his Conquest of Mexico as follows: “To the American and English read-
er, acknowledging so different a moral standard from that of the sixteenth centu-
ry, I may possibly be thought too indulgent to the errors of the conquerors.” He
had, he continued, given the conquistadores “the benefit of such mitigating
reflections as might be suggested by the circumstances and the period in which
they lived.”58 However, some of the evidence he used—and it carried a heavy
moral charge—came from the writings of Bartolomé de las Casas, a contempo-
rary of Cortez whose career and writings were devoted to defending the cause of
the indigenous peoples of Mexico at the time of the conquest (and whose num-
57. W. B. Gallie, Philosophy and the Historical Understanding (Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge
University Press, 1964), 203.
58. William Hickling Prescott, Conquest of Mexico, Preface and I, 425, quoted in Commager, 301.
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26 RICHARD T. VANN
bers were reduced by an estimated ninety percent within a generation after it). As
the writings of Las Casas make clear, the sixteenth century did not have a single
moral standard that justified, for example, forcible conversion of the Indians
(accompanied by an occasional execution pour encourager les autres) or their
virtual enslavement to work in the silver mines.
It can be objected that the people who ordered these things and carried them
out simply did not agree that there was anything morally wrong with what they
were doing. “Even an erroneous conscience binds,” we have already been told.
This of course slides from historicism towards utter relativism. If we consider
only what the agent did without thinking it was immoral, we deprive ourselves
of any standpoint from which to criticize “values” such as slavery or Nazism.
Also, we will easily be led to the circular argument that the very doing of it
shows it must have been accomplished without any qualm of conscience—espe-
cially since people seldom leave evidence that they think they have done wrong,
except possibly in speeches from the gallows.59
V. STRONG EVALUATIONS
61. Peter Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment” [1962], reprinted in Free Will, ed. Gary Watson,
2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 75-76. Wallace devotes much of his book to the
issues raised by this article and the large philosophical literature that it generated.
62. Ibid., 91.
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28 RICHARD T. VANN
Supreme Court. The word “opinion” unfortunately lends itself to the view that
moral evaluations are mere opinions; but those of Supreme Court justices are,
ideally at least, prepared as thorough works of scholarship. Even more important,
no single opinion can decide a case unless at least four other justices share or
concur with it, and that presumably can happen only after mutual discussion and
criticism. Historians’ opinions on moral evaluation are similar proposals; they
are not edicts.
Though I hope to advance on the weak claim, this does not mean that I reject
some of its elements, much less condemn its adherents for moral obtuseness. It
shows generosity of spirit to seek out all the extenuating circumstances to which
past agents might be entitled, and I endorse Butterfield’s appeal for charity to
them. It should be clear, then, that the stronger claim for moral evaluations would
not extend to determining which were the “good men fighting bad men” that
Butterfield gives as an example of moral judgments—much less to a history full
of Good Kings and Bad Things, like that classically parodied by Sellar and
Yeatman in 1066 and All That. (They were both schoolmasters, which further
suggests that moral evaluations are particularly prevalent in the classroom.) True,
it is impossible to make too strict a separation between persons and their actions.
The existentialist slogan “You are your deeds” is pertinent, especially if we are
making an essentialist evaluation of ourselves;63 but we encounter so many dif-
ficulties even in a comprehensive assessment of ourselves that it is hopeless to
think we could assemble enough information to make such an assessment of
someone in the past.
Another valuable aspect of the weaker claim is its emphasis that moral evalua-
tions should be made at the end of the historian’s work and not at its beginning.
Partis pris should always be avoided, especially when they configure the entire
research and writing process before any of it has actually been done. As Oldfield
puts it, moral evaluations are “not the point from which we start, but the point at
which we finish—at least provisionally, for no judgment, moral or otherwise, lasts
for all time.”64 The danger of starting with the moral evaluation already fixed in
the historian’s mind is real, since as Kitson Clark notes, “People do not normally
go to history simply to understand; they are incurably moralistic.” They appeal to
history because “very often the only vindication which helpless right can have
against triumphant wrong is before the judgement seat of history.” Though it is
good that the conception of justice be maintained in human society, often “the
desire for human justice is in essence a sombre and heavily moralized desire for
revenge” and “the demand for justice at the bar of history is no exception to
this.”65 Some of the genres of history developed in the last half-century, which can
be classed under the rubric “history from below,” are vulnerable to this observa-
tion, although it probably applies chiefly to the historiography produced by
oppressed ethnic groups. No matter what historians’ sympathy with these groups
might be, their moral evaluations should be as far as possible free of ressentiment.
63. Cf. Garcin, the hero in Sartre’s No Exit, whose self-image is maintained despite the consistent
cowardice shown in his actions.
64. Oldfield, “Moral Judgments in History,” 61. This is also a point made by Butterfield.
65. Kitson Clark, The Critical Historian, 207.
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30 RICHARD T. VANN
censorious and self-righteous. Those are still dangers, but there are those who
believe our world was presciently described by Yeats almost a hundred years
ago: “The best lack all conviction, and the worst are full of passionate intensi-
ty.”69 Those who accept a recent claim that we are living in “a dark time of need,
a time of attack on moral intelligence”70 will want historians to do their part in
repelling this attack.
Wesleyan University