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Essays in Ancient Epistemology
Essays in Ancient
Epistemology
GAIL FINE

1
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 13/4/2021, SPi

3
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To the memory of my mother
and
To Debbie and Darrell
 Contents

Preface and Acknowledgements ix

1. Introduction 1

PART I: PLATO AND [PLATO]

2. Does Socrates Claim to Know that He Knows Nothing? 33
3. Knowledge and True Belief in the Meno 63
4. The ‘Two Worlds’ Theory in the Phaedo 94
5. Epistêmê and Doxa, Knowledge and Belief, in the Phaedo 109
6. Recollection and Innatism in the Phaedo 134
7. Plato on the Grades of Perception: Theaetetus 184–186
and the Phaedo 155
8. Meno’s Paradox and the Sisyphus 189

PART II: ARISTOTLE

9. Aristotle on Knowledge 221
10. Aristotle’s Two Worlds: Knowledge and Belief in Posterior
Analytics 1.33 243

PART III: SEXTUS

11. Skeptical Dogmata: Outlines of Pyrrhonism I 13 265
12. Subjectivity, Ancient and Modern: The Cyrenaics, Sextus,
and Descartes 288
13. Descartes and Ancient Skepticism: Reheated Cabbage? 325
14. Sextus and External World Skepticism 356

References 391
Index Locorum 407
 Preface and Acknowledgements

This volume brings together thirteen of my essays on ancient epistemology, along

with a new, synoptic introduction. The earliest of the essays was published in
2000; the latest were still unpublished when I submitted this volume to the Press.
They are all reprinted here with minor changes. For example, there are occasional
slight variations in content. Some references have been corrected; and sometimes
transliterations are used where the originally-published version used Greek. For
various reasons, some material that was originally in the text is now in footnotes;
hence the footnote numbers in the essays as they appear here are sometimes
different from those in the essays as they originally appeared. The essays as they
were originally published differ in style, usually because the venues that published
them had different house styles. In this volume, some changes have been made so
as achieve more uniformity of style.
In the Introduction, I discuss some of the essays’ main themes and indicate how
the essays fit together. I also occasionally criticize what I say in one or another
essay; and sometimes I discuss literature that the essays discuss only very briefly or
not at all. However, I have not done either of these things systematically or in
detail. Nor does the Introduction defend my views in detail. It provides an
overview; details are reserved for the essays that follow.
The chapters that follow record various debts. But I should also like to record a
few particular acknowledgments here: to Peter Momtchiloff and Henry Clarke,
both of Oxford University Press, for help and encouragement at various stages; to
Peter Osorio for compiling the list of references and the index locorum; and, as
always, I owe more to Terry Irwin than I can say.
The essays printed here were originally published as follows below. They appear
here with the kind permission of the relevant publishers and/or editors.

Chapter 2. ‘Does Socrates Claim to Know that He Knows Nothing?,’ Oxford

Studies in Ancient Philosophy 35 (2008), 49–85. Oxford University Press.
Chapter 3. ‘Knowledge and True Belief in the Meno,’ Oxford Studies in Ancient
Philosophy 27 (2004), 41–81. Oxford University Press.
Chapter 4. ‘The “Two Worlds” Theory in the Phaedo,’ British Journal for the
History of Philosophy 24 (2016), 557–72. Reprinted by permission of the
publisher Taylor & Francis Ltd, http://www.tandfonline.com.
x   

Chapter 5. ‘Epistêmê and Doxa, Knowledge and True Belief, in the Phaedo,’ in
Fiona Leigh (ed.), Themes in Plato, Aristotle, and Hellenistic Philosophy, BICS
supplementary vol. (2021), 27–46. University of London Press.
Chapter 6. ‘Recollection and Innatism in the Phaedo,’ in G. Sermamoglou-
Soulmaidi and E. Keeling (eds.), Wisdom, Love, and Friendship in Ancient
Greek Philosophy: Essays in Honor of Daniel Devereux (Berlin: De Gruyter,
2020), 191–214.
Chapter 7. ‘Plato on the Grades of Perception: Theaetetus 184–186 and the
Phaedo,’ Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 53 (2017), 65–109. Oxford
University Press.
Chapter 8. ‘Meno’s Paradox and the Sisyphus,’ in G. Gurtler and W. Wians (eds.),
Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 28 (2013),
113–46. Brill.
Chapter 9. ‘Aristotle on Knowledge,’ Elenchos 14 (2010), 121–55. Bibliopolis.
Chapter 10. ‘Aristotle’s Two Worlds: Knowledge and Belief in Posterior Analytics
1.33,’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, New Series vol. 110 (2010),
323–46. Oxford University Press.
Chapter 11. ‘Sceptical Dogmata: Outlines of Pyrrhonism I 13,’ Methexis 13 (2000),
81–105. Editor: Professor Franco Trabbatoni.
Chapter 12. ‘Subjectivity, Ancient and Modern: The Cyrenaics, Sextus, and
Descartes,’ in J. Miller and B. Inwood (eds.), Hellenistic and Early Modern
Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 192–231.
Chapter 13. ‘Descartes and Ancient Scepticism: Reheated Cabbage?,’ Philosophical
Review, vol. 109, No. 2 (2000), 195–234. Reprinted by permission of Duke
University Press.
Chapter 14. ‘Sextus and External World Scepticism,’ Oxford Studies in Ancient
Philosophy 24 (2003), 341–85. Oxford University Press.
 1
Introduction

