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Epistemology and the Regress Problem 1st Edition Scott
Aikin Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Scott Aikin
ISBN(s): 9780415878005, 0415878004
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 1.39 MB
Year: 2010
Language: english
Epistemology and the
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Epistemology and the
Regress Problem

Scott F. Aikin

New York London

First published 2011
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Aikin, Scott F.
Epistemology and the regress problem / Scott F. Aikin.
p. cm. — (Outledge studies in contemporary philosophy ; 25)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Knowledge, Theory of. 2. Rationalism. I. Title.
BD161.A35 2011
121'.6—dc22
2010045781

ISBN 0-203-83324-4 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN13: 978-0-415-87800-5 (hbk)

Contents

Preface ix

Introduction 1

1 The Regress Problem 8

2 Infinitism Defended 50

3 Meta-Epistemic Varieties of Epistemic Infinitism 72

4 Foundationalism, Infi nitism, and the Given 112

5 Argumentation and Antidogmatism 158

Notes 181
Bibliography 193
Index 203
Preface

When I was a graduate student, I took a rough version of my defense of

epistemic infi nitism to a conference. I got about halfway through the paper
before I’d found that every person in the audience was shaking his or her
head back and forth vigorously in disagreement. I’ll tell you, it’s daunting to
see that. The question- and- answer session was brutal, but I held my own.
But I did not convince anyone that the view was right. In fact, everyone in
the audience still thought the view utterly wrong. A fellow graduate student
came to the session, and he talked with me later and said consolingly, “Isn’t
it a philosophical achievement when you can take a view that’s obviously
false and defend it so that it’s at least not quite so obviously false?”
That’s setting the bar pretty low for philosophical achievement, but
that’s at a minimum what I’m out to accomplish here. Infi nitism is a view
that, at least every time I talk about it with other philosophers, my stu-
dents, and even my family, is taken to be just obviously wrong. My fi rst
ambition here is to make it so that philosophers don’t immediately go to
the ‘that view is crazy’ response when thinking about infi nitism. How my
students and family members respond to the infi nitism proposal is a matter
to be handled by other means. There are lots of views in philosophy that
strike me as utterly ‘’round the bend. For example, divine command theory,
the view that God’s will explains various ethical truths. I simply can’t see
how the view could be true, but there are sophisticated defenses of it. And
despite the fact I think the view is wrong-headed, I’m willing to admit that
I may be missing something about it, and that divine command theorists
deserve a place at the table in discussions of meta- and normative ethics.
In some ways, the baseline objective in this book is to work out a way
for epistemic infi nitism to appear better than obviously wrong, for it to be
one respectable player in the discussion. And if it can’t do better than that,
perhaps having it just meet the there are non-stupid defenses of it mark is
still a worthwhile goal. There has been a small bloom of work considering
infi nitism’s independent merits in the journals. Infi nitism, especially in the
last 10 years, has come a very long way. Considering the view’s status since
Aristotle formulated a version of the regress problem in the Posterior Ana-
lytics, this is quite a sudden rise in fortunes. And I believe a book-length
defense of the view will improve its prospects.
x Preface
But being a player isn’t enough, especially for those who think, as I
do, the view is not just deserving of a place in the conversation, but is
correct. And it’s not just correct, but fecund. Following from it are lots
of very interesting and powerful insights into reasoning’s rules. And so
a book-length treatment of infi nitism should do more than meet the very
low standard of not being obviously wrong, but it should outline some of
the appealing features of the view. That is, it should show why the view is
true and appealing. Again, I think a good deal has been done to show this
by Charles Sanders Peirce, Peter Klein, Jeremy Fantl, and me in earlier
work. But there needs to be a sustained piece of work to that end, show-
ing the appeal of infi nitism. In particular, I will show that a rich program
in philosophy of argumentation follows as a consequence of infi nitism
in epistemology. As a consequence, infi nitism has an appeal that extends
beyond its simply being a solution to the regress problem.
One further way of showing a view is appealing, at least for philoso-
phers, is to show that it is dialectically robust, that is, that there are
debates to be had between those who hold that view, that the view is still
to be further refi ned, that the view is alive. And so in the case of infi nitism,
I will show that though there are infi nitists, they are each distinct in their
respective forms of infi nitism. That is, one interesting thing about many
views is the intramural dialogues between those who hold it. The variety
of foundationalisms, I think, is testament to the philosophical appeal of
the view. This has yet to happen in any sustained way for infi nitism, and
this is perhaps my highest ambition for the book—to show that there are
independent philosophically pressing issues to be pursued between the
various infi nitist views. And so Peirce, Klein, Fantl, and myself are put
into dialogue, and I argue that my mixed view of justification is infi nit-
ism’s best bet.
The project has, then, three objectives of ascending ambition: (i) Improve
the standing of infi nitism from being an obviously false view to a not-quite-
so-obviously false view that deserves sustained philosophical attention,
(ii) Draw out some of the implications for the view as one of justification
applied to argument and dialectical exchange, and (iii) Outline a new frame
of debate within the infi nitist research program.
This book is the result of about 12 years of thinking. It was in my fi rst
graduate seminar at Vanderbilt, John Post’s contemporary epistemology
course, that my interest in the regress problem was sparked. Since then,
I have discussed the problem with every teacher, colleague, friend, and
student who had the patience to walk the long road of reason with me.
The students I have puzzled with the regress problem over the years are
too many for me to remember. However, Jeff Adams, Yaroslav Alek-
seyev, Kevin Burson, Eric Dominguez, Jens Frederiksen, Adam Gross,
Rachael Phillips, Cliff Roberson, Jeana Simpson, and Jeff Sterett are stu-
dents who have all given me substantive feedback on the problem and
my project. Additionally, many friends and colleagues have helped me
 Preface xi
think through the problem: Jason Aleksander, Antonio Bendezu, James
Bednar, Caleb Clanton, Allen Coates, David Hildebrand, Joe Joyce,
Chris King, Sebastian Lurie, Aaron Simmons, Derek Turner, and Chase
Wrenn. Additionally, my colleagues at Vanderbilt, Jeff Edmonds, Lenn
Goodman, David Gray, Joan Forry, John Lachs, Michael Hodges, Jose
Medina, Jonathan Neufeld, Henry Teloh, and Julian Weurth, all deserve
great thanks, as I have received so much input from them over the years I
have been with them. Robert Audi, Jeremy Fantl, and Peter Klein have all
seen and commented on earlier drafts of the chapters here or the articles
that preceded them. Additionally, Erica Wetter, my editor at Routledge,
the editorial team, and the two anonymous reviewers all provided valu-
able feedback.
This book is an extension of a good deal of my previously published
work, and many of the chapters here are re-workings of those earlier arti-
cles. An early version of the fi rst section of the introduction was published
as “Don’t Fear the Regress: Epistemic Infi nitism and Cognitive Value” in
Think 23 (2009). A good deal of Chapter 2 is from my “Who Is Afraid
of Epistemology’s Regress Problem?” Philosophical Studies (2005) 126:2,
and Chapter 3 is a piecemeal of “Metaepistemology and the Varieties of
Epistemic Infi nitism” Synthese (2008) 163:2 and “Prospects for Peircian
Epistemic Infi nitism” Contemporary Pragmatism (2009) 9:2. The core of
section 4.7 appeared in “Pragmatism, Experience, and the Given,” Human
Affairs (2009) 19:1. Thanks to these publishers for permission to reprint
these materials.
Four friends deserve special thanks here. First, Brian Ribeiro is a fellow
traveler, as we share the unfortunate tendency to adopt exceedingly unpop-
ular views (his being a form of what I call in the book Agrippan skepti-
cism). He can be thanked or blamed for my disinclination to be worried
that skepticism is a consequence of my views. Second, Mason Marshall,
who has been a sounding board for ideas for many years, deserves thanks
for his tireless diligence in rooting out bad writing and nonsense. Third, my
longtime friend and frequent collaborator, Robert Talisse deserves a good
deal of credit for convincing me to take what was a piecemeal philosophi-
cal program and synthesize it here. Robert’s good sense for how intellectual
programs fit together has been my model. Fourth, and fi nally, is my teacher
and mentor, Jeffrey Tlumak. He deserves a great heap of thanks for his
thoughtful guidance and support.
Finally, I wish to thank my wife, Susan Foxman, and our children, Mad-
eleine and Iris, for their patience with me while I have been writing this
book. For as hard as I have tried to be of good humor while writing (and
reflect that good humor in the writing), it was Madeleine who had the best
joke. She asked me about my book and I explained the regress problem to
her. I then told her that I would be defending the infi nitist’s option. She
then said gravely, “Daddy, I see why you’re working so hard . . . that’s
gonna be a really long book!”
Introduction

DON’T FEAR THE REGRESS

We are rational creatures. We are beings upon whom demands of rational-

ity are appropriate. We don’t always live up to those demands, though. In
those cases, we fail to be rational, and it is fitting to use the term ‘irratio-
nal’ to describe us in these cases. It is worth noting that when we fail the
demands of rationality, it is different from how rocks, tadpoles, and gum
fail to be rational. In fact, it is better to say they don’t fail to be rational;
they just aren’t rational. So, for them, we use the term ‘arational.’ They
don’t face the demands of rationality, but we do because we have minds
that can move us to act, inspire us to create, and bring us to believe in ways
that are responsible and directed.
My interests here are the demands that rationality places on our beliefs
and the way we manage our assent. Beliefs not only aim at the truth but
also at its comprehension, and so one of the requirements of being a rational
creature with beliefs is that we manage them in a way that is pursuant not
only of the truth but also our understanding of it. Reasons and reasoning
play the primary role in that pursuit—we ought to believe on the basis of
good reasons. That is, if you believe something, you think that you’re right
about the world in some way or another. You believe because you think that
something (call it ‘p’) is true. Now, p’s being true is different from all ways it
could have turned out false, and so your being right about p isn’t just some
arbitrary commitment, one that could just as well have been its negation.
This nonarbitrary specificity of beliefs is constituted by the fact that they are
held on the basis of reasons. Arguments are our model for how these reasons
go—we offer some premises and show how they support a conclusion. Of
course, arbitrary premises won’t do, so you’ve got to have some reason for
holding them as opposed to some others. Every premise, then, is a conclusion
in need of an argument, and for arguments to be acceptable, we’ve got to do
due diligence on the premises. This, however, leads to a disturbing pattern—
for every premise we turn into a conclusion, we end up with at least one other
premise in need of another argument. Pretty soon, even the simplest argu-
ments are going to get very, very complicated.
2 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
This problem is an old saw in philosophy, and it drives a number of clas-
sical works on knowledge. In contemporary parlance, the challenge posed
is the epistemic regress problem. Traditionally, there have been a number
of places where the story yielding the problem gets interrupted. On the one
hand, the argumentative model for reasoning can be called into question.
Perhaps argumentation requires more awareness and linguistic ability than
what is required in order to reason (e.g., babies don’t give arguments, but
they seem to know things). On the other hand, there have been special sorts
of reasons posed, and the special properties of these reasons make them so
that they don’t have to be conclusions of arguments for them to serve their
purpose—they may be indubitable (you don’t have to argue for proposi-
tions nobody doubts), they may cohere with other truths (sometimes it’s
enough for a story to hang together), or the premises may be yielded by
some reliable source (who’s to argue with a track record of success?). The
thought here is that some beliefs may end the regress of reasons by their
having some special property that makes them justified without having any
further arguments.
The problem with these solutions is that with all of them, if they are
solutions you use to end the regress for yourself, you still must argue not
only that one belief or other has those properties, but also that those prop-
erties confer justification. Surely we need an argument to stop with one
sort of belief and not another, because we may have the truth, but we won’t
understand it as such. And so, we haven’t ended the regress. Call this the
meta-regress problem: any time you propose a regress-ender, you do so on
the basis of an argument, which needs due diligence. And that puts us back
on the road to regress.
The regress problem is a consequence of a tension between our flatfooted
intuitions about justifying reasons. The fi rst is that ‘justification’ and ‘ratio-
nal belief’ are success terms. They are inherently normative notions. Being
rational creatures lays claims on us, and we may meet those demands or
not. Second, knowing and rational believing are refl ective successes. We
know and believe rationally by thinking hard, being careful, doing our
homework, getting our facts straight. And these are the applications of a
cognizer’s awareness of her responsibilities. Third, reflective successes can
be made explicit and determinative. You can always show your work and
explain why you arrived at one conclusion instead of another. And fi nally,
the explications of our reasons allow us to address those who might have
doubts or disagree, so our reasons are dialectical. Let me call the collection
of these fi rst four intuitions epistemic aspirationalism: knowing and ratio-
nal believing are consequences of some relatively rigorous belief manage-
ment with the ends not only of getting the truth and understanding it but
having a legitimating story to tell about it.
The problem is that this model confl icts with some other intuitions that
we have about knowing. One is that human beings are good at knowing.
Dumb people still know lots of things, despite the fact that they cannot put
 Introduction 3
an argument together to save their lives. On top of that, even smart folks,
given the regress problem, won’t know much, since no matter how smart
you are, you can’t complete an infi nite series of arguments. It looks like the
standards are just too high with aspirationalism to let in a good deal of our
knockabout knowledge—what gets us to work on time, what keeps us from
stepping in front of buses or eating glass, what makes it so I can work my
telephone, and so on. Let us call this perspective epistemic populism: ratio-
nal believing, though an achievement, is something that is simple, wide-
spread, and likely only rarely a reflective achievement. The regress problem,
then, is a case of the clash between aspirationalism and populism. (The
clash between the two perspectives is not just limited to the regress prob-
lem. All the same intuitions clash in discussions of skepticism, contextual-
ism, the analysis of knowledge, religious epistemology, and so on.)
The view I will defend in this book is called epistemic infinitism. It is
the view that the regress problem correctly captures what we must have in
order to have a justified belief: an infi nite series of nonrepeating, support-
ing reasons. The epistemic infi nitism I will be defending in this book is a
thoroughgoing aspirationalist view that those who are justified are those
who are maximally intellectually responsible. In essence, if you really are
justified in your belief, you can answer questions about what you know
until there just aren’t any more questions. But, as it turns out, there are in
principle no fi nal questions. So those with justification on their side must
be able to keep coming with the answers.
This is a heavy task. And one critical reaction may be that since ratio-
nal believing is widespread and infi nite reason giving is not, there must be
something wrong with infi nitism (namely, that it is false). This is an illusion
on two fronts. First, the fact that we allow people to say they know in cases
were they didn’t have infi nite reasons, or, for that matter, had no reasons
at all (maybe they were just lucky) doesn’t mean that knowledge is so easy.
For example, take Jerry, who bets on a 50–1 horse to win, and the horse
wins. Jerry proclaims, “There’s something about the name ‘Glue Factory
Bound’ . . . I just knew he would win!” We let Jerry get away with saying
this not because it is true that he knew, but because it doesn’t really matter
whether or not he knew—what matters is whether or not the horse won.
But now change the situation. You are about to place a large bet on a long-
shot horse based on whether or not you like her name. Do you know that
‘Pretty Pony,’ ‘Firefly,’ or ‘Old Brown Shoe’ will win? Even if you made the
bet and it paid, you may in a fit of jubilation exclaim that you just knew it,
but would you in cool reflection say you knew it? I think not.
The point here is that knowledge-attribution is cheap. We regularly
allow people who do not know to claim they do, and we allow it because
we may waste time correcting them, it may be rude, or it just doesn’t mat-
ter. Knowledge-attribution happens in contexts where there are many other
tasks on the docket in addition to saying truly or not whether someone
knows. But all you have to do to burst the bubble is to ask the question,
4 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
often in the appropriate tone of voice, “Yes, but do you really know?” With
the regress problem, we are looking at the justification that gives the right
to claim to know and the same pragmatic distortions happen, especially
when we attribute justification to third parties. The question is how you
can claim it legitimately.
The second illusion is the significance of the fact that infi nite reason giv-
ing isn’t widespread. The illusion, of course, is not that some cases of actual
nonterminating reason giving are being overlooked; instead, the illusion is
that when people stop giving reasons, they have satisfied the demands of
justification. A regular thought regarding arguments is that they are speech
acts addressed to an audience for the sake of either resolving a disagree-
ment or settling an issue. Once arguments accomplish these goals, there
is no more social use for them—once we are in agreement, we don’t argue
any more. The fact that there are no infi nitely long chains of arguments is
a social fact—people have a tendency to agree with each other, but when
debates go on too long, we give up on arguments and settle matters with our
fists. So the epistemic question returns once the issue is resolved—though
we may persuade each other that p, does that mean that we now know or
that we have sufficient reasons to justify our belief that p? A chasm yawns
between the two. Just because we have found a place of agreement with an
audience neither means that we have rationally correct belief nor does it
mean we have knowledge. If we cannot justify what upon which we agree;
all it means is that we have an agreement.
Being justified requires that you be able to give reasons you justifiably
hold are good reasons. It seems a simple truism. Who would say someone
knows that p, if asked why he believes it, he shrugged his shoulders and
uttered an inarticulate “Hmmmm. I dunno.” Or, alternately, concedes, “I
feel like I know, but I can’t explain or show how”? Consider what follows.
First, epistemic modesty. I have many beliefs, and I strive to know. But
the task of holding these beliefs properly and pursuing knowledge requires
that I am constantly testing the reasons I have, and that means I should
always be open to the possibility that I am wrong. So I should seek out the
smartest people whom I disagree with and fi nd out what they think, and I
should thank people who refute me. Fallibilism is the philosophical term
of art for that collection of intellectual virtues. The American philosopher
Charles S. Peirce was a fallibilist, and he famously claimed that knowledge
is what constitutes the beliefs of inquirers at the end of infinite inquiry.
Fallibilism, for Peirce, is a natural infi nitist outlook: since we are not at the
end of infi nite inquiry, we don’t know yet if we have knowledge. So we have
two duties—be open to correction and help move inquiry along. The ques-
tion now is whether fallibilism is properly held only on infinitist grounds.
If you thought you had regress-ending beliefs, ones that settled the ques-
tion of whether you are justified, you wouldn’t be open to challenges from
those who reject them. The matter would be sealed for you. Those who
disagree may deserve engagement for the sake of correcting them, but they
 Introduction 5
are people merely being helped to see the light, not those who have an equal
share in the conversation. From the perspective of those who know, they
are merely ignorant, stupid, or confused. And they must be educated. This,
of course, is not to say that someone committed to regress-ending reasons
must always fail to charitably respond to those who question. The ques-
tion is what, exactly, does one say to one’s opponents when the commit-
ments at issue are those for which one thinks no more reasons have to be
given? Finitist epistemology does not guarantee dogmatism and intellectual
intolerance (contrary to what many antifoundationalists, for example, have
claimed), but given the demands of resolving disagreements, it is unclear
what other options are available for the fi nitist except for adopting a tem-
porary infi nitism. It is just that the infi nitist is an infi nitist all the time.
The second consequence of infinitism is that it is the natural intellectual
home for the epistemic aspirationalist’s commitment to evidentialism, the
view that one’s beliefs should be supported by sufficient evidence. However,
infi nitism is a demanding form of evidentialism. Given that the quality of
the evidence is something always relevant to assessing something as evi-
dence (it’s good or bad evidence, strong or weak), we are always facing a
further set of questions when we proffer evidence. Any critical-thinking
textbook will offer the same advice—always check your sources, make sure
your sample is right, understand your data, ensure that your experiment
doesn’t yield vague or ambiguous results. Having evidence isn’t enough.
You, if you are in your rights to claim you know, must know the quality of
that evidence, which requires that we know a whole lot more things.
A fi nal concern looms: surely there are many things we know without
having to give further reasons:

This is my hand. 2 + 2 = 4. If object x has properties P and Q, then x

has property P. Don’t torture innocent people for fun. Pain is bad. I am
being appeared to red-bulgy-fruitly.

But with each of these, it seems that if someone weren’t convinced, or curi-
ous about why you believed these things, you could (and should) still offer
an argument. I know this is my hand, because I am being appeared to
my-handly and I’m having a kinesthetic impression of holding my hand in
front of my face. From these, I’ve arrived at the belief that this is my hand
and I can contrast what this impression does support with what it does not.
2 + 2 = 4, because if you take two of anything and two of anything else,
you’ll have four things . . . just try it! Each argument here is a function of
our concepts . . . but do we have the right concepts? For example, couldn’t I
add two things and two other things and have five things—four objects put
together and the collection of them? (Isn’t a collection a thing? Baseball col-
lections, coin collections, aren’t they things? Why isn’t the collection also
counted when we do addition?) There are answers to these questions, but
you see that it requires that we continue the reason giving even on the level
6 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
of the concepts used. And the same with experiences—having the right
experiences is crucial for the empirical justification for many of our beliefs
about the world. But we, if we take those experiences to give us information
about the world, should be able to give an argument that they are veridical
and how they are relevant to the beliefs they support. If you are justified,
you should be able to answer questions with reasons instead of shoulder-
shrugging or the back of a hand. Now, we may say those who use those
other means to answer questions “know” or “are justified” but this is out of
our desires to be nice to them or save our skins. And those aren’t reasons to
say someone has the right to say she really knows or really is justified.

TEN THESES

One thing I fi nd defi nitive of philosophy well done is clarity about what
is at stake. I will try here to live up to that ambition, and in the service of
doing so, I want to make explicit the ten theses I think I’m on the hook for
in this book. I want to accomplish something, namely, to provide a good
case for a set of interrelated views that constitute the philosophical posi-
tion, epistemic infinitism. I will list them here, along with the sections of
the book where I think I make good on my promises.

1. The Regress Problem is a real problem for epistemology (1.4–1.6).

2. The constitutive norm driving the regress problem is the requirement
of inferential support only from justified commitments (1.2–1.5).
3. Infi nitism is a defensible solution to the regress problem (2.2–2.4).
4. Infi nitism may entail skepticism. But that is not yet a refutation of
the view, as there is a difference between meta-epistemic theses and
antiskeptical theses (1.6, 2.6, 5.3).
5. Impure infi nitisms (consistent with foundationalism) solve the modus
ponens reductio (2.2, 3.5).
6. Impure infi nitisms are the best bet for epistemic infi nitism (3.1–3.5).
7. Foundationalism can be defended from the arguments deployed
against it by infi nitists, but only if it functions in an impure infi nitism
(4.9).
8. Givenism and the intuitions driving inferentialist antifoundational-
ism are synthesizable (4.4–4.5).
9. Infi nitism provides a model for properly run argumentation
(5.1–5.3).
10. Epistemic infi nitism is a form of anti-dogmatism (5.3).

I’ve framed the project in three phases, the fi rst that infi nitism is a worthy
player in epistemology, the second that there is room for debate within the
infi nitist program, and the third that infinitism has appealing applications.
I see theses 1–5 as in the service of the fi rst phase, 5–8 as in the service
 Introduction 7
of the second phase, and 9 and 10 as in the service of the third phase of
application. There are many other commitments I am on the hook for here,
for example, that Sellars’s dilemma for the Myth of the Given admits of a
tertium quid, that Peter Klein’s infinitism has a tacit foundationalist ele-
ment, that McGrew’s dilemma for modest foundationalists is precisely an
argument that foundationalism is dependent on infi nitism, that acquain-
tance yields conditionally infallible epistemic support, and that a pragmatic
theory of reason giving is an essential account of our cognitive rationality.
But these are commitments that, though plenty contentious, I will have to
give short attention to in the service of the larger project. There’s much to
be done here, and a whole tradition and long-standing prejudice to answer.
This book is only the start.
1 The Regress Problem

In this chapter, I have two objectives. The fi rst is to make a case for an aspi-
rationalist conception of justification. My second objective is to present the
epistemic regress problem. On the one hand, I will argue that the problem
is pressing for nonaspirationalist conceptions of justification; on the other
hand, I will argue that the regress problem is of even greater concern for the
aspirationalist program.

1.1 JUSTIFICATION AND ITS DESIDERATA

Having good reasons for our views is a good thing. This seems uncontro-
versial and perhaps tautological, but let me make the case. First, it seems
clear that good reasons are simply valuable to us. Now, that good support-
ing reasons are valued may not yet show that they are valuable (or better,
worthy of that valuing), but showing that we value them for good reasons
does. On the assumption that a good reason for a commitment is a reason
counting in favor of its truth, believing for good reasons is a means for hav-
ing true beliefs. At least it is as good a means as we can come up by our own
lights. And truth, simply, is what is good in the way of belief. This good-
ness is both instrumental and intrinsic. Moore’s paradox, that our esteem
for truth constrains how we attribute beliefs to ourselves, supports this
dual valuing of good supporting reasons. That is, it would be a conflicted
thought for you to attribute a belief to yourself that you currently deem
false. Moore holds that such a move would be a ‘contradiction in thought,’
because our beliefs, insofar as we believe them, are transparent to us—what
it is to believe something is to take that content as true. Moore’s example
is the thought “I believe it is raining, but it is not” (1942, 543). Even if it
is true (and it could be, as Moore could believe falsely that it’s raining), it
would nevertheless be incoherent to think in the first person. Our beliefs
are internally related to how we think reality is, and because good rea-
sons are our best tools for reflecting what’s real, it seems clear it would be
silly to ignore them while still taking our beliefs as the sorts of things that
we reflectively would endorse as true. We may believe these things, but
 The Regress Problem 9
under such a description (perhaps that I believe it is raining, but against
overwhelming evidence that it is not), we view our beliefs less as contents
we endorse, but as inclinations we have, more akin to symptoms or syn-
dromes we wish we didn’t have. Our integrity as cognitive agents depends
on this reflective test we can perform on our beliefs—whether, after having
assessed how the belief was formed, how it is currently maintained, and
what evidence counts for it and against it, we endorse the belief.
It is not just because we care for the truth of our beliefs that we care
about those reasons. It is, second, that with this reflective endorsement
of our commitments, we are caretakers of ourselves as thinkers. We are
intellectually autonomous. The world is chock-full of crazy and stupid
people, and they have the correlate habits of saying crazy and stupid
things. Part of what it is to be a cognitively responsible person is to do
one’s right best not to develop those habits, to manage one’s beliefs and
one’s correlate assertions in a way that eliminates (or at least mitigates)
the wildly false, unfounded things we may believe otherwise. We must
have skills of cognitive management, and one skill of utmost importance
is that of assessing the reasons one has for one’s beliefs, assessing the rea-
sons others give against one’s commitments, and having, on balance, the
best of the competing stories. We must sort the contents worthy of our
commitment in a way that is reflective of the standing dialectical situation
with regards to reasons for and against the issues. That is, in order to be
justified, we must not only have a story to tell as to why the things we
accept are reasonable from our perspective, but we must also be capable
of addressing and answering not just the crazy and stupid, but also the
reasonable yet wrong.
Justified commitments are those that, given what else we know, what
reasons are on the table, and how the dialectical situation has shaken out,
deserve our assent. Justifying reasons are, then, what we look for when we
sort the various propositions worthy of our commitment from those that
are not. Here is a rough list of beliefs I think I’m in a pretty good position
to say I’m justified in believing:

LIST I: 2 + 2 = 4. I have hands. Freedom is valuable. Knowledge is

valuable. One should not kill random people. My wife hates my beard.
God does not exist.

In fact, I don’t just think the balance of reasons favors these beliefs; I think
I am in my rights to say I know them true. But that’s another story as to
how justification and knowledge are tied, and I will not be telling that story
here.1 Instead, the point of LIST I is to set out a number of cases of com-
mitment that are the result of some diligent sorting. And the sorting yields
another list, which are the propositions inconsistent with LIST I’s members
and their dialectical competitors, a list of propositions the balance of rea-
sons counts against:
10 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
LIST II: 2 + 2 = 5. I have lobster claws, not hands. Freedom is not valu-
able, because it’s dangerous. Knowledge is worse. When you get a new
samurai sword, you need to test it out, and random people on the road
are the best for that. My wife loves my beard. God not only exists, but
has plans for me, given that I denied His existence on LIST I.

The point of making LIST II is that the sorting work we perform by

attending to justifying reasons has a contrastive 2 element with the con-
tents of our thoughts, and one of the reasons why that is the case is that
justification should be something that can be shared or shown to others
who’ve missed the boat. There are folks, some crazy and some quite rea-
sonable, that hold commitments from LIST II, and it would trouble me
mightily if I not only couldn’t defend my views from them but also could
not say something about why justification doesn’t favor theirs. Part of
what it is to be justified in believing that 2 + 2 = 4 and that I have hands,
it seems, is not just to understand and have epistemic support for those
beliefs, but to be able to answer critical questions about the 2 + 2 = 5
theory and the lobster-claw hypothesis. Those are silly views, to be sure,
and what makes them so is the fact that they are easily refuted. Further,
people who reject the value of freedom and knowledge often make prin-
cipled cases (e.g., freedom makes free riders, and knowledge extinguishes
wonder), but those cases don’t work. At least in the knowledge case, I’d
want to say: does knowing that knowledge extinguishes wonder itself
extinguish wonder? I don’t think so . . . and so we have a counterexample.
Regardless, I’m sure an extended argumentative exchange wouldn’t go
their way. Same goes for the Samurai who thinks he, in fact, must chop
up a random villager to ensure his sword battle worthy. That’s a moral
error, and one that, if I’m justified in my belief that one shouldn’t kill ran-
dom people, I should be able to make the reasons in favor of that explicit.
Further, someone may think my wife actually loves my beard. Perhaps
this person has inferred, reasonably I might add, that because I look so
good with it, my wife must love it. But this person does not know that
my wife, despite how distinguished I look with the beard, doesn’t like the
fact that it is very bristly and has the tendency to collect mayonnaise. And
fi nally, traditional theism is a serious view held by many serious people,
and they’ve got some very impressive arguments. But atheists’ arguments
are better, and what it is to be an atheist (or, on the other hand, a certain
stripe of theist) is to assess oneself as being on the winning side of the
ongoing argumentative exchanges on the issue. Justification, in those set-
tings, is a dialectical accomplishment, and only when one has achieved
that does one have the right to have those commitments.
There’s another list, though. LIST I and LIST II capture the contrastive
dialectical element of justification, which emphasizes the content one is jus-
tified in accepting or rejecting. But there is a second contrastive element to
justification—that between being justified and not being justified. And so:
 The Regress Problem 11
LIST III: The number of stars is even. Yellow is a happy color. There are
multiverses. The Good and the Beautiful are conceptually dependent
on each other. Cleopatra sneezed three times on her fifth birthday.

These are contents I do not take myself to have justification to believe true
or false. The number of stars is an empirical question to which we do not yet
(or will ever, as far as I can gather) have any answer. And if the number of
stars is infinite, it’s neither odd nor even. I’m only inclined to say yellow is a
happy color, but that’s about as good as my reasons get, and there are others
with contrary inclinations. I am not even sure about what multiverses are; so,
I certainly can’t be justified in any sense that matters to me in believing there
are some. Though it sounds plausible that moral and aesthetic questions are
separable, they nevertheless seem regularly to inform each other (especially
moral judgment directing aesthetic judgment). The point here is that an eye
to justification helps sort out three categories: the things we have a right to
believe, the things we rightly disbelieve, and those about which we rightly
withhold belief. Justification, if it is going to mean something to us, if it is
going to be the kind of property of commitments that we value and can be
of use to us, needs to be the kind of thing that we look to when we perform
these sorting roles with commitment. Justification is an objective of proper
cognitive management, dispute resolution, and intellectual self-possession.
Out of this rough story of justification, a few desiderata of a theory of
justification worth having emerge. There are patterns in the way we pur-
sue justification that show how justification plays a normative role in our
cognitive lives.
Justification is subject-relative. Some people have the justification and
others do not. This depends on what evidence people have, how well they’ve
thought it through, and so on. So, for example, in the aforementioned beard
case we have people who have good reason to sort the beard belief differ-
ently, but because of defeating reasons for their commitments, once they
talk with me (or my wife), they should change their minds.
Justification is truth-directed. The justification that regulates belief is
a matter regarding whether the subject in question has a right to believe
a proposition true or false. Justifying reasons count in favor of a belief’s
truth, not its preferability or other non-truth-directed concern.
Justification is sharable. We can hold each other to account for things
about which we disagree, and we can make explicit what criteria were used
in sorting our beliefs. Arguments are the basic model for these sharings.
Justification is dialectical. The justification one has emerges from and
can be changed by argumentative exchanges with others. The better one
performs in responding to representatives of competing views, the better
off one is. The worse one does, the worse one’s justification.
Justification comes in degrees. One way a subject can have more justifi-
cation is to have more positive evidence. Correlately, one’s justification can
be weakened by contrary evidence.
12 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
Justification is fallible and correctable. It is possible to be justified in
believing something that is in fact false. This is why it is important that sub-
jects have their reasons so that they can update their beliefs as new evidence
comes in. Discussion and weighing arguments are the collection of support-
ing evidence and contrary evidence for the views under consideration.
Justification is required for intellectual integrity. Caring about, check-
ing, revising, improving, and ultimately endorsing one’s beliefs is constitu-
tive of cognitive autonomy. The pursuit of justification is the life of the
subject with intellectual integrity. We want to have lives that are livable
and endorsable from the inside, and a condition for that livability is that we
take ourselves to be believing by our own best lights. Otherwise, our beliefs
are not commitments we endorse, but are intellectual symptoms we don’t.

1.2 THE PRINCIPLE OF INFERENTIAL JUSTIFICATION

In the previous section, I outlined a few desiderata for an account of

justification worth having. They were axiological criteria for a satisfying
story about justification worth the appellation. They are the reasons why
we care whether or not we are justified. The basic thought is that if we
had a story about justification that shows we have it, but it is not the sort
captured by the desiderata, we would naturally think a kind of bait and
switch has occurred. Now, sometimes the old switcheroo is appropriate
for important concepts. For example, the switcheroo is the right kind
of move for a notion like freedom. Metaphysical freedom in a libertar-
ian incompatibilist sense is not only not probable for entities like us, but
many of the reasons why we would want it are also reasons to be happy
with compatibilism (you keep the idea that the decisions come from you,
you keep the thought that punishment and accountability are directed at
the entity that performed the act, etc.). The issue with freedom, for sure,
is dialectically fraught, but the point of my analogy is that because of
the ways we value freedom and justification, we have constraints on how
we can tinker with the concepts. Tinker too much, and you make having
freedom and justification not so much different, valuationally, from not
having them. The tinkering works, I think, with freedom. But it doesn’t
work with the concept of God. Take the contemporary reconstructionist
program in theology. In light of the metaphysical and evidential problems
with the notion of God, the reconstructionists tinker with the concept of
the divine to render the content of God-talk (instead of being about an
all-powerful, all-knowing, creative entity) about community and the val-
ues we share. John Dewey, for example, reconstructs all the metaphysical
elements of religion, and particularly God, as “the unity of all ideal ends
arousing us to desire and action” (1934, 42). Wittgenstein, too, holds that
“a religious belief could only be something like a passionate commitment
to a system of reference. Hence, although it’s belief, it’s really a way of
 The Regress Problem 13
living, or a way of assessing life” (1980, 64; emphasis in original). But
once reconstructed, God is no longer an object of worship or an entity
worthy of thanks or love. It is only a system of values to be preserved, not
something with which one has a relationship. And so, in trying to accom-
modate the atheist’s metaphysical and evidential objections to God’s
existence and trying to accommodate the theist’s commitments to God’s
value, the reconstructionist splits the difference. But it ends up a mess: in
short, if God exists, he needs no reconstruction, and if He does not exist,
we should do our best not to bother reconstructing Him. Fiddle too much
with the concept, the switcheroo yields something nobody wants. 3 So our
defaults should be set, at least at the beginning, on preserving as much of
the axiological core of the concept as we can. This axiological conserva-
tism is at the core of the aspirationalist program here.
Consider the following case, which coordinates a number of the desid-
erata from earlier, and, additionally, is the kind of situation that highlights
why justification matters to us:

Football Discussion I: Jenny, Barry, and Larry all agree about some
things. Some of those things are that football is not only good to watch
but also good to talk about. After taking in a game at Jenny’s house,
the three set to a familiar debate as to who is the greatest running back
in the game’s history. Jenny reasons as follows: “Eric Dickerson! He
holds the rookie rushing record and the single season rushing record.
He is without peer.” Barry reasons: “Barry Sanders! I’m guessing that
he’s the career rushing leader, and he was the core of the Detroit Li-
ons football dynasty.” Larry reasons: “Jim Brown! He’s had a great
movie career, and he’s really socially conscious—he advocates for the
downtrodden.”

The three are in a situation where the sorting and dialectical functions of
justification must be on display. Let’s start with Barry’s case for Sanders.
First, his guess is not a reason. Just for the record, on top of that, Emmitt
Smith is the career rushing leader, and the Lions (bless their hearts) had
the tendency to lose badly every time they played. They were a dynasty
of bad football. Regardless, the fact that Barry is wrong is the least of
his problems. His reason is a guess! That certainly contributed to why his
reason ended up wrong, as guesses are shots in the dark. But it’s here that
we need to see something important: even were the guess right, it wouldn’t
have supported his belief in a way that justified it. For his given reason to
support, he must be justified in holding it. He is not justified in holding that
Sanders is the career rushing leader (because he’d only guessed it), so that
commitment cannot function as a reason that provides support. Crucially,
it seems that when one does any of this sorting in terms of justification, one
must make explicit some reason that makes the belief worthy of assent or
not, and those reasons, too, must have justification.
14 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
Now let us turn to Larry. Let’s assume he just read some great article
on Jim Brown, and so he has good reason to hold that Brown is a socially
conscious fellow. But what’s that got to do with him being a great back?
Not much, and to praise him for being a great back for those reasons would
not only be a confusion, but it would be, I think, ethically inappropriate.
Moral reasons should yield moral praise, not praise otherwise. So even
though Larry is justified in believing the reasons he gives, because they are
irrelevant to the question of running-back greatness, they do not support
Larry’s commitment in favor of Brown. And so, because the reasons he
gives don’t support the belief, the belief’s not justified.
From the examples here, we see that there is a clear pattern to how jus-
tification can fail for subjects: there are necessary conditions for a subject’s
being justified that Barry and Larry fail to meet. These can be captured by
what’s traditionally been called the Principle of Inferential Justification. I
will start here using the standard epistemological notation (with S for sub-
jects, p, q, and r for propositions, and so on):

The Principle of Inferential Justification (PIJ): S is justified in holding

that p only if (i) there is some proposition, q, that S is justified in hold-
ing, and (ii) q provides S some supporting reason for p’s truth.

Call (i) the justified supporter condition, and call (ii) the support condi-
tion. The basic thought is that for a subject, S, to be justified in believing
a proposition, p, S needs, or must have, some source of assurance that p
is true (or at least S must have a reason that makes it more reasonable to
sort p into the list of propositions to which S assents than those S rejects
or withholds). These assurances support these beliefs in the form of being
reasons to believe—you can, if you’re committed to the former, rationally
arrive at the latter. As a consequence, this assurance as inferential support
requires that for any p justifiably believed by some S, there must be some
other proposition, q, proffered as evidence. Further, q must actually sup-
port p (that is, it should actually be a reason in favor of p’s truth), and q
itself must also be worthy of S’s assent. That is, the only kind of reasons one
can offer for assent to some commitment that p are reasons that (i) belong
to the class of propositions worthy of assent for the subject, and (ii) provide
supporting reasons for p.
There are two things to note about the PIJ as stated here. First, the
principle is phrased as a necessary condition for justification. Second, the
support in the inferential support condition needn’t be strong enough for
epistemic justification full bore. It just needs to be inferentially supporting.
The principle of inferential justification is not an analysis of the concept
of justification or its sources, but rather it is an account of justification’s
structure. As a consequence, the principle is phrased so that it is consistent
with a variety of views as to what may be a source of justified beliefs, or
what justification is. It requires only that when a subject does have that
 The Regress Problem 15
justification, the subject is capable of articulating it as such. And so the
original belief, p, may have other justificatory conditions (e.g., being the
result of a causally reliable belief-producing process, being coherent with
a larger set of beliefs, being based on an acquaintance with a sense-per-
ception), but for the subject to be justified in believing that proposition in
a way that the subject can claim the right to assent, to sort the belief in a
way that will withstand her own reflective accounting, the subject needs to
have something to say in favor of the belief. The belief needn’t be a result
of inference (often it is, but that’s not what is required), but what is needed
is only that reasons count in the belief’s favor and those reasons are what
sustain the subject’s belief now.
It is worth making this point another way. The PIJ, as expressed, is a
statement of a set of conditions for justification, but it is not an account of
what justification is, or where it comes from. It is a statement of what justi-
fication’s structure is; it is a view about how to talk about the architecture
and function of epistemic reasons. Take this on analogy with taxes. There
may be an analysis of what taxation is, and there may be an account of
where tax money comes from and what the conditions for a just tax are,
and fi nally, there may be a story as to what proportions people pay. The
question as to what taxes are, where they come from, and their structure
are separate but mutually informative questions. These stories clearly work
in concert, and I think the same goes for epistemic justification. The PIJ is
only a structural point of the story.
A second thing to note about the PIJ here is that it is an account of dox-
astic justification—it is an account of what’s required for a subject to be
justified. Surely, propositional justification is conceptually prior to doxastic
justification, but look again at Football Discussion I. The issue is not simply
about the greatest running back, but it is also about who’s right about the
greatest running back. Determining that is what matters in the context,
and that’s what matters with sorting beliefs—we do it so that the beliefs
will be generally correct, and we will rightly have believed them.

1.3 EPISTEMIC ASPIRATIONALISM

The principle of inferential justification is a joint requirement that to be

justified in holding a belief, a subject is on the hook for the belief’s grounds
and the adequacy of those grounds. The principle reflects the norms of
assessment and sorting we must perform when we reflect on what propo-
sitions are worthy of assent and which ones are either not, or are worthy
of being believed false. It is an old Socratic view that if you’re going to
claim understanding or knowledge of something, you must be capable of
answering mounting critical questions. But note that the PIJ is pretty weak
compared to the testing we get from Socrates. Believers must be capable
of answering objections, having correlate critical things to say about the
16 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
going competitors on the issue, and be able to answer some relatively com-
plicated questions about the concepts being applied. Socrates’s questions
sometimes look exceedingly demanding, and his interlocutors regularly beg
off answering them, often because, as with Euthyphro, they are pressed for
time. But let us give some consideration to the Socratic project, at least my
rough sketch of it here. Let’s return to the football discussion from earlier,
but this time, hopefully, our discussants will perform a bit better. Larry
and Barry didn’t do so well last time, but their failures were instructive.
This time, their improved performance will occasion a lesson. Here’s the
new, improved, discussion:

The Football Discussion II: Jenny argues: “Eric Dickerson! He holds

the single season and rookie rushing titles. He’s without peer.” Barry
reasons: “Barry Sanders! He’s third in career rushing, and he played his
entire career for what arguably was the worst team in football. Imagine
what an electrifying back like him would have done while playing for
the Dallas Cowboys!” Larry reasons: “Jim Brown! He was the most
dominating back to ever play the game, and he set an imposing single-
season record but in a fourteen-game season, not like Dickerson, who
took sixteen games.”

Here’s a second reason to hold that the PIJ is a necessary condition for
justification, but not a sufficient reason: All three here are justified (let us
assume) in their respective supporting reasons. In this case, we have a dis-
agreement wherein the various sides have formally acceptable, but compet-
ing, cases. Such a situation is what may be called dialectically fraught—on
the face of it, there are no participants in the discussion who fail the sup-
port requirement or the justified supporter requirement. Everyone gives a
formally fi ne case; so, for any one of them to be justified, s/he must be
able to continue the discussion in a way that favors his/her case. Let’s start
with Jenny. She now has to do two things. First, she needs to be able to
assess both Barry and Larry’s cases for quality of support: Are these com-
paratively stronger than her own case? Are there defeaters for their cases,
especially as compared to hers? For example, she may say to Barry that
Dickerson also played for bad teams (so the counterfactual doesn’t cut only
in Sanders’s favor), and she may say to Larry that though Brown was domi-
nating, it was in a period before any of the best players would specialize in
defense (so of course an excellent player would dominate—he effectively
played against a B team). Second, she needs to address an overt defeater
posed for her story by Larry’s challenge: it took Dickerson sixteen games to
set the mark. That’s fi ne, she may say, but nobody’s beaten it since. Barry
and Larry have similar duties not only to think through what’s likely wrong
with the competing views, but also how best to make the comparative case
for his own. Questions that may arise might be: whether the appellation of
best running back depends on abilities (which would make counterfactuals
 The Regress Problem 17
relevant) or only on accomplishments (which would make them irrelevant);
whether playing for a bad team improves the level of an accomplishment or
decreases it (e.g., would it be better to be the league leader in rushing while
playing on a good team or to be a top five rusher on a bad team?); whether
the player played through injuries (tough!) or against (injury-prone) a back’s
quality; whether receiving yards or quality of pass protection are relevant,
and so on. The conversation then proceeds into the evening.
Note, fi rst, that if, say, none of the conversants here could state any of
these extra reasons, none of them would count as justified. They’d each
make their initial cases and then just stare at each other over their beers.
So, again, in the spirit of the principle of inferential justification mentioned
earlier, we’ll start by noting that in order to be justified in holding a com-
mitment, a subject must pass the test of accountability; that is, the subject
must be capable of making some justified and supporting reasons explicit.
But once these reasons are explicit, the subjects here are responsible not only
for their own reasons but also for those of others. Justification depends,
now, on navigating those waters, so we have a dialectical requirement for
justification:

If S is justified in holding that p, then S can successfully address the

standing cases for not-p and against p.

The thought here, again, is that Jenny is not justified in her commitment to
Dickerson at least until she has an answer to Larry’s point that Dickerson
took sixteen games to set the mark. What it is to successfully address a
standing case for a contrary view or an objection to your view? For starters,
it seems you’ve got to actually understand and be able to articulate those
views in ways that those who hold them could recognize. Barry is doing
that when he both makes his case for Brown and proposes a defeating case
for Dickerson. Larry might do so by challenging Barry to explain why play-
ing for a bad team makes Sanders’s career performance more impressive,
or going back to Football Discussion I, we might imagine Jenny gleefully
pointing out to Barry that the Lions were actually terrible and to Larry
that Brown’s movie career doesn’t have anything to do with his quality as a
back. If she can’t do that, then she’s not in a position to make a responsible
comparative judgment in favor of her own case. So two principles of suc-
cessful response may be rendered:

S can successfully respond to a case for not-p iff (i) S can state the rea-
sons given for not-p, and (ii) S can give justifying reasons to show either
(a) that the reasons given for not-p are not justified, (b) that those given
reasons are false, or (c) that even if true and justified, those reasons do
not support the conclusion that not-p.

And
18 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
S can successfully respond to a case against p iff (i) S can state the rea-
sons given against p, and (ii) S can give justifying reasons to show either
that (a) the reasons given against p are not justified, (b) the reasons
given against p are false, or (c) that even given the truth and justifica-
tion for those reasons, S’s original case for p still provides the requisite
support for p.

The thought behind this justification-worth-having view is that justifica-

tion is a constituent part of the management of our cognitive lives. It is
something we look to, make explicit, and deliberate about in our private
and public reflections on what’s true, what’s worthy of our assent. In this
respect, then, justification isn’t just having your own ducks in a row with
regards to your own reasons. It’s also having a judgment (or being able
to make a judgment) about how others with competing views have done
with their cases and their judgment of yours. Justification worth having
is certainly something that, as A. J. Ayer (1956, 36) rightly said, gives one
the right to be sure, but it is also something that one can claim as a right.
This requires that justification implies that we be able to look inward to our
own reasons and outward to those of our fellows. And here, we see that on
this more demanding aspiration with justification, the requisite conditions
for inferential justification are weak. This circumspective and defensibility
component of developing one’s case is not just that one can give a justified
and supporting reason (as we’d seen with the PIJ), but subjects are account-
able for the comparative strength of the support the reasons provide. That
is, a good deal of the discussion following Football Discussion II will be
devoted to determining whose story is the one that we may justifiably hold
to provide the support requisite for justification. The discussion will not be
about whether we are justified in accepting the respective reasons provided
(at least, for our purposes, we are treating them as justified and the discus-
sants are too) but as to who is justified in claiming those reasons are those
requisite for support. What is necessary is a third requirement on the PIJ,
one that runs that subjects must be justified in holding that their supporting
reasons support. And so, the principle of Justified Inferential Justification.

Principle of Justified Inferential Justification (PJIJ): S is justified in

holding that p only if (i) there is some proposition, q, that S is justified
in holding, (ii) q provides S supporting reason for p’s truth, and (iii) S is
justified in holding q to support p’s truth.

In the football discussions, especially II, we see that what constitutes a

good deal of the give and take of the discussions is the weighing of the
positively supporting reasons, and so the determining reasons constitut-
ing (iii) are those emerging from the dialectical success of the speakers in
terms of how well s/he defends the argument and successfully addresses the
competing cases.
 The Regress Problem 19
But now imagine that Jenny’s husband, Doug, after having heard a good
deal of the fallout from Football Discussion II, can’t hold back any more.
He blurts out:
Why does it matter? It’s just a game, for goodness sake! So what?
Silence from the football fans. Doug has posed a new challenge, not one
about epistemic support, but about why one should bother with such sup-
port in the fi rst place.
Doug’s challenge is to whether the issue is important enough to deliberate
about, whether it is worth the time, resources, and energy Jenny, Barry, and
Larry are expending to sort it out. Imagine that our football fans answer
the question with something in the following forms:

Jenny: Football is a game of martial excellence—we are asking the ques-

tion who embodies it best.
Barry: Yeah, it’s just a game, but I love it. How you come down on run-
ning backs is how you come down on why you love the game.
Larry: Football is a game of grace and strength, and the running-back
position requires the maximum in both. The question of who the
greatest back was is a question about how those two disparate
virtues can by synthesized in one player. Running the football is
a beautiful brutality.

Here, we can see that answers about the significance of a judgment drive
us to wider questions about (a) why the judgment in those cases matter,
and (b) why the broader context of the judgment matters. Call beliefs that
fail the fi rst condition isolated—we can’t explain what difference it would
make to anything else we believe or care about were it false. Call beliefs
that fail the second condition idle—having a view on them is something
that is not important for the subject, or perhaps not important at all. I,
for example, have beliefs about the lives of various B-list celebrities—
their love lives, their fashion choices, and so on. These beliefs of mine
are isolated, as they wouldn’t change any judgments I make about their
movies or music or anything else were I to believe differently or not at all.
And they are idle, as I can’t say for sure why I should care whether they
are true or false. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t care. These are pointless
beliefs. I may have the requisite evidential reasons for holding them, but
I’ve no reason to hold them.
We can show a belief to be worthwhile if we can show it is either
not isolated or not idle. Worthlessness, too, is subject-relative, and to
illustrate this, let’s change the celebrity-love-life example a little. Imagine
that I’m a gossip reporter. Now, I have a real interest in these issues; the
questions are no longer idle nor are they isolated. That celebrity X just
got out of rehab is important because she’s had a hard time with drugs
and she has kids that she ostensibly loves, and as a reporter I’m giddy at
the thought of telling the story of this ongoing glamorous train wreck of
20 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
a life. Or, alternately, imagine that a number of my coworkers are celeb-
rity gossip hounds. I like their company, and so before we meet up for
lunch, say, I do a quick readup on the big news of the day. That way, I
have something spicy to contribute to the discussion. In the grand scheme
of things, the beliefs are still idle, but because I have a reason to collect
them, deliberate about them, and report them properly, I’ve got a reason
to do the work. The last part here is important. We can live up to the why
bother question, still, by conceding that an issue fails to have significance
on a grand scale, but nevertheless making a case still for investing our
time and energy in the inquiry. I have these commitments about celebrity
X, so I have something to contribute to the discussion over lunch, and
I want to contribute to the discussion over lunch so I can enjoy lunch
with coworkers. Our cognitive lives have many demands and there are
many good things to pursue in the rest of our lives, but we have a limit
of resources—time, patience, evidence, and so on. The objective here is
that of managing a cognitive economy in a way that we make no pointless
investments. Even if we end up right, we don’t want to waste our intel-
lectual capital on beliefs that, even if they did pay a dividend of truth, are
in the end pointless beyond that.
Without an answer to Doug’s question (and, perhaps, imagine Doug also
at the table at lunch with my coworkers, asking an analogous question),
our football fans may have well-thought-out and masterful arguments
for their respective views, and one may emerge victorious. But without a
justification for their reflection, they have mastery of some information,
but they cannot recognize it as worthwhile. They have command of the
information, but they have no command over themselves. They are noth-
ing masters. Having a justifying story, not just for the view’s truth but for
why the view is neither idle nor isolated, is a requirement for justification
worth having.
One of the reasons why this practical (or maybe better, pragmatic) view
on the question is important is that answers to the why bother question
inform answers to the do these reasons justify question. Take our disparate
answers, from football’s martial value, to how the game affects spectators,
to aesthetic tension. These are all reasons to care about the running-back
question, but note also how they speak to the criteria for what kind of jus-
tifying reasons for the original question are appropriate. That Brown, say,
was dominating would be a martial reason; that Sanders was exhilarating
would be an affective reason; that Dickerson was both elusive and punish-
ing would be an aesthetic reason. The reasons why a question is important
to us provide criteria and direction for successful answers. And so, having
some account of why one’s views matter at all is a prerequisite for being jus-
tified in a way that is worth claiming. We have, then, a further requirement
for justification, one that requires that we be justified in taking the issue as
worthwhile, as seeing it connected to other questions, objectives, and so on,
or as itself worthy of our attention on its own. And so:
 The Regress Problem 21
The Principle of Worthwhile Justification (PWJ): S is justified in hold-
ing that p only if S is both (a) justified in holding the question whether
p is not idle and (b) justified in holding p is not isolated.

Again, the objective with this aspirationalist story of justification worth

wanting (and claiming) is to capture what justification that reflects our
intellectual autonomy would look like. We live our cognitive lives from
the inside, and though we do not have direct control over all the things
we believe and what resources are available to us, we hold ourselves and
each other accountable not just for the truth or falsity of our beliefs but
how responsibly we hold them. We not only ask why? of ourselves and our
fellows, but also so what?, and so we are on the hook for both if we are to
be justified in any way that matters. These responsibilities bleed into each
other, so that our broadly pragmatic axiological commitments influence
our cognitive standards, and vice versa. Being able to explain that reci-
procity, seeing one’s judgments as ones that proceed from reasons that we
endorse—that’s a cognitive life worth living. We don’t just need to argue;
we also must be responsible for our premises, their support, and also for
why we’re arguing in the fi rst place. Without these abilities and those corre-
late justifying stories, our beliefs stop looking like things we’re committed
to; they stop looking like they are ours, and as if they are just the things we
happen to say. They look like symptoms. Take, for example, in the same
Moorean fashion as in the first section of this chapter, the tension and dis-
appointment I would express in myself in uttering the following:4

• I believe it is raining, but it is not.

• I believe it is raining, but I have no evidence that it is.
• I believe it is raining, because the grass is wet . . . but don’t ask me
how the grass being wet makes it reasonable to say it’s raining.
• I believe it is raining, but I can’t explain why it matters or what differ-
ence it’d make were it not.

In every case of these Moore-style tensions, it seems right to see others

through these lenses. We know plenty of people who believe things that are
false, believe for no discernible reason, believe for good reasons they never-
theless don’t comprehend as such, and believe lots of worthless garbage. It
certainly is possible to attribute those commitments in the third person. But
it’s hard to do that in the first person, and when we do first personally have
beliefs that fit those patterns, they trouble us. We are positively rueful when
this happens. And note that each of these supports a core axiology of belief
and justification. The first shows the truth-directedness of belief. The second
shows the evidential background we take our commitments to reflect. The
third highlights the requirement that we have a justifying story as to how our
evidence supports our commitments. And the fourth shows that we be capa-
ble of synthesizing our commitments with our broader lives and interests.
22 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
This aspirationalist story is exceedingly demanding for us as cognitive
agents. We have lives to live, things to do. We do not have complete con-
trol over our beliefs—we more often than not find ourselves with beliefs,
instead of having taken the long road of reason to them. Justification, on
the aspirational story, is something we likely have precious little of, and as a
consequence, seems out of proportion to what we’d often take justification
to be—something that, though a success, is widespread and achievable.
My cat, it seems, has reasons to believe I’ll feed her when I arrive home.
A two-year-old with very little dialectical skill nevertheless is justified in
holding that if she keeps hitting her brother with the plastic shovel, she’ll
be in trouble. The objection runs: look at how much naturally occurring
justification the aspirationalist program ignores. There’s lots of justifica-
tion out there, just not the fancy and hyperintellectualized form that the
aspirational theory requires. These intellectually populist intuitions are all
reasonable enough, but that’s justification we confer on third parties. That
kind of justification is fi ne for cats and babies, to be sure. But we want
more. We’d like to know about the track records for the inferences that
constitute them; we’d want to test the details of the motives for those who
are benefactors and teachers. If things go wrong, we’d like someone who
can be held accountable. In fact, this is precisely what successful education
entails—we are to come to know many facts, have a good deal of back-
ground justification, acquire a wide variety of skills for thinking things
through and showing our work as explicitly as the audience in question
requires. And this is not solely for the purpose of being more reliable in
these tasks, but also to be in possession of them, to understand them, to see
them as tools for coping with reality and each other. We want to have cog-
nizance of the world and possess our beliefs like grownups, like people who
can not only be responsible for themselves, but can also give an account of
themselves when prompted, teach others when necessary, and make correc-
tions (or informed mea culpas) when things go wrong.
Intellectual autonomy and its value are playing leading roles in this
aspirationalist story, and it is worth explaining briefly how this autonomy,
in the capacity to make one’s own way intellectually, is valuable. Let us
remember that justification is subject-relative, as it depends on the informa-
tion subjects have, how they’ve synthesized it, what principles they’ve used
to draw inferences, whether they have any reason to care, and so on. The
fact of the subject-relativity of justification for subjects is explained in terms
of the fi rst-personal perspective that subjects must take on in their cogni-
tive lives. We can see ourselves from the critical third-personal perspective,
but the reality is that we must, ultimately, do our reasoning, sort our com-
mitments, and figure out what’s right from where we are individually. We
give each other good advice (and sometimes, unwittingly, bad advice), we
provide educational opportunities, and we share information, but this is all
to the end of helping each other come to a point where we can decide for
ourselves. We are each individually held to account for our beliefs, we live
 The Regress Problem 23
these intellectual lives from the inside, and as a consequence, the norms for
such a life are ones that must be countenanced from the inside. Immanuel
Kant tells the story of an aspiring poet, wherein we see the demands of
autonomy:

[A] young poet cannot be brought to abandon his persuasion that his
poem is beautiful, neither by the judgment of his audience nor that by
his friends. . . . Only later on, when his power of judgment has been
sharpened by practice, will he voluntarily depart from his earlier judg-
ment. . . .Taste lays claim merely to autonomy; but to make other peo-
ple’s judgments the basis determining one’s own would be heteronomy
(1987, 282).

Kant is focused on judgments of taste here, but this point about aesthetic
judgment can be generalized to any of our cognitive holdings. We are sub-
jects, so we see things subjectively, and so the assessment of how we’ve
done with managing our commitments should be in terms of how we’ve
managed that subjectivity. Kant invokes the power of judgment, which is
articulated as the subject’s skill of directing judgment in light of the subject’s
concepts. The young poet’s justification for this judgment changes as his
skills of poetry craft advance. This is a matter of not just his views but his
capacities as well, expanding over time. He can imagine what the alterna-
tives are, and so his conceptions of how to continue or put something have
changed. The third-person story of his justification for his initial judgment,
told by his audience and his peers, if it is a story about what he should or
has a right to believe simply given their views, renders him heteronomous.
The third-personal story would be norms and commitments that, even if
they are right, contravene the poet’s integrity. If they are the conditions for
him having a right to claim the poem beautiful or otherwise, the poet must
be capable of claiming those rights. The same reasoning, I think, goes for
those of us who think that the skills of standing up for oneself and speaking
truth to power are the applied edges to epistemology. We are articulating
rules for people to think for themselves. Epistemic principles are rules that
arise from that practice of thinking for oneself, that constitute it, that we
can see, understand, and endorse from inside that practice. These are rules
of accountability we use when we manage our own intellectual lives and
hold others for criticism.

1.4. THE REGRESS PROBLEM: INFERENTIAL

SUPPORT AS A RELATION

The regress problem for justification seems only to need the PIJ for it to
be posed. The aspirationalist program, by adding further formally similar
requirements for justification, will certainly compound the regress problem.
24 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
I will begin by viewing the regress problem only through the lenses of the
more modest program for inferential justification, and then I will turn to
show, later, how aspirationalism has a compounded version of the problem.
However, despite the fact that the PIJ seems enough to pose the regress
problem, it is not yet sufficient to pose it completely. What is required is the
view that we do actually have justification and a few formal constraints the
inferential support relation could be.
I will present the regress problem in paradox (or as Rescher5 calls it,
aporetic) form, that is, as a set of inconsistent propositions. Let us begin
with the principle of inferential justification, that in order for a subject, S,
to hold some content, p, true to be justified, S must have some further rea-
son, q, that justifies p for S. So:

(1) PIJ: If S is justified in holding p, then there is some q that S is justi-

fied in holding, and q supports p for S.

The fi rst thing to note about the PIJ is that it has a potentially recursive
structure, as for every justified proposition in the antecedent, there must be
a further justified proposition in the consequent. This requires, then, that
the consequent go to the antecedent of another conditional posited by the
PIJ, and there then be another justified proposition for its consequent. Let
us call the series of supporting reasons for that fi rst commitment a chain of
reasons. Let C be a chain of reasons that supports p for S if C is a series of
reasons wherein:

(C1) each member of C is justified

(C2) each member of C is supported, and
(C3) each member supports the next member, except the ultimate
member, which supports p.

Romane Clark (1988, 374) rightly observed that the form of the principle
of inferential justification presents the terms for inferential justification as
a conditional of the following recursive form.

Recursive Form (RF): (x)(Fx → (∃y)(Fy & R(x,y)))

The crucial thing to see here is that the form of the PIJ sets us on the path to
regress, as for any Fx, there must be some Fy, which will require some Fz,
and so on. Because another object that satisfies the F-function is required
for any one case, recursion looms. But why not a short circle (or triangle)
where the following might be true of individual objects (a, b, and c) for
which F- and R- can be true?

RF-case 1: (i) Fa, Fb, Fc

(ii) R(a,b), R(b,c), R(c,a)
 The Regress Problem 25
Or perhaps, better, why not a case where ‘a’ and ‘b’ are actually different
names for the same object?

RF-case 2: (iii) Fa, Fb

(iv) R(a,b)
(v) a = b

Of course, we could rewrite lines iii–v as:

(iii*) Fa
(iv*) R(a,a)

These would be two cases where the chain of reasons justifying the ante-
cedent commitment is fi nite. No regresses there. We can see that RF-case 1
needn’t have 3 members, as it could very well have two, two hundred, and
so on (so long as condition (ii) for RF-case 1 has at least one member that
bears R to a member that otherwise would be further back in the chain
from that member). So, any numbered, n, place in a chain can loop back on
its supporting chain any number, m, of places back:

(ii*) R(n, n-1), R(n-1, n-2), . . . , R(n-m, n)

Additionally, we can see with RF-case 2 that the case of self-R-ing mem-
bers can work in conjunction with other series of R-relations. So RF-case 2
could be the end of a chain of R-relations.

RF-case 2*: (vi) Fa, Fb, Fc

(vii) R(a,b), R(b,c), R(c,c)

This sort of case is, like RF-case 1, a short series. But the series can be
lengthened in similar fashion to RF-case 1’s (ii*), where object b here can
be replaced by any number, n, of F-objects and R-relations, so long as they
fit the form designated by RF, so:

(vi*) Fa, Fn, Fn-1, . . . , Fn-m, Fc

(vii*) R(a,n), R(n, n-1), . . . , R(n-m, c), R(c,c)

We can see, then, that RF alone does not give us a regress. First, of course,
we need an antecedent for the conditional. So:

(2) S is justified in holding that p.

In RF form, this premise would simply be ‘(∃x)(Fx)’ or ‘Fa,’ which would

then necessitate a chain of F-objects and R-relations between them. So why,
with the PIJ, can’t we get cases like RF-case 1 and RF-case 2? Why must the
26 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
PIJ set us on the road to regress? An answer is that inferential support is a
special relation, one that, though not defined by these structural features,
is nevertheless constrained by them. Take, again, the way I have character-
ized the R-relation between commitments as support. There are a handful
of formal constraints on how this relation between commitments can be
manifested.
First, it seems that cognitive support is not reflexive—beliefs do not jus-
tify themselves. What is required to be justified is to have a reason for the
belief, not just the belief. And so, in RF-form, the requirement can be stated
in two ways. The fi rst is the strong RF form of it:

Strong irreflexivity: ~(∃x)(R(x,x))

Though this reflects the intuition that beliefs don’t support themselves, this
may be too exclusive. There may be beliefs that are self-supporting, but that
support they provide themselves is not the requisite support for justifica-
tion. And so a weaker RF version of irreflexivity:

Weak irreflexivity: (x)[(Fx & R(x,x)) → (∃y)(Fy & (R(x,y) & ~(y=x))]

With our eye to the PIJ, we can present the irreflexivity proposition about
inferential support in strong or weak form:

(3-strong): There are no self-supporting commitments.

(3-weak): If S is justified in holding p and p is self-supporting, there
must be some other commitment, q, S is justified in holding and
that supports p.

One reason why the support requirement for justification inclines us toward
irreflexivity, strongly or weakly, is that support is a causal metaphor. Often
talk of justification invokes architectural vocabulary, and so one builds or
constructs a case with hopes that it holds up and bolsters one’s commit-
ments. The thought is that roofs don’t hold themselves up (and neither, by
the way, do foundations). The metaphor is, however, indicative of a value
of inferential justification. The support required for the PIJ is part of this
aspiration for justification to be something we can make explicit and hold
ourselves to account for when we sort the things worthy of our assent.
When we ask a why believe that? question we are looking not only to the
causal history of how some proposition, p, got sorted into the worthy of
assent list, but what about p is a reason to sort it that way. In these cases, it
seems that just restating p is inappropriate, because the question was why
to assent to it in the fi rst place. First, note that if we allow answers to a
why p? question to be in because p form, our best way of sorting and our
most effective means of holding ourselves and others to account about them
 The Regress Problem 27
would be formally circumvented. Self-support is something about which we
should be suspicious, not just for the causal reasons the support metaphor
enjoins, but also for the reasons of account that makes justification and
valuing it worthwhile. This is not to say, on the weak version, that there are
no self-supporting commitments, but rather that self-support is too weak
or not the kind of support relation to provide the support requisite for jus-
tification.
The second important presumption behind the regress worries with the
PIJ is that support is a transitive relation. Again, support as a causal relation
is transitive; so, the metaphor will function as a heuristic to start. Take the
old Dr. Seuss story Yertle the Turtle. King Yertle is up on top of the stack of
turtles to see (and thereby rule) all he can see. Jake the turtle, hundreds of
turtles down from king Yertle, burps. He thereby shakes the whole tower,
and down goes Yertle. Jake, despite the fact that Yertle could barely even
see him way down there, supported Yertle. And when that support failed
at the bottom, the support failed at the top. Architectural extensions of the
metaphor, again, bolster this talk with justification, and again to invoke
foundations, they hold up the whole house—the roof may not touch the
foundations, but were the foundation faulty, down goes the roof. We can
capture the transitivity of justification in RF-form with the following:

Transitivity: (x)(y)(z)[(R(x,y) & R(y,z)) → (R(x,z))]

And we can present it with an eye to the PIJ as:

(4) If S’s commitment to p is supported by S’s commitment to q and

S’s commitment to q is supported by S’s commitment to s, then S’s
commitment to p is supported by S’s commitment to s.

Again, accountability demands that if a justifying story has a failure at

some point in the chain of reasons, that failure is inherited down the line.
This is the reason why fi nding unjustified assumptions is so significant—
the reasoning from them may be impeccable, but without something to
say in favor of them over the competition, the case falls apart. A further
function that transitivity has on the accountability edge of justification is
that once we’ve added supporting commitments earlier in the chain to the
list of propositions worthy of assent, these prior justified commitments
play a limiting role on what’s to be added later. That some proposition
fits well with what’s on our list may be a reason to accept it, but that it is
inconsistent with what is on our list of prior acceptances, that is not just
a case that the support fails, that it is a case that supports accepting its
negation. So transitivity plays a dual role for justification. The fi rst role
is a formal way of stating that failure of justification earlier in the chain
yields justification failure down the chain. The second role is that what is
28 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
earlier in the chain plays a limiting role on what may be added later down
the chain. There may be ampliative judgments that go beyond what’s pro-
vided in the chain, but the further judgments may not contradict what’s
come earlier.
There are some concerns about transitivity that need to be addressed
before we proceed, however. Oliver Black (1988) presents two counterex-
amples to transitivity, and they have served as the touchstone for later con-
cerns with the requirement (cf. Post 1996 and Post and Turner 2000). We
will have to address Black’s case before we proceed. Black’s fi rst case is that
S considered three propositions:

Black Case I:
P1: Paul is a logician who has forgotten Zorn’s Lemma.
P2: Paul is a logician.
P3: Paul can state Zorn’s Lemma (1988, 432).

S may start with P1, and thereby have a reason for P2 by disaggregation. P1
supports P2. With P2, S may reason: any logician worth his (we are talking
about Paul) salt knows Zorn’s Lemma; so, Paul can state the lemma. So, S
may infer P3 from P2, because P2 supports P3. Uh oh, S just reasoned from
P1, which has Paul not being able to state the lemma, to P3, which has him
being able to. P1 most certainly does not support P3, but on transitivity, it
supposedly would follow.
Black’s second counterexample is a series of inductive inferences from
the following distribution of objects in classes:

Figure 1.1 Black Case II.

 The Regress Problem 29
Our subject, S, given this distribution, and being justified in believing
that a specific x is in A, comes to survey the following:

P4: x is in A
P5: x is in B
P6: x is in C

We can see, like with the fi rst case, that S may reason that P4 is a good
reason to accept P5, as 3 to 1, x is also in the overlap with B. Now that S
accepts P5, S can see that there is a good reason to accept P6, as 3 to 1, x is
in C. S likes these odds, but, again, uh oh. S has reasoned from x being in A
(which has no C’s) to x being in C (which has no A’s). On Black’s presenta-
tion, given transitivity, S has reasoned in the two cases as follows:

Black Case I: P1 supports P2, and P2 supports P3; so, P1 supports P3.
Black Case II: P4 supports P5, and P5 supports P6; so, P4 supports P6.

The problem is that given the antecedent justification of P1 and P4 and the
truth of the antecedents, the conclusions should be acceptable, but they are
not. So, Black reasons that the conditional that yields them, namely, the
principle of transitivity, must be false.
The problem is that these cases run afoul of the limiting function that
the transitivity principle places on further inferential support. One of the
premises, as given, is false. Let us start with Black Case I. S’s first commit-
ment should play a limiting role on what further support it can provide, and
cases inconsistent with it are no longer supported. A quick critical recon-
struction of S’s reasoning should show this. S starts with P1—an aggregate
proposition that Paul is a logician and that he’s forgotten Zorn’s Lemma.
S disaggregates P1 to yield P2. So far, so good. But S’s connection between
P2 and P3 is not justified, because S is also committed to P1, which entails
P3’s falsity. Ceteris paribus P2 does support P3, but all is not paribus here,
as S holds that Paul is a special defeated case of support. And so, a better
way for S to reason, given transitivity, would be:

If P1 supports P2 and P2 supports P3, then P1 supports P3

P1 does not support P3
So either ‘P1 supports P2’ or ‘P2 supports P3’ is false
P1 supports P2
So ‘P2 supports P3’ is false.

It is because of transitivity and the justification S has for P1 that S shouldn’t

infer that Paul can state the lemma. Transitivity is not just a requirement on
heritability of support, but it is a requirement that further inferences do not
run contrary to the prior commitments that provide their support.
30 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
The same goes for Black Case II. S’s reasoning, given the requirements of
limiting, would be that P4 supports P5, as most of S’s objects also belong to
B. But once S looks beyond the A-B overlap with P6, S has contravened P4.
P4 not only does not support P6; it entails P6’s falsity. And in these cases, S
should reason in similar fashion as S did with Black Case I, earlier. Again,
because we have a special case of x, given P4, P5 follows, but what P5 can
support is limited by P4. S is on the hook with justifying stories not just for
the support between each successive connection, but the support provided
later in the chain cannot contradict what was earlier. Instead of Black cases
being counterexamples to the principle of transitivity, Black cases show the
necessity of the constraints transitivity places on chains of support. Transi-
tivity is a formal requirement that we keep our stories straight.
From the principles of (3) irreflexivity and (4) transitivity, it is clear that
justification is not symmetrical. The requirement of asymmetry would be
in RF form expressed strongly as follows:

Strong asymmetry: (x)(y)[R(x,y) → ~R(y,x)]

We can reason our way to strong asymmetry from the requirements of tran-
sitivity and nonreflexivity. Let there be some object a and some b such that:
R(a,b) & R(b,a). Transitivity yields R(a,a), which is prohibited by strong
irreflexivity. On weak irreflexivity, that would be allowed, but such self-
support would be prohibited from being x’s only source of support. And
so, for good measure, we may present a correlately weaker version of asym-
metry:

Weak asymmetry:
(x)(y)[((Fx & R(x,y) & R(y,x)) → (∃z)(Fz & R(x,z) & ~(z=(x V y)))]

That is, like with weak irreflexivity, reflexive and symmetric support are not
outlawed, but those relations are not themselves the requisite support condi-
tions for justification. Mutual support is a good thing, I think, and it seems
reasonable that it can enhance the reasons to believe a series of propositions,
but those propositions need independent reasons on their behalf to hold them
in the first place. And so, the principle of asymmetry:

(5) In order for S to be justified in holding that p, even if p and another

of S’s commitments, q, are mutually supporting, p must have inde-
pendent support from some other commitment, r, that S is justified
in holding.

Again, neither this requirement nor the irreflexivity requirement outlaw

reflexive or symmetric support, but only that such support, if it is to play a
role in supporting a commitment, do so in concert with other serial forms
of support.
 The Regress Problem 31
The question returns, now. Why are RF-case 1 and RF-case 2 not solu-
tions to the regress that looms with the combination with (1) and (2)? The
answer is that they run afoul of the principle of nonreflexivity. Here is
how. With RF-case 1, we have a short circle of relations: R(a,b), R(b,c),
and R(c,a) in (ii). Transitivity yields R(a,c), and then R(a,a), which is not a
requisite condition for Fa. With the expanded field of n-many intermediar-
ies between a and the commitment a supports in a’s C-chain, we need apply
transitivity n-1 many times to yield R(a,a) from (ii*).
With RF-case 2, no matter how long the supporting C-chain, whether
it be only one step with (iii* and iv*) or with m-number of steps with (vi*)
and (vii*), these cases run afoul of nonreflexivity. Again, (iii* and iv*) do
so immediately. From (vii*), we can derive in m+1 successive applications
of transitivity:

(vii**) R(a,c), R(c,c)

But given (3), the asymmetry requirement, c cannot be the end of the story.
If c is going to provide the necessary R-relation for a to be F, then c must
bear R to some further object that is not c. Again, R(c,c) may be true, but
R(c,c) cannot be the end of the line of R-relations if they provide what is
requisite for Fa.
We can make the transition back over to justification and inferential sup-
port talk, now, to state these findings. The fi rst point is a principle of non-
circularity for justifying support. Let C be a chain of reasons supporting S.
I had stipulated earlier that C needed to have a few formal requirements:
(C1) each member is justified, (C2) all members are supported, and (C3)
each member supports the next member. Given these new formal require-
ments on the relation of inferential support, irreflexivity, asymmetry, and
transitivity, the chain C must have some further features:

(C4) If there are self-supporting members of C, these members are

also supported by other members.
(C5) If any member, p, of the chain supports a member, q, that
plays a role in p’s support, then the chain must have some
other reason, r, that independently supports p or q.

The regress now looms large, given the conditions constraining support
requisite for justification. Suppose S holds that p, and q supports p, r sup-
ports q, and so on. S’s chain of reasons, C, if it is to provide the support for
S’s holding that p, must have no endpoint; it must be infinitely long. Were S
to have some commitment, x, in C, and were x to support itself (mediately,
through a circle, or immediately by being ‘self-supporting’), S would nev-
ertheless have to have some further independent, justified, and supporting
reason for any x. The regress looms, and it seems to defeat S’s justification
for any p.
32 Epistemology and the Regress Problem
Romane Clark (1988) holds that we have a reductio because the cur-
rent formal requirements on support are contradictory. On the one hand,
we get the regress by supplying (2). S is justified in holding that p. So (2)
is unconditionally true. In RF form, Fa. But now, note that the regress of
support relations necessary for S to be justified makes it so that “there is
no independent proof” for this, and it makes Fa “only conditionally” true
(1988, 373). And so, Clark holds we have a contradiction.
But is that a contradiction? First, the conditional assessment that Fa
and the categorical assertion that Fa are consistent. No contradiction there
(Gratton 1997, 218). Second, note that if we’ve supplied the antecedent to
the RF-conditional, then we have said that there is some x such that Fx,
and the RF-conditional requires that for any Fx, x must be a member of an
infi nite series of R-related F-objects. So, again, let Fa be the case at issue.
The object a, if Fa is true, is a member of that series. That the series is
infinite may conditionalize our assessments that Fa only in a sense (in that
we will never overtly complete the series, if we look at it member by mem-
ber, traverse every R-relation), but it is not conditional in another sense, in
that object a is a member of the infi nite series or not. Only the latter is the
requirement for Fa, not the former.
So far, though, it doesn’t seem we have a problem. But Clark’s point
can be reconstructed, so that it really does yield a contradiction. Clark’s
thought is that only a fi nite series of R-relations can make x uncondition-
ally F. So for any Fx, there must be a fi nite series of R-relations for x. And
so, for justification’s support, the thought is:

(6) If S is justified in holding that p, then S’s chain of supporting

reasons, C, for p is fi nite.

Now we have a problem. I will survey and rebut the case for (6) in the next
chapter, and in the next section, we will see that the commitment admits of
a variety of strengths, but a few brief words should be said in its favor here.
First is a simply pragmatic observation: a theory of justification worth hav-
ing should give us some useful advice for knocking about in the world and
talking it out with others, and a fi nite structure is certainly preferable for
those ends. In fact, not just a finite but also a feasible structure of justifica-
tion is what’s needed for people who’ve got diapers to change, bills to pay,
and so on. Second, it looks, as Clark correctly observed, like justification-
assessment is infi nitely conditional, if not forever postponed. That’s not a
contradiction, but it’s certainly worthy of consternation.

1.5 THE REGRESS PROBLEM: JUSTIFICATION’S VALUE

In the previous section, I showed that the regress problem is constituted

by the tension between the PIJ, the asymmetry and transitivity of infer-
ential support, and the thought that a chain of supporting reasons should
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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 3. Kapitel.
Seit Friesens Ankunft auf dem Freihofe waren nun schon einige
Wochen vergangen, und die Ernte war im vollen Gange. Von
frühesten Morgen ab war Max draußen auf den Feldern, wohin ihn
zuweilen Friesen begleitete. Die Freihoferin leitete trotz ihres Alters
noch alle weiblichen Arbeiten auf dem Gute, und ihre Tätigkeit
wurde in den Erntetagen stark beansprucht. Am Frühstückstische
trafen sich deshalb immer nur Elisabeth und Friesen, während die
Mittagsmahlzeit alle vereinigte. Nach dem Abendessen blieb der
kleine Kreis noch ein Stündchen plaudernd sitzen, und Friesen hatte
oft Gelegenheit, der Freihoferin knappes und treffendes Urteil zu
bewundern. Ihr scharfer Verstand fand immer das Richtige, und ein
Phrasenmacher hätte ihr gegenüber schweren Stand gehabt, da sie
seine Rede augenblicklich und schonungslos zerpflückt hätte.
Im Vordergrund des öffentlichen Interesses stand zur damaligen
Zeit erklärlicherweise die politische Lage Europas. Die
vorangegangenen Jahrzehnte hatten ja genug Stoff geliefert. Von
den Eltern waren die glänzenden Waffentaten Preußens unter
seinem großen König den Kindern überliefert worden, und das
jetzige Geschlecht hatte die schrecklichen Tage der Pariser
Revolution gesehen, nach denen die ganze gebildete Welt das
Wachsen des jungen Korsen betrachtete. Anfangs konnte man wohl
ein Lächeln nicht unterdrücken, wenn man von dem Jüngling
vernahm, der in der französischen Hauptstadt die oberste Gewalt
besaß. Wie viele waren ihm in den letzten Jahren in dieser Stellung
nicht vorangegangen, und wie lange würde es dauern, bis auch ihn
das Schicksal herunterwarf und er klanglos jenen nachfolgte.
Dann wieder horchte man auf, wie es hieß, daß er, zur
Unterdrückung des Pariser Aufstandes der Königstreuen berufen,
keine Beschwichtigungsreden an die Aufständischen gehalten,
sondern sie ohne Wimpernzucken hätte niederkartätschen lassen.
Mit wachsendem Interesse sah man auf den
siebenundzwanzigjährigen, kühnen Obergeneral, der trotz der
trostlosen Verhältnisse, die die Revolution in seinem Lande
zurückgelassen hatte, ein Heer zusammenraffte und diese völlig
mutlosen Truppen in kurzer Zeit sich derartig ergeben machen und
für den Krieg so zu entflammen wußte, daß sie jeder Gefahr
spotteten. Der Soldat wuchs unter solcher Leitung und vertraute
blind auf seinen Führer.
Dieser fiel nunmehr in Italien ein und schlug in rascher
Aufeinanderfolge mehrere auf den Schlachtfeldern ergraute
Feldherren, die sich an der Spitze ihrer kampfgeübten Truppen ihm
entgegenstellten. Infolgedessen wurde der Einfluß, den dieser
Bonaparte als erster Konsul in Paris ausübte, immer größer.
Und als dann nach wenigen Jahren der Sieger von Marengo und
Hohenlinden sich selbst krönte und als Napoleon der Erste zum
Kaiser der Franzosen ausgerufen wurde, da empfanden es die Völker
Europas, daß der Zwerg, der noch vor einem Jahrzehnt ihre Spottlust
erregt hatte, zu einem gewaltigen Riesen herangewachsen war. Man
traute seiner Friedfertigkeit nicht, und im nördlichen Deutschland
sah man mit gemischten Gefühlen und untätig zu, wie der
unfehlbare Eroberer, über Russen und Oesterreicher zugleich, bei
Austerlitz einen seiner glänzendsten Siege erfocht, und Schmach und
Schmerz beschlich die deutsche Mannesbrust, wie das alte deutsche
Reich, dessen gewaltiger Bau den wildesten Stürmen eines
Jahrtausends getrotzt hatte, in Trümmer ging.
Eine Bangigkeit überfiel die vom Kriege noch nicht heimgesuchten
deutschen Staaten, – die verhängnisvolle Ruhe vor einem
Gewittersturm. Und dann kam jener unselige Oktobertag, an dem
die Nation Friedrichs des Großen, das starke, das stolze Preußen tief
gedemütigt wurde.
Die darauffolgenden Jahre hatten dann nichts als Tod und
Verwüstung gebracht. Jetzt schrieb man das Jahr 1811. Was würde
wohl noch kommen? Wieviel Schmerzliches, wie viel Erniedrigung
barg die Zukunft noch in ihrem Schoße?
Max vertrat die Meinung, daß Sachsen mit den bestehenden
Verhältnissen, obwohl sie auch vieles zu wünschen übrig ließen,
immerhin noch zufrieden sein könne, denn das Land hätte Napoleon
doch für manches zu danken. Er hatte sein Bündnis nicht
zurückgewiesen und es zum Königreich gemacht. Und dann: durfte
der König den Kaiser nicht seinen Freund nennen?
Die Freihoferin hingegen verwarf diese Ansicht. Das am Boden
liegend Preußen war ein Bruderstaat, war deutsch. Von Napoleon
konnte Sachsen nicht dauernd Gutes erhoffen, er war und blieb ein
Franzose, ein Feind. Was halfen Versprechen, wohl auch Geschenke,
wie dieses Herzogtum Warschau, das, richtig besehen, nur das
Unglück des Landes vergrößerte. Alle seine Beteuerungen
freundschaftlicher Gefühle seien eitel Dunst, drüben aber winke eine
Hand, die man nicht verschmähen dürfe, die Hand des
blutverwandten Stammes. Freilich, wie eine Änderung zum guten
herbeigeführt werden könne, wußte sie nicht. Wie konnte man beim
Anblick dieses mit schweren Gewitterwolken behangenen politischen
Himmels auch hoffen; kein freundlicher Stern drang durch das
dunkle Gewölk.
Aber des Krieges war es für lange Zeit genug, darin waren alle
einig.

* *
*

Friesen schlenderte am Bache entlang, der infolge der

andauernden Sommerhitze fast versiecht war. Nur ein schmaler
Streifen Wassers, in einer Rinne in der Mitte des Bettes, hatte sich
noch erhalten, und kein Fremder hätte vermutet, daß dieses
unschuldige Wässerchen zuzeiten ein wildschäumender Bach werden
konnte, der alles mit fortriß, was sich ihm in den Weg stellte und
selbst schon Menschenleben gefordert hatte.
 Friesen war wieder einmal allein; Max konnte ihm in der jetzigen
Zeit unmöglich Gesellschaft leisten. Oftmals vertrieb er sich die
Stunden mit Elisabeth im Spiel, – anders konnte er die Unterhaltung
mit ihr nicht nennen. Sie liefen mit einander um die Wette, sprangen
im hohen Grase herum, oder zogen ihre Schuhe von den Füßen und
liefen in das seichte Wasser.
Jeden Tag hatte Elisabeth neue Fragen an ihn zu stellen; ihre
Wißbegierde nach dem Leben in der Stadt war unerschöpflich.
Zuweilen traf es sich, daß sie etwas von dem, was Friesen ihr am
Tage vorher erzählt, trotz emsigen Grübelns nicht richtig verstanden
hatte und deshalb eine neue Erklärung erbat.
Aber bald trug es sich zu, daß Friesen öfters fragte als sie. Das
Fehlen einer tieferen Kenntnis der Natur in ihrem mannigfachen
Kleide wurde ihm erst jetzt so richtig klar. Elisabeth hatte diese
schwache Seite an ihm mit lebhafter Befriedigung entdeckt und war
sehr stolz, daß sie klüger war als der kluge Stadtherr. Und wie gut
sie ihm das geheimnisvolle Weben anschaulich machen konnte!
Denn dieses Kind hatte in dem großen Buche der Natur mit vielem
Erfolg gelesen. Ihre Kenntnis der Pflanzen, der Insekten, war
verblüffend. Mit erstaunlicher Sicherheit beschrieb und suchte sie
selten vorkommende Gräser und machte ihn auf kaum bemerkbare
Unterschiede in dem Bau einzelner Blüten aufmerksam. Wenn
Friesen manchmal einen leisen Zweifel über die Richtigkeit ihrer
Belehrung aussprach, so war ihr erstes Wort »die Mutter«, die sie
das alles gelehrt hatte, und von deren Unfehlbarkeit sie überzeugt
war. Aber seitdem Friesen eines Tages errötend gestehen mußte,
daß er die Nadeln der Kiefer von denen der Fichte nicht
unterscheiden könne, wagte er es nicht mehr, ihr zu widersprechen.
Sie war durch diese Unkenntnis derart überrascht gewesen, daß sie
nicht einmal ein Lächeln fand, sondern ihm einen Blick tiefsten
Bedauerns zuwarf, als sei ihr bange um sein gesundes geistiges
Vermögen. Eine Entschuldigung dieser bewiesenen Schwäche ließ sie
nicht gelten. Selbst die schüchterne Einwendung sprach nicht für
ihn, daß ihm keine Zeit zur Betrachtung geblieben sei, wenn er mit
eigenen Händen so manche junge Kiefer in das auflodernde
Lagerfeuer geschoben, oder wenn ihm eine starke Fichte Schutz vor
den heranfliegenden feindlichen Kugeln gewährt habe.
Elisabeth wies seine Rechtfertigungen schonungslos zurück und
meinte, daß sie es nie begreifen würde, wie man ein Stück Holz ins
Feuer werfen könne, ohne dabei zu wissen, welcher Art es sei, oder
daß man sich hinter einen Baum stelle und nicht einmal dessen
Namen kenne.
Diese und ähnliche Vorhaltungen leuchteten Friesen zwar nicht
recht ein, aber er wagte auch keinen Einspruch mehr.
Mit heißen Wangen, die der Eifer erröten ließ, lehrte sie ihm das
Schauen und Beobachten. Sie verfolgten mit einander das Wachsen
des Halmes, das Werden und Aufbrechen der Knospe und das
Schwellen und Treiben der Frucht. Dann wieder führte sie ihn mit
blitzenden Augen, an der Hand hinter sich her ziehend, durch das
Gebüsch zu Vogelnestern, in denen niedliche, gefleckte Eier lagen,
oder die junge Brut piepsend ihre nackten Hälse reckte und die
hungrigen Schnäbel weit aufsperrte.
Jeden Vogelruf sollte er kennen; unermüdlich nannte sie ihm den
Namen des Vogels, dessen Gesang sie eben gehört hatten. Zuweilen
ahmte sie das Gezwitscher nach, und er mußte raten. Dann wieder
rief sie den Namen eines der gefiederten Sänger des Waldes, und
Friesen hatte, so gut es gehen wollte, mit dessen Gesange zu
antworten.
Bei allen diesen Unterweisungen lag auf des Mädchens lieblichem
Gesicht der altkluge Ausdruck, der ihr so vortrefflich stand, und von
dem es bis zum Lachen doch nur einer ganz kleinen Bewegung der
Gesichtsmuskeln bedurfte. Lange konnte sie sich auch nicht
beherrschen, dann begann sie selbst wieder zu fragen, oder neckte
ihn. Und, – hui, flogen beide um die Wette unter den Bäumen dahin.
Aber heute war Friesen wieder einmal allein. Elisabeth war, wie so
manch liebes Mal, verschwunden, und er wußte sie oben auf dem
Schlosse.
 Langsam war Friesen bis zu dem kunstlosen Stege geschritten, der
über den Bach führte und aus einem langen Brett bestand, das mit
seinen Enden hüben und drüben auf dem steinigen Uferrand auflag.
Er ging langsam und vorsichtig hinüber, denn die Brücke bog sich
unter der Last und drohte jeden Unvorsichtigen hinab in den Bach zu
werfen.
Auf dieser Seite des Baches war er noch nicht gewesen. Er ging
weiter und betrat einen kleinen Buchenwald, der sich in der
Flußniederung hinzog. Es waren lauter alte, herrliche Bäume, die
hier standen.
Friesen lief unter dem Laubdach hin, zuweilen an einem dichten
Brombeergebüsch stehen bleibend und nach frühreifen Früchten
suchend. Dann warf er sich in das schwellende Moos, das wie ein
dunkelbraunes Sammetpolster unter den Bäumen ausgebreitet war.
Eine lange Weile blieb er so liegen. Ueber ihm wiegten die Bäume
ihre Kronen, durch die an einigen Stellen der blaue Himmel
hindurchsah. Dann kam ein leichter Windstoß, und die Äste
rauschten stärker durcheinander.
So gefiel es ihm, – diese wohltuende Einsamkeit war Balsam, der
die Wunde in seinem Herzen kühlte.
Endlich sprang er wieder auf und ging nach dem Stege zurück. In
Gedanken versunken und die Augen gesenkt, schritt er dahin. Da
war es ihm, als wenn er Rascheln von Laub wie unter menschlichen
Tritten gehört habe, und fast gleichzeitig klang ein unterdrücktes
Kichern.
Friesen sah sich erstaunt um und bemerkte in kurzer Entfernung
seitwärts des Weges, am Fuße einer mächtigen Buche, zwei
Frauengestalten, die ebenfalls geruht haben mochten und die sein
Näherkommen aufgescheucht hatte.
In der kleineren von beiden erkannte er Elisabeth. Von ihr war
auch zweifellos das unterdrückte Lachen ausgegangen, denn ihr
Gesicht verriet noch zu deutlich die Freude, die sie empfand, ihn
überrascht zu haben. Friesen fand kaum Zeit, ihr zuzunicken. Sein
Blick war zu dem anderen Mädchen geglitten, dessen Arm Elisabeth
umschlungen hielt. Es war eine hohe, herrlich gebildete
Frauengestalt. Aus dem feingeschnittenen Gesicht blickte ein
sinnendes Augenpaar herüber, über dem dunkle Brauen ihre
hochgewölbten Bogen gezeichnet hatten. Auf dem Kopfe trug sie
einen dichten Kranz brauner Zöpfe. Die Erscheinung dieses
Mädchens bot ein Bild von Anmut und entzückender
Frauenschönheit.
Friesen zögerte einen Augenblick mit dem Weiterschreiten, und er
schwankte, ob er sich den Mädchen nähern solle. Dann aber kam
ihm blitzschnell das Verständnis für die Lage, und die Rücksicht auf
seine Gastgeber bewog ihn, weiterzugehen. Er grüßte tief hinüber
und bemerkte, daß das schöne Mädchen errötete und seinen Gruß
durch leises Neigen des Kopfes erwiderte.
Nach wenigen Minuten befand er sich wieder auf dem jenseitigen
Ufer. Da hörte er hinter sich eilende Tritte und wie er sich umsah,
erkannte er Elisabeth, die gerade den Steg überschritt.
»Herr von Friesen?« rief sie von weitem, »laufen Sie doch nicht so
schnell. Ich will mit Ihnen nach Hause gehen.«
Er blieb stehen und sah ihr lächelnd entgegen. Jetzt kam sie
angesprungen. Ihre stark geröteten Wangen traten aus dem
bleichen Gesicht scharf hervor. Als sie ihn erreicht hatte, legte
Elisabeth vertraulich ihren Arm in den seinen, wie sie es oft tat,
wenn sie im Walde nebeneinander gingen. Ihre Brust arbeitete
infolge des schnellen Laufes heftig, und sie mußte lange nach Atem
ringen, bevor sie sprechen konnte.
»Das war meine Freundin Maria,« sagte sie stolz, »Maria von
Tiefenbach.«
»Ach, Ihre Cousine,« entgegnete Friesen achtlos, »die oben im
Schlosse wohnt?«
Ueberrascht hob Elisabeth den Kopf und sah ihm in das Gesicht.
»Aber, Herr von Friesen, woher kennen Sie denn Maria?«
 »Ich habe sie noch nie gesehen, aber schon vor ihr gehört,«
antwortete er. »Max hat mir erzählt, daß es ein Schloßfräulein gäbe,
mit dem unser kleiner Wildfang vom Freihofe gute Freundschaft
halte.«
Das Mädchen hörte seine Neckerei nicht. Ihr Gesicht zeigte einen
gespannten Ausdruck, als sie rasch fortfuhr:
»Das hat Ihnen mein Bruder erzählt? Ach bitte, Herr von Friesen,
sprechen Sie mehr davon. Was hat er alles von Maria gesagt?«
Eine Blutwelle war dem Mädchen ins Gesicht getreten, aus dem
Friesen zwei bittende Augen entgegenleuchteten.
Der junge Mann war betroffen. Er bereute seine Worte, die die
Erregung des Mädchens hervorgerufen hatten. Von dem, was Max
ihm erzählt hatte, durfte er natürlich nicht plaudern, da wäre er ja
auf das im Freihofe sorgfältig gemiedene Thema gekommen. Da
hatte ihm sein Scherzen einen argen Streich gespielt, den er sofort
wieder gut machen mußte.
So harmlos wie es ihm nur gelingen wollte, antwortete er:
»Max hat mir beiläufig erzählt, daß seine Familie mit den
Tiefenbachs vom Schlosse verwandt sei, und daß der alte Herr dort
oben nur ein einziges Töchterchen habe. Das waren ungefähr seine
Worte. So, und nun habe ich gesagt, was ich weiß, und ich hoffe,
daß eine gewisse neugierige Fragerin befriedigt sein wird.«
Verstohlen blickte er zur Seite und sah einen Zug tiefer
Enttäuschung auf Elisabeths Gesicht lagern, während die Augen, die
soeben noch voll Erwartung auf ihm geruht hatten, gedankenvoll in
die Weite schweiften. Es schien ihm, als wenn das Mädchen seinen
Worten nicht recht glaube, und nur ihr hohes Zartgefühl sie davon
zurückhalte, weiter in ihn zu dringen.
Eine Zeitlang gingen sie schweigsam nebeneinander. Dann aber
wünschte Friesen das Mädchen auf andere Gedanken zu bringen,
und er ahmte mit großer Sorgfalt den Ruf des Kuckucks nach. Dieser
Versuch mußte jedoch nicht besonders glücklich ausgefallen sein,
denn er bemerkte, wie sich die regungslosen Züge des schmalen
Gesichtes wieder belebten, wie es dann in den Mundwinkeln zu
zucken begann, und wie zuletzt seine Nachbarin in herzliches Lachen
ausbrach. Friesen aber war froh, das Mädchen wieder heiter zu
sehen, denn Ernst stand ihrem Gesicht wirklich nicht. Im nächsten
Augenblick hatte sie wieder vergessen, was ihr Herz noch soeben
schwer bedrückte. Und fröhlich plaudernd trafen sie als Letzte zum
Mittagessen ein.

* *
*

An den folgenden Tagen war Friesen in Maxens Begleitung

wiederholt ausgeritten. Max hatte im Frühjahr ein paar schöne
Wagenpferde gekauft, die er auch zugeritten hatte, sodaß sie,
obgleich es zwei schwere Gäule waren, recht gut unter dem Sattel
gingen. Da der Braune noch immer etwas lahmte, und die beiden
Pferde in diesen Tagen selten vor die Kutsche kamen, benutzte er sie
abwechselnd auf seinen Ausritten.
Zuweilen begleitete auch Elisabeth die Herren zu Pferde. Sie besaß
einen prachtvollen Apfelschimmel, ein hochgewachsenes, junges
Tier, mit langer, weißer Mähne und wallendem Schweife. Vor zwei
Jahren hatte Max das Tier aus Holstein mitgebracht, und in kurzer
Zeit war das Mädchen mit der Reitkunst so vertraut, daß ihre
Leistungen alle überraschten.
Friesen gewahrte mit Erstaunen die Sicherheit, mit der Elisabeth
den Schimmel ritt. Das kluge Tier schien stolz zu sein unter seiner
jungen Reiterin; es spitzte verständnisvoll die Ohren und selbst der
leichteste Zungenschlag entging ihm nicht. Wenn aber seine Herrin,
sich herabbeugend, freundlich zu ihm sprach und ihm den
glänzenden Hals klopfte, da warf es schäumend den Kopf auf und
nieder und stampfte lebhaft den Boden.
Auf einem dieser Spazierritte lernte Friesen einen jungen Bauern
aus dem Dorfe kennen, namens Konrad Hartmann, den starke
Freundschaftsbande an Max fesselten, und der, wie Friesen schnell
bemerkte, sich einer besonderen Wertschätzung durch die
Freihoferin rühmen durfte.
Konrad Hartmann besaß einen kleinen Hof, der am Ende des
Dorfes lag, und in dessen Nähe, der mündlichen Überlieferung nach,
auf einem Hügel in früheren Zeiten ein Galgen gestanden haben
sollte. Jetzt war davon freilich nichts mehr zu sehen, aber der Name
war geblieben, denn das Hartmannsche Anwesen hieß allgemein der
Hof am Rabenstein und sein Besitzer kurzweg der Rabensteiner.
Konrad ritt einen struppigen Fuchshengst, ein feuriges Tier
edelster Rasse, das ihm vor einigen Jahren ein französischer Offizier
halb geschenkt hatte, dem es darauf ankam, daß das kranke Pferd
recht gute Pflege erhielt. Unter Konrads sorgfältiger Wartung hatte
sich das Tier langsam wieder erholt, und nun hing der junge Mann,
der weithin den Ruf eines ausgezeichneten Reiters genoß, an dem
Hengst mit geradezu brüderlicher Liebe.
Konrad Hartmann war ein Feuerkopf und so etwa gerade das
Gegenteil des in seinen Entschließungen schwerfälligen Max. Mit
Staunen hörte Friesen den einfachen Bauernsohn über die
politischen Verhältnisse treffende Worte sprechen. Sein Urteil über
die zweideutige Rolle, die Sachsen seit der Katastrophe von Jena
spielte, war vielleicht zu hart und für die Leiter der Geschicke des
Volkes schonungslos. Aber von seinen Plänen über die Befreiung von
den unwürdigen Fesseln, die das Land mit dem Kaiser verbanden,
ging ein Hauch glühender Begeisterung aus und alle Gefahr nicht
achtender Liebe zu seinem Vaterland. Leider litten diese Pläne, wie
sich Friesen gestand, an dem großen Fehler, daß sie niemals
verwirklicht werden konnten, denn Alldeutschland lag gedemütigt
am Boden, und der Stern des gewaltigen Eroberers hatte noch nie so
glänzend gestrahlt als in diesen Tagen. Dennoch lauschte Friesen
gern und mit Aufmerksamkeit Konrads Worten, und es stieg in ihm
dunkel die Meinung herauf, daß es solcher Männer, wie diesen, leider
nicht genug gäbe unter dem sächsischen Volk.
 * *
*

Der Sommer war vorüber, der Winter stellte sich ein, – und Friesen
weilte noch immer auf dem Freihof und half den ihm so rasch
liebgewordenen Menschen in dem einsamen, verschneiten Dorfe die
langen Winterabende kürzen. Nun war auch Weihnachten vorüber.
Das alte Jahr tauchte hinab in die Ewigkeit und ungewiß, was es
bringen würde, schaute man dem neuen entgegen.
Da wurde plötzlich die Harmonie der ruhig dahinfließenden Tage
auf dem Freihofe rauh unterbrochen: Friesen erhielt die schriftliche
Ordre, sich unverzüglich bei seinem Regimente zu melden. Von den
besten Wünschen und Hoffnungen auf frohes Wiedersehen in nicht
allzuferner Zeit begleitet, nahm er schweren Herzens von der trauten
Stätte und ihren lieben Bewohnern Abschied.
Noch ahnte niemand die schreckenvolle Zeit, der man
entgegenging. Aber nur allzubald sollte sich der gnädig verhüllende
Schleier der Zukunft lüften, denn von neuem und diesmal
unheilvoller denn je, klangen die Kriegstrompeten durch die
deutschen Gauen.
Napoleons grenzenloser Hochmut geizte nach neuem Ruhm. Die
Taten eines Alexanders, eines Karls des Großen standen ihm
beständig vor der Seele und trieben seinen empfindlichen Ehrgeiz bis
ins Maßlose. Die Völker zwischen dem Rhein und der Oder lagen zu
seinen Füßen, und ihre Herrscher buhlten um seine Gunst. Nur
Rußland stand noch aufrecht und spottete der Eroberungsgelüste
des Kaisers. Das Verhältnis zwischen ihm und dem Kaiser Alexander
war seit dem Wiener Frieden immer kälter, zuletzt feindselig
geworden, bis endlich Rußlands Forderungen, Napoleon solle die
französischen Besatzungen aus Pommern und Preußen zurückziehen,
die Kriegserklärung folgte.
Ganz Europa hallte wider von den ungeheuern Rüstungen der
beiden mächtigen Gegner.
 Der Kaiser hatte schon seit länger als einem Jahre mit den
Vorbereitungen für diesen Krieg im Geheimen begonnen. Wie er nie
aufgehört hatte, Preußen zu mißtrauen, sah er dem Zusammenstoße
mit Rußland wie etwas Unvermeidlichem entgegen. Sein erster
Schritt war gewesen, die Besserung der sächsischen
Heeresverhältnisse bei dem Könige von Sachsen auf das eifrigste zu
betreiben. Und eine gründliche Umgestaltung war hier nach den
Erfahrungen der letzten Feldzüge allerdings ein unabweisbares
Bedürfnis. Vor allem galt es, eine Menge veralteter Einrichtungen zu
beseitigen und das Heer von der ihm anhaftenden Greisenhaftigkeit
zu befreien. Eine Anzahl alter, unfähiger Generale wurde
verabschiedet, und mehrere jüngere, befähigte Stabsoffiziere, die die
napoleonische Schule gebildet hatte, rückten mit einer für die
damaligen Verhältnisse unerhörten Schnelligkeit auf.
Das weitere Verlangen des Kaisers ging dahin, in Sachsen einen
großen befestigten Platz anzulegen, wozu Torgau ausersehen wurde.
Der leitende Minister der auswärtigen Politik Sachsens war zu
jener Zeit Senfft von Pilsach, der keineswegs wie sein Vorgänger zu
den knechtischen Bewunderern Napoleons gehörte. Ja, er haßte ihn
und trug sich mit Gedanken an eine Abschüttelung des französischen
Jochs. Mit welch segensreichem Erfolge seine Tätigkeit hätte gekrönt
sein können, wie viel Kummer und Verlust an Menschen, Land und
Eigentum Sachsen erspart geblieben wäre, wenn die Pläne dieses
Mannes nicht von einer Niederwerfung Preußens ausgegangen
wären, auf dessen Trümmern er die Aufrichtung einer sächsisch-
polnischen Macht im Herzen Europas erträumte. In einer
unbegreiflichen Verblendung wähnte er Preußen auf alle Zeiten
verloren, und aus diesem Grunde liefen seine Gedanken, anstatt mit
Preußen Verbindung zu suchen, darauf hinaus, seinen Niedergang zu
beschleunigen.
Um den Osten zu stärken, hatte Napoleon ungeheure
Waffenvorräte in dem Großherzogtum Warschau angehäuft und die
polnischen Reiterregimenter umgewandelt und verstärkt, um im Falle
des Krieges die lästigen Kosakenschwärme von dem französischen
Heere fernzuhalten. Weiter war die Bildung von Nationalgarden, die
Verstärkung von Festungen und deren Armierung an der russischen
Grenze sowie die Bereithaltung großer Mundvorräte in den
Magazinen anbefohlen. Schon in der Mitte des Jahres 1810 war in
Dresden ein französischer Stabsoffizier erschienen, um zu horchen,
ob der Kaiser in jedem Falle auf die sächsische Armee rechnen
könne.
Die Stimmung in Sachsen war beim Ausbruche des Krieges nicht
überall dieselbe. Das verjüngte, trefflich geschulte Heer freilich war
von kriegerischem Geiste beseelt und vertraute blind dem Genius
des Kaisers. Der Erfolg des Feldzuges erschien im voraus gesichert,
und der glückliche Ausgang versprach hohen Gewinn für das Land.
Die Bevölkerung teilte jedoch diese hoffnungsvolle Meinung nicht.
Der Bauer war des unaufhörlichen Kriegführens müde und sehnte
sich nach bleibender Ruhe. Die vorangegangenen Feldzüge hatten
zuviel Blut gefordert und das Land ausgesogen und bis an den Rand
des Ruins gebracht. Aber das sächsische Volk war gewöhnt, seinem
Fürsten zu folgen und ihm sein ganzes Vertrauen zu schenken.
Deshalb legte man auch diesmal wieder das Geschick des Landes
zuversichtlich in die Hände des geliebten Königs.
Und so folgte Sachsen dem mächtigen Strom, der es in einen der
schrecklichsten Kriege, den die Weltgeschichte kennt, hineinriß, und
dessen Folgen für das unglückliche Land so verhängnisvoll werden
sollten.
 4. Kapitel.
In den ersten Tagen des Monats Mai 1812 benachrichtigte
Napoleon König Friedrich August durch einen Ordonnanzoffizier von
seiner baldigen Ankunft in Dresden. Am 13. Mai überschritt der
Kaiser in Begleitung seiner Gemahlin und umgeben von einem
glänzenden Hofstaat in der Nähe von Plauen die sächsische Grenze,
wo ihm der vom König entsandte Oberkammerherr von Friesen und
General von Gersdorff namens ihres Monarchen ehrfurchtsvoll
empfingen. Der König und die Königin selbst erwarteten den hohen
Gast in Freiberg. Infolge der zahlreichen Huldigungen, die dem
Kaiser auf der Fahrt von den Behörden dargebracht wurden,
verzögerte sich seine Ankunft, und die Folge war, daß der König sich
am Abend kaum zur Ruhe begeben mochte und nur mit vieler Mühe
bewogen werden konnte, sich einige Stunden Schlafes zu gönnen.
Gegen Morgen traf das Kaiserpaar in dem Städtchen ein, dessen
Bewohner während der ganzen Nacht auf den Beinen geblieben
waren. Die ersten Schimmer des anbrechenden Frührots mischten
sich mit der festlichen Beleuchtung der Stadt.
Am Abend dieses Tages hielt der Kaiser unter dem Geläute der
Glocken seinen Einzug in Dresden. Die märchenhafte Beleuchtung
dieser schönen Stadt und des lieblichen Elbtales während der
Kaisertage übertraf selbst alle derartigen Schauspiele, womit der
verschwenderische, prunkliebende Kurfürst August der Starke seine
Residenz einst verwöhnt hatte.
Außer dem Kaiser und der Kaiserin von Österreich hatten sich
zahlreiche Fürstlichkeiten, hohe Offiziere und Staatsmänner in der
sächsischen Landeshauptstadt eingefunden. Glänzende Feste
wurden veranstaltet, von denen jedes eine rauschende Huldigung
des Allgewaltigen zum Mittelpunkt hatte. Es waren Tage der
verschwenderischsten Prachtentfaltung, des höchsten Glanzes.
 Die deutschen Fürsten übertrafen sich gegenseitig in der Begierde,
einen Gunstbeweis von dem Kaiser zu erhalten, und wenn er einen
von ihnen ausgezeichnet hatte, sah dieser stolz auf die, die sich
noch immer um einen gnädigen Blick des Gefürchteten bemühten.
Napoleon hatte den Gipfel seiner Macht erklommen.
Nur ein einziger von Deutschlands Fürsten ließ sich von dem
Strahlen des Kaiserlichen Gestirns nicht blenden; es war der König
von Preußen, der gebeugt und düster durch die Versammlung
schritt. König Friedrich August von Sachsen wich seinem Blick aus,
und mit Ängstlichkeit mied ihn der Kreis der Fürsten. Der Kaiser
bemerkte dies mit freudiger Genugtuung, die aber bald großem
Verdrusse Raum gab, als er hörte, welch teilnehmende Hochachtung
die Dresdner Bevölkerung dem preußischem König entgegenbrachte,
während ihn, den Kaiser, überall nur Neugierde und das dumpfe
Schweigen des Grolls empfing.
Am 29. Mai verließ Napoleon Sachsens Hauptstadt, um das
Kommando der Armee zu übernehmen. König Friedrich August war,
um den Abschied von dem erhabenen Gast nicht zu versäumen, so
besorgt, daß er nicht wagte, zu Bett zu gehen, sondern die Nacht im
Stuhle verbrachte. Zuletzt hätte er den richtigen Augenblick beinah
noch versäumt, doch gelang es ihm, dem Kaiser noch bei seinem
Hinabschreiten auf der Treppe mit flüchtigen Worten Lebewohl zu
sagen.
Eine verzehrende Unruhe lastete wie ein schwerer Druck auf dem
sächsischen Volke. Der Sommer verging, der Herbst nahte und
entschwand, und bald brauste der Winter mit fürchterlicher Strenge
ins Land, und man gedachte mit banger Besorgnis derjenigen, die
weit entfernt von der Heimat in den unendlichen Schneefeldern
Rußlands ihr Leben für die Laune des verhaßten Despoten wagen
mußten.
Anfänglich hatte man genügend Nachrichten von der Armee
erhalten: die Kunden der Schlacht bei Smolensk und bald darauf des
fürchterlichen Gemetzels von Borodino bewiesen, daß die Russen
sich ihrer Angreifer wie Rasende erwehrten. Dann verstummten alle
Nachrichten lange Zeit, und ihr Ausbleiben verschärfte die Qualen,
die die daheim erlitten. Plötzlich leuchtete es an dem dunkeln
Himmel wieder auf. Ein blendender Blitzstrahl durchzuckte ganz
Europa: die Kunde des Brandes von Moskau drang herüber. Aber die
Sorge um den Einzelnen war kaum noch wach, in langen,
kummervollen Nächten hatte man sich schon für den Verlust
getröstet, mit der Hoffnung, daß dem teuern Sohn ein schmerzvoller
Tod erspart geblieben sein möge. Nur schwach glimmte noch in
mancher Menschenbrust der Funke der Hoffnung auf ein irdisches
Wiedersehen.
Nach dieser Nachricht war wieder Grabesstille. Die ungeheure
Armee, deren lärmender Durchzug tagelang gedauert hatte, mit
ihren tausend Kanonen und dem nicht endenwollenden Troß, war
verschwunden, als wenn sie der Erdboden verschlungen hätte.
Schmerzvolles Erwarten, atemloses Aufhorchen, banges Fragen, – –
nichts, keine Nachricht. Alles still, als wenn tiefster Friede im Lande
herrsche! Nur die östlichen Winde trugen etwas herüber wie
Leichengeruch, als ob sie über einen unermeßlich großen Friedhof
mit offenen Gräbern gestrichen wären, und aus ihrem Heulen und
Brausen klang es wie erstickte Schmerzenslaute und gestammelte
Gebete.
So ging man dem Weihnachtsfeste des Jahres 1812, dem heiligen
Feste der Liebe und des Friedens entgegen.
Wie hatten doch immer zu dieser Zeit die Herzen höher
geschlagen! Noch im vorigen Jahre hatte die Freude alle Gemüter
bewegt. Wenn auch genug des Herzeleids die Welt erfüllte, und die
dunkle Zukunft viel Schweres in sich bergen mochte, man war
vereint, fühlte sich glücklich und war zufrieden mit dem Wenigen,
was das gefräßige Kriegsungeheuer einem gelassen hatte.
Aber in diesem Jahre wollte die Herzen kein wonniges Gefühl
erwärmen, keine freudige Erwartung erhob die Gemüter.
 Alle schlichen scheu umher. Man vermied es, den Nachbar, den
Freund zu trösten, in der Besorgnis, den eigenen Kummer zu
wecken, zu vergrößern. Ja man wagte zuletzt nicht mehr, zu fragen,
aus tötlicher Angst, daß das Entsetzliche sich offenbaren könne.
Ein fürchterlicher Alp lastete auf jeder Menschenbrust, und die
Seelen durchzitterte tiefster Schmerz.
Da lief plötzlich ein Raunen durch die Gassen der sächsischen
Lande. Zuerst ging das Gerücht wie ein Windhauch. Jeder lieh ihm
das Ohr und verstummte jäh vor der entsetzlichen Kunde, unter der
sich das Herz krümmte. Dann wurde das Gerücht lebhafter, laut,
wuchs zum Lärm an und donnerte endlich wie eine Lawine vor dem
Orkan über das hartgeprüfte Volk. Die schwache Hoffnung, die sich
im Innern der Stärksten tief verborgen noch erhalten hatte, erlosch
in einem einzigen Augenblick. Tötlicher Schrecken lähmte die Glieder
und raubte dem Geist den letzten Rest seiner Spannkraft: die
riesengroße, stolze Armee war vernichtet! Alles was das russische
Blei verschont, der Säbel der Kosaken nicht niedergehauen, der
Huftritt ihrer Rosse nicht zerstampft, bei dem Überschreiten des
zugefrorenen und halb aufgetauten Dniepr nicht umgekommen, oder
bei dem gräßlichen Übergang über die Beresina nicht zerdrückt,
zertreten, zwischen den Eisschollen zerquetscht worden war, – lag
erstarrt auf den endlosen Eisgefilden. Wie durch ein Wunder, hieß es
weiter, hätten sich wenige Tausend gerettet, deren Rückzug sich so
gestaltete, daß er in der Geschichte der Kriegsleiden seinesgleichen
nicht haben sollte.
Wie ein Feuerstrom ging es von Herz zu Herz; die Unterschiede in
den Rangstufen der Menschen schienen aufgehoben. Alle waren nur
von dem einen Gedanken beseelt, den zurückkehrenden
Unglücklichen die Hände zu reichen. Aber der Wunsch war stärker
als die Tat. Große Vorbereitungen konnten nicht getroffen werden,
die Hast ließ keiner Überlegung Zeit, und die Kopflosigkeit zerstörte
oft wieder das schon bedacht Geschehene. Der Schrecken hatte die
Gemüter verwirrt.
Und dann kamen die Trümmer der Armee Napoleons!
 Der Hunger hatte die des Weges nur noch Wankenden fürchterlich
abgemagert. Unter der schlaffen, farblosen Haut ragten die
Backenknochen, das Bein der Nase aus dem hohlen Gesicht
schauerlich hervor, und das Haar hing wirr von der Stirn herab. Die
Lippen dieser Unglücklichen waren ausgetrocknet, und aus den
eingefallenen, matten Augen drang gänzliche Teilnahmlosigkeit,
grinste stiller Wahnsinn. Jeder Schein militärischen Ansehens war
von ihnen geschwunden. Ihre Füße waren oft nur mit Lumpen oder
Stroh umwickelt, die spärlichen Kleider in Fetzen, und um die Blöße
des Körpers notdürftig zu bedecken, hatte mancher um die
fleischlosen Schultern nur den Rest eines alten Mantels oder ein
erbetteltes Tuch geschlungen.
So kamen sie daher, ohne Waffen und kaum fähig sich weiter zu
schleppen, das Zeichen furchtbarer Leiden auf der Stirn und dort, wo
sie einkehrten, ansteckende Krankheiten verbreitend. Und doch
waren es die, die kaum vor Jahresfrist in stolzer Siegeszuversicht
ausgezogen waren.
Die Garde du Corps bestand nur noch aus 7 Offizieren und 4
Mann, und von den frischen, kecken Zastrows kehrten 13 Offiziere
und 3 Gemeine in das Vaterland zurück.
Und er, der unter dem gewaltigen Schlage des Himmels hätte
zusammenbrechen müssen, prahlte in Dresden Sachsens König
gegenüber mit seinen unerschöpflichen Hilfsquellen und setzte nach
kurzem Aufenthalt, einen Gassenhauer trällernd, in einem schnell auf
Schlittenkufen gestellten Wagen der Königin am 17. Dezember seine
Weiterreise über Leipzig nach Paris unerkannt fort.

* *
*

Am 9. Januar 1813 trafen die ersten dieser Unglücklichen in

Leipzig ein. Ein Teil von ihnen, der auf südlicheren Straßen
marschiert war, berührte auch Rehefeld. Fast in jedem Dorfe, das
diese Trupps passierten, mußten einige der Schwächsten
zurückbleiben. Die Bevölkerung wetteiferte in der Aufnahme und
Pflege der Soldaten, ohne darauf zu sehen, ob sie einen Deutschen
oder einen Franzosen im Hause hatten. Alle waren sie Unglückliche!
Mit dem Beginn des neuen Jahres hatte sich reicher Schneefall
eingestellt, dem starke und anhaltende Kälte folgte. Die
Jammergestalten konnten sich kaum noch weiterschleppen, denn
ringsum waren die Straßen verschneit, und der scharfe Nord drang
schneidend durch die dünnen, zerrissenen Kleider der Ärmsten. Auch
die Mutigsten von ihnen wollten jetzt nicht mehr weiter und nahmen
mit Freudentränen die Aufforderung zum Bleiben ohne Zögern an.
Fast jedes Haus in Rehefeld hatte unter seinem Dache einen der
Fremdlinge, und selbst die Ärmsten der Bewohner teilten mit ihrem
Gaste freudig die kärgliche Nahrung. Aber es bedurfte nicht vielem,
um die Soldaten zufrieden zu sehen. Die Ruhe tat den von langem
Marschieren im Schnee wundgewordenen Füßen wohl, und es
widerfuhr ihnen schon ein großes Glück, wenn sie nach langen
Qualen und Entbehrungen die starren Glieder auf weichem Lager
und in wohltuender Wärme ausstrecken konnten.
Da brach, wenige Tage nach ihrem Eintreffen, unter den
Angekommenen eine Krankheit aus, die sich rasch verbreitete und
von der auch einige der Dorfbewohner ergriffen wurden.
Die Krankheitserscheinungen waren ernst. Man riet deshalb nicht
lange, sondern schickte einen Wagen nach Leipzig hinein, um
ärztliche Hilfe zu holen. Noch an demselben Abend kamen zwei
Militärärzte an, die sofort mit der Untersuchung der Kranken
begannen. Unermüdlich gingen sie von Haus zu Haus; überall
begegneten ihnen die gleichen Krankheitserscheinungen. Nach
kurzer Beratung erklärten die Ärzte dem sie begleitenden
Ortsvorstand, daß die fiebernden Soldaten an Typhus erkrankt seien
und nicht länger in den Häusern bleiben dürften, sondern daß für sie
ein paar große Räume als Spital herzurichten seien. In seiner
Bestürzung eilte der alte Mann auf den Freihof, wo er am ehesten
Rat und Beistand zu finden hoffte.
 Die Tiefenbachs waren noch wach. Sie beherbergten selbst drei
Soldaten, die ebenfalls von der Krankheit befallen waren und in
heftigem Fieber lagen.
Max ließ sofort seine Leute wecken und sandte sie im Dorfe
herum, um einige der Entschlossensten herbeizuholen.
Nach Verlauf einer halben Stunde waren sieben oder acht Bauern
versammelt. Die Ärzte, die die angebotene Unterkunft auf dem
Freihofe angenommen hatten, beschrieben die Anforderungen, die
an die Krankenzimmer gestellt werden müßten und gaben
Unterweisungen für die Überführung der Kranken.
In kurzer Zeit einigten sich die Männer dahin, daß der große
Tanzsaal des Gasthofes und das dicht daneben stehende Schulhaus
für die Kranken eingerichtet werden sollten. Der Lehrer und seine
Familie mußten während dieser Zeit bei einem Bauern Unterkunft
bekommen. Sollten diese Räume nicht ausreichen, so würde man
den Freiherrn um Aufnahme einiger Kranken im Schloß bitten.
Am andern Morgen, als die Sonne blutigrot am Himmel heraufzog,
und ihre Strahlen die eisige Kälte noch fühlbarer machten, begann
man damit, die zur Aufnahme der Kranken ausersehenen Räume
herzurichten. Von allen Seiten brachten die Leute das im Hause
Entbehrliche herangetragen; dieser die Bretter eines alten,
wurmstichigen Bettes, die viele Jahre verstaubt und vergessen auf
dem Dachboden gestanden hatten, jener einen Strohsack, der rasch
mit weichem Haferstroh frisch gefüllt worden war. Ein Dritter gab
zwei wollene Decken, wieder einer ein Deckbett, das noch warm war,
da es in der verflossenen Nacht ihm selbst gedient hatte, und zwei
Kissen dazu. Ein anderer erklärte, daß er und sein Weib unter
Decken nicht frieren würden, und er gab alles, was sie an Betten
besaßen. Die Hofbesitzer und die großen Häusler trugen fast jeder
ein vollständiges Bett herbei, und vom Freihof kam ein
zweispänniger hochaufgepackter Wagen, von dem man vier
Bettstellen und ebensoviel Strohsäcke und Federbetten ablud. Keiner
wollte zurückstehen von der Erfüllung des Liebeswerkes und wenn
es der Ärmste war. Etwas hatte jeder, wars auch nur eine geringe
Gabe.
In wenigen Stunden waren die Räume soweit instand gesetzt, daß
man daran denken konnte, die kranken Soldaten aus den einzelnen
Häusern in ihr neues Heim zu schaffen.
Man zählte: dreiundzwanzig Kranke sollten es sein, und
neunundzwanzig Betten standen bereit. Gottlob! Soweit war alles
geglückt, das Hospital war fertig. Der Tanzsaal allein konnte zwölf
Kranke aufnehmen, und die übrigen fanden in den beiden
Gastzimmern daneben und im Schulzimmer Unterkunft.
Gegen Mittag brachte man die Kranken von allen Seiten heran. In
Decken und Betten gehüllt, wurden sie vorsichtig bis zum Gasthof
gefahren; aus den näher liegenden Häusern trugen sie die
Einwohner dahin.
Alles beteiligte sich daran. Die beiden Ärzte waren vorher emsig
von einem Haus in das andere geeilt und hatten die letzten
Anordnungen für den Transport gegeben. Nun standen sie inmitten
der frischen Betten und überwachten das sorgsame Hineinlegen der
Kranken. Ein Neugeborenes kann nicht zärtlicher und liebevoller von
seiner Mutter in den Arm genommen werden, wie mit den Soldaten
die Rehefelder verfuhren, und die Kinder trugen den mit ihrer Bürde
behutsam Dahinschreitenden die wenigen und armseligen
Kleidungsstücke nach.
Das Mitleid mit den Unglücklichen hatte die ganze
Einwohnerschaft ergriffen, und man suchte in der Betätigung für die
Notleidenden einander zu übertreffen.
Unter denen, die sich von den frühesten Morgenstunden ab um
das gute Gelingen des Werks bemüht hatten war auch Max.
Nachdem er mit seiner Mutter kurz besprochen hatte, was sie an
Betten und Gerätschaften beisteuern konnten, war er hinüber nach
Zehmen geritten. Die Militärärzte hatten erklärt, daß sie nicht länger
bleiben könnten, da ihre Hilfe in dem mit Kranken überfüllten Leipzig
nur allzu dringend gebraucht würde. Aus diesem Grunde war er zu
dem in diesem Dorfe wohnenden Arzt geeilt, der freilich schon seit
Jahren infolge hohen Alters seinen Beruf nicht mehr regelmäßig
ausübte, um ihn um seinen Beistand für die jetzige Zeit der großen
Not zu bitten. Er fand den Greis im Bette liegend und krank, so daß
dieser ihm nur ein paar Ratschläge mit auf den Weg geben konnte
und in Aussicht stellte, nach einigen Tagen selbst einmal nach den
Kranken zu sehen.
 5. Kapitel.
Als Max gegen Mittag zurückgekehrt war, hörte er, daß die
Kranken in dem schnell hergerichteten Spitale nunmehr glücklich
untergebracht seien.
Er konnte einen Ausdruck der Befriedigung darüber nicht
unterdrücken, und ein Gefühl der Beklemmung wich von ihm bei
dem Gedanken, daß die Einwohner Rehefelds der unmittelbaren
Gefahr der Ansteckung nicht mehr ausgesetzt wären.
Max ging nach dem Gasthof, da er wissen wollte wie es nun darin
aussah, ob man für die Zubereitung der Speisen für die Kranken
ausreichend gesorgt hatte und schließlich, ob genug Pflegerinnen
bestellt wären
Als er über den Platz vor dem Gasthof schritt, standen ein paar
Geschirre vor dem Hause. Die Pferde hatten die Krippen vor sich und
fraßen bedächtig, während die Besitzer in der Gaststube weilten. Im
Hausflur angekommen, unterschied er drinnen einige bekannte
Stimmen, unter denen er auch die des Gemeindevorstands erkannte,
der froh sein mochte, der größten Sorge ledig zu sein. Max schritt
auf die Tür zu, besann sich aber sofort eines anderen und wandte
sich wieder um. Langsam stieg er die Treppe hinauf, um sich vorher
die Unterbringung der Kranken anzusehen.
In dem geräumigen Saale waren an den beiden Längsseiten die
Betten mit geringen Abständen von einander aufgestellt, daß die
Kranken mit den Füßen nach dem in der Mitte entstandenen, breiten
Gang zu lagen. Die hölzernen Bettgestelle waren ungleich lang und
breit und die Bezüge verschiedentlich bunt gestreift oder gewürfelt,
wie sie die Bauern aus ihren Haushaltungen zusammengetragen
hatten. Einige der Kranken schliefen, andere lagen wachend in den
Kissen, und hier und da warf einer in starkem Fieber unruhig den
Kopf hin und her.
Drei Frauen gingen geräuschlos ab und zu oder bemühten sich um
die Kranken. Die erste, die Max am nächsten stand, war eine alte
Auszüglerin, die gewöhnlich im Dorfe die Kranken wartete, und in
einer andern erkannte er die Frau des Schullehrers. Die dritte kehrte
ihm den Rücken zu und beugte sich gerade tief auf das Bett eines
Fiebernden nieder und hielt diesem ein Glas Wasser an die Lippen.
Max wußte nicht, wer diese Pflegerin war, aber ihre Erscheinung
fesselte sofort seinen Blick, so daß er die Augen auf der
hochgewachsenen Gestalt ruhen ließ. Sie trug ein dunkelblaues, eng
anschließendes und ganz einfach gearbeitetes Wollkleid, und ihr
volles braunes Haar war mit einem weißen Leinenhäubchen bedeckt.
Er sann nach, wer die Unbekannte sei, aber keines der Mädchen im
Dorfe glich ihr.
Sein Verlangen, ihr ins Gesicht zu sehen, wuchs, als er bemerkte,
wie geschickt und zugleich schonend die Pflegerin den Kranken
aufrichtete, das Kopfkissen aufschüttelte und dann den alten
französische Soldaten wieder sorgfältig darauf bettete. Nun ging das
Mädchen von dem Bett weg und wandte sich um, und gleichzeitig
mit dieser Bewegung begegneten ihre Augen seinem Blicke.
Max war derart betroffen, daß er schweigend und wie angewurzelt
auf seinem Platze stand, und es wollte ihm selbst nicht gelingen,
seinen Blick von ihr zu wenden. Diese hätte er hier nicht vermutet,
und aus diesem Grunde konnte er seiner großen Verlegenheit nicht
so leicht Meister werden. Denn das Mädchen, dem er
gegenüberstand, und das unter seinem langen Blicke in leichte
Verwirrung geriet, war Maria von Tiefenbach.
Noch nie hatten sich die beiden so nahe gegenüber gestanden. Sie
waren fast unbewußt jederzeit von dem gleichen Wunsche beseelt
gewesen, eine nahe Begegnung zu vermeiden, und schon von
weitem hatten sie bisher beim Sichtbarwerden des andern
unverfänglich einen Seitenweg eingeschlagen. Und so war es
gekommen, daß ihnen ein dichtes Aneinandervorübergehen trotz der
engen Verhältnisse im Dorfe bis heute erspart geblieben war.
Max hatte die Abneigung gegen die Leute vom Schlosse mit der
Muttermilch eingesogen, und in späteren Jahren war es wieder die
Freihoferin gewesen, die dieses unbewußte Gefühl zu einem
bewußten und trotzigen Haß gegen die Verwandten vertieft hatte.
Wie die Mutter, sah auch er in den Schloßbewohnern herrische und
hochmütige Menschen, die den Zweig der Familie, der in das Dorf
hinabgestiegen war, verachtete, und von denen einer die teuere
Verstorbene beschimpft hatte. Deshalb war der junge Mann, als er
sich dem Mädchen unvermutet und zum ersten Male so nahe
gegenübersah, betroffen.
Blitzschnell erwog er, wie er jetzt am richtigsten zu handeln habe,
um die, beide beklemmende Situation zu beenden. Den Rücken
wenden und hinausgehen, das konnte er nicht, denn er war ja
gekommen, um sich zu erkundigen, ob es noch an etwas fehle, und
diese Absicht mußten die beiden anderen Pflegerinnen schon bei
seinem Eintreten erkannt haben. Dazu hatte er beim Verrichten des
ganzen Samariterwerkes allzusehr in vorderster Linie gestanden, und
vermutlich hatte der Gemeindevorstand die Frauen auch schon
angewiesen, sich an ihn zu wenden, wenn an etwas Mangel einträte.
Und dann müßte er alle Höflichkeit unbeachtet lassen, die man
fremden Menschen und selbst denen schuldig ist, deren Gesellschaft
man meidet. Sein rücksichtsloses Fortgehen würde die Jungfrau tief
verletzen.
Und was tat es denn überhaupt wenn er blieb? Standen sie beide
in diesem Augenblick nicht in einem höhern Dienste, in dem der
Nächstenliebe? Durfte er jetzt Zwist und Abneigung vorschützen, um
mit dem Mädchen nicht nebeneinander arbeiten zu müssen? Steht
die Pflicht zur Barmherzigkeit nicht so unendlich hoch, daß selbst
Feinde zusammen an ihr arbeiten dürfen? Er würde sich engherzig
und klein schelten und seiner Standpunkt als niedrig bezeichnen
müssen, wenn er hier auswich. Deshalb mußte er bleiben. Sein
innerer Mensch wurde nicht betroffen, der konnte der alte bleiben.
Aber die Kraft dem leidenden Nächsten zu widmen, auch unter
diesen unbequemen Umständen, forderte einfach seine Ehre.
Diese Gedanken, die in schnellem Fluge durch Maxens Seele
zogen, verrieten sich auf seinem Gesicht nur zu deutlich, daß das vor
ihm stehende Mädchen sie nicht hätte erraten müssen. Aber auch sie
kämpfte mit ihrer Verlegenheit.
Da überkam den jungen Mann plötzlich die Eingebung, daß er den
Anstand verletze, wenn er jetzt nicht das peinvolle Schweigen
breche. Langsam schritt er deshalb auf das Mädchen zu und indem
er sich bemühte, unbefangen zu bleiben, sagte er:
»Es ist ein schwerer Beruf, den Sie gewählt haben, aber viel Dank
wird Ihnen dafür werden.«
Sie schwieg eine kurze Weile, dann richtete sie ihre großen,
blauen Augen fest auf ihn und sagte mit wohllautender, tiefer
Stimme:
»Dem leidenden Nächsten zu helfen ist Menschenpflicht. Der beste
Lohn dafür ist die Befriedigung, die tief im Herzen quillt und die
froher macht als der Dank.«
»Sie haben recht,« erwiderte Max, »diesen Beweggrund soll auch
der Mensch für seine guten Taten haben, denn so hat es uns schon
der große Nazarener gelehrt. Aber haben Sie die Aufgabe, der Sie
sich freiwillig und gewiß mit vielem Eifer unterziehen wollen, auch
nicht unterschätzt? Dieser Beruf wird Anstrengungen und
Entbehrungen von Ihnen fordern, die Sie vielleicht nicht
voraussahen, und die fast die Kraft eines Mannes erfordern.«
»Lassen Sie das ruhig meine Sorge sein, Herr von Tiefenbach,«
fiel Maria ihm ins Wort, »ich bin von Jugend auf dazu angehalten,
mein Tun nicht unüberlegt zu beginnen. Aber weshalb zweifeln Sie
daran, daß ich nicht ebensogut wie andere Frauen imstande sein
werde, diesen Unglücklichen Trost und Hilfe zu gewähren? Zu
meinem Bedauern habe ich bis jetzt keine Gelegenheit gefunden,
meine Kraft in Dienste des Vaterlands zu gebrauchen und dies zu
einer Zeit, zu der es nicht genug hilfsbereite Hände geben kann.
Jetzt ist mir die Gelegenheit geworden, und wenn ich auch
tausendmal lieber diese Kranken gesund wüßte, so bin ich doch froh,
daß sie sich gerade hier befinden und ich mich ihrer annehmen
kann. Nach der Schwere der Bürde, die einem das Amt bringt, fragt
man nicht lange, frisch zugreifen und unerschrocken den
Schwierigkeiten, die sich in den Weg legen, entgegengehen, ist doch
immer das Richtige. Mag der Mann draußen auf dem Felde der Ehre
sein Alles einsetzen, uns Frauen soll er in Räumen wie diesen walten
lassen, damit auch wir Gelegenheit haben, unser Teil beizutragen zu
dem großen Werke. Wir sind dazu berufen, die geschlagenen
Wunden zu heilen und die Schmerzen zu lindern, die der
unerbittliche Krieg verursacht.«
Das Mädchen hatte die Worte in edelm Feuer gesprochen, und die
Begeisterung, die in ihr glühte, übergoß ihr schönes Gesicht mit
einer feinen Röte. Jetzt, nachdem sie geendet, fühlte sie, daß sie
vielleicht zu viel gesprochen hatte und fast in Erregung gekommen
war. Sie bereute ihre Worte und verstand es nicht, wie die
Begeisterung für ihr Vorhaben sie so mit sich fortgerissen hatte.
Max konnte nichts antworten, was hätte er dem Mädchen nach
diesen Worten auch sagen sollen. Überrascht stand er vor der
Jungfrau, bei der sich Schönheit mit Anmut und Klugheit mit Gemüt
vereinigten.
Maria hatte sich nach ihren Worten wieder abgewandt und war
zum Bett eines Kranken getreten, der mit heiserer Stimme zu trinken
verlangt hatte. Behutsam setzte sie ihm das Glas an die Lippen, das
er mit gierigen Zügen leerte.
Max wechselte mit den anderen Frauen noch ein paar Worte und
verließ dann den Saal. Nach den Worten des Fräuleins vom Schlosse
zu urteilen und nach dem, wie er sie hatte walten sehen, würde sie
eine vortreffliche Pflegerin sein. Wenn die beiden andern ihre
Aufgabe ebensogut erfüllten, dann waren die Kranken in den besten
Händen. Deshalb war es ein Gewinn für die Sache, daß sich das
Fräulein der Pflege angenommen hatte. Und doch wünschte Max das
Mädchen vom Krankensaale weit weg!
 Daß er denen vom Schloß nicht für immer so ausweichen konnte,
wie es ihm bisher gelungen war, damit hatte er schon gerechnet,
daß er aber so unerwartet mit einem von ihnen in Berührung treten
sollte, und noch dazu, wie er voraussah, öfters, das behagte ihm
nicht. Obendrein hatte dieses Mädchen etwas an sich, das ihn aus
seiner gleichmäßigen Ruhe bringen konnte. Und von neuem stand
ihm die Erscheinung vor Augen. Mit welchem Anstand sie ihr Haupt
zum Gegengruß geneigt hatte, und in welch ruhigem Gleichmaß sie
sprach. Noch jetzt, meinte er, hafte der Blick aus ihren großen Augen
auf ihm.
Ein paarmal während des Tages verfiel Max in tiefes Nachsinnen.
Unwillkürlich schweiften seine Gedanken von der Arbeit weg, und er
überraschte sich dabei, daß er die Hände müßig hielt und sich willig
der Erinnerung an die Begegnung überließ. Des Mädchens hohe
Gestalt, der lange Blick ihrer Augen die wohllautende Stimme und
endlich die Sicherheit, die aus ihren Worten klang, hatte einen
nachhaltigen Eindruck auf den jungen Mann ausgeübt. Er fühlte ein
fast unbezähmbares Verlangen, einen tiefern Blick in die Seele dieses
schönen Mädchens zu tun. Aber um dies zu erreichen, hätte er sich
ihr mehr nähern müssen, als es ihm, der Pflegerin inmitten ihrer
Kranken gegenüber, möglich war. Und das durfte er nicht!
Maria von Tiefenbach war seine Anverwandte, denn sie waren ja
Geschwisterkinder. Aber er durfte nicht vergessen, daß sich ein tiefer
Abgrund zwischen ihnen hinzog, über den hinweg nimmermehr eine
Brücke geschlagen werden konnte. So lange es die beiden Familien
vom Freihofe und vom Schlosse geben würde, so lange würde auch
die Kluft bestehen. Das war für alle Zeiten bestimmt, und niemand
durfte sich vermessen, an diesem Spruch zu rütteln. So hatte es sein
Großvater gewollt, nachdem der eigene, hochmütige Bruder die
Auserwählte seines Herzens beschimpft hatte. Des jungen Freihofers
empfindlicher Stolz bäumte sich hoch auf, wenn er an das schwere
Unrecht dachte, das seiner Großmutter von denen droben einst
zugefügt worden war.
 Und selbst dann, wenn es ihn mit unwiderstehlicher Macht zu dem
Fräulein hinziehen würde, – wie wäre es ihm möglich, vor seine
Mutter zu treten und ihr zu sagen, daß er wieder Freundschaft
schließen wolle mit den Leuten vom Schlosse? Würde er dergestalt
seine alte Mutter nicht verraten? Sie, die er mit der zärtlichsten Liebe
umgab, die ein Kind für seine Mutter nur empfinden kann! Freilich
lagen seine Gefühle nicht auf der Zunge, denn beider Naturen waren
hart und nicht für den offenen Austausch von Liebeszeichen
geschaffen. Aber wie es Max jeden Tag von neuem fühlte, daß ihr
rauhes Äußere nur die Glut ihrer mütterlichen Empfindungen für ihre
beiden Kinder verbarg, wußte er, daß die bedingungslose Ehrfurcht
und Unterwerfung vor ihr und die fast abgöttische Liebe zu seiner
Mutter die stärksten seiner Gefühle waren, die ihn jemals bewegen
konnten und die in seine Seele unlösbar hineingewoben waren.
Deshalb konnte von einer Annäherung zu den Verwandten niemals
die Rede sein, wenn nicht seine Mutter selbst den Wunsch dazu
aussprechen würde. Aber dieser Umschwung würde in ihrer Seele
nie eintreten. So glühender Haß erlischt nur mit dem Tode dessen,
der ihn mit sich herumträgt.
Und selbst wenn in seiner Mutter der Wunsch dazu rege würde,
dürfte sie es dennoch nie tun! Als sie vor Jahren ihm, dem Knaben,
die Feindschaft zu den Schloßleuten ins Herz gepflanzt, da hatte sie
ihm zuletzt anvertraut, gleichsam als wolle sie ein blutigrotes,
brennendes Siegel unter ihre Worte setzen, daß sie ihrem
sterbenden Vater unversöhnliche Feindschaft denen im Schlosse
gegenüber in die Rechte gelobt habe.
Aus allen diesen Gründen unterdrückte Max seinen Wunsch das
Fräulein näher kennen zu lernen. Vielleicht würde er, wenn es
geschah, nur einen Widerstreit seiner Empfindungen
heraufbeschwören, und es würde ihm dann gewiß schwerer werden
als heute, das so schnell erwachte Interesse für dieses
ungewöhnliche Mädchen wieder zu verlieren und den Eindruck zu
verwischen, den es auf ihn ausgeübt hatte.
 Während der folgenden Tage betrat Max wiederholt die
Krankenzimmer und mußte von neuem Gelegenheit nehmen, mit
Maria von Tiefenbach zu reden. Sie sprach unbefangen, ihre Stimme
dämpfend und begleitete ihre Worte mit ausdrucksvollen
Bewegungen der Hand. Was sie ihm über den Zustand der Kranken
zu berichten hatte, sagte sie in knappen Sätzen. Teilte sie ihm
Erfreuliches mit, so blieb sie dennoch ernst, nur in dem
aufleuchtenden Blick ihrer Augen konnte Max ihre Freude lesen. War
hingegen Schmerzliches zu berichten, so erriet er dies schon, bevor
sie begann, an ihren umflorten Augen. Sie vermied es ängstlich, sich
ihm gegenüber weich oder erfreut zu zeigen und schien ihm im
stillen dafür dankbar zu sein, daß er ihr weder tröstende, noch
Worte der Anerkennung sagte. Selbst als sie ihm eines Morgens
mitteilen mußte, daß ein junger bayerischer Dragoner, den sie, wie
er wußte, Tag und Nacht in unermüdlicher Sorgfalt gepflegt, und der
ihr durch die endlich herannahenden Zeichen seiner Genesung viel
Freude bereitet hatte, infolge eines plötzlichen Rückfalls in der
verflossenen Nacht gestorben war, fügte sie ihrer Meldung keine
weiteren Worte hinzu.
Max vermochte nicht sein Mitgefühl zu unterdrücken, das in ihm
emporkam, als er in diesen Augenblicken das Mädchen betrachtete.
Ihre Wangen waren von den ungewohnten Anstrengungen der
letzten Tage, besonders aber von den vielen Nachtwachen bleich
geworden, und ihre Haltung war die eines müden Menschen. Außer
den Anzeichen großer Abspannung lag auf ihrem Gesicht tiefe
Ergriffenheit. Er sah, wie sie sich fast Gewalt antun mußte, um bei
ihren Worten nicht in Tränen auszubrechen.
Mit wachsender Teilnahme stand Max dem Fräulein gegenüber,
denn er erriet, was in ihrem Innern vorging. Zu gleicher Zeit wußte
er aber auch, daß sein sehnliches Verlangen, einen Blick hinter das
ernste Antlitz dieses Mädchens zu tun, sich schon erfüllt hatte.
Da drang ihm plötzlich ein heißer Strom zum Herzen, den
zurückzudämmen er sich anfangs bemühte, um sich im nächsten
Augenblick aber dieser Weichheit in willenloser Freude hinzugeben.
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