1.

The essays in this volume discuss ancient epistemology, especially in Plato, Aristotle,
and the Pyrrhonian skeptics. One central theme is cognitive conditions and their
contents.¹ In particular, how are epistêmê, doxa, dogma, and the corresponding
verbs, to be understood? Is epistêmê knowledge as it is conceived of nowadays?
Are doxa and dogma belief as it is conceived of nowadays? Consideration of such
questions should not be limited to the Greek words just mentioned. Since Greek has
a rich cognitive vocabulary, we should also consider other Greek words that are
sometimes translated as ‘knowledge,’ such as eidenai and gignôskein, as well as other
Greek words that are sometimes thought to indicate belief, such as hupolêpsis and
oiesthai. We should also consider what knowledge and belief are.
The first work in the Platonic corpus that engages with some of these issues is
the Apology, which I discuss in Chapter 2. Socrates is often thought to have said
that the only thing he knows is that he knows nothing. If he says this, and if ‘know’
is used univocally, he seems to contradict himself. For if he knows that he knows
nothing, he doesn’t know anything, contrary to his claim to know something (viz.,
that he knows nothing). On the other hand, if he doesn’t know anything, then he
can’t know that fact. For if he did, he would know something after all. Yet the view
that Socrates says that he knows that he knows nothing, though by no means
universal,² is widespread.³ In Chapter 2, I ask whether, in the Apology, Socrates
says, or implies, that he knows that he knows nothing in a way that involves self-
contradiction. I also consider the related but different question of whether he says
that he knows nothing, a claim that, unlike the claim to know that one knows
nothing, is not self-contradictory.⁴

¹ Cognitive conditions include states of knowing and believing, as when John knows, or believes,
that 2+2=4. Cognitive contents include what is believed and known, e.g. that 2+2=4.
² See e.g. C. C. W. Taylor, Socrates: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2nd ed., 2019), 44–50.
³ For one recent example, see S. Bakewell, How to Live (London: Chatto and Windus, 2010), 124. For
another, see H. Lagerlund, Skepticism in Philosophy (New York: Routledge, 2020), who says that
‘Socrates famously proclaimed that he knows that he does not know anything’ (2; cf. 26). I cite further
examples in Chapter 2.
⁴ One might argue that it implies a contradiction, since it is an assertion; and, according to one view,
if one asserts that p, one takes oneself to know that p. But that view of assertion is controversial; and
I suggest in Chapter 2 that Plato does not accept it.

Essays in Ancient Epistemology. Gail Fine, Oxford University Press (2021). © Gail Fine.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198746768.003.0001
2 

At Ap. 21b4–5, Socrates says:

For I am aware of being wise in nothing, great or small.

Egô gar dê oute mega oute smikron sunoida emautô(i) sophos ôn.

This passage isn’t explicitly self-contradictory, for it uses two different cognitive
phrases, sunoida emautô(i) and sophos ôn. However, the passage would be impli-
citly self-contradictory if these phrases were synonymous, or if to suneidenai
something implied being sophos with respect to it.⁵
However, to know something would not usually be thought sufficient for being
wise with respect to it.⁶ It would normally be thought to be more difficult to attain
wisdom than to attain just any old knowledge. If Socrates claims to know that he is
not wise, that does not imply a contradiction unless the knowledge he takes
himself to have is wisdom. But the Apology does not support that view. Indeed,
it is not even clear that suneidenai is being used for knowledge: the word can be
used for being aware of something in a way that falls short of knowing it. In
Chapter 2, I argue that Socrates is saying either that he knows that he is not wise
(where knowing something falls short of being wise with respect to it); or else that
he is aware that he is not wise (where being aware of something falls short of
knowing it). Neither claim involves or implies a contradiction.⁷
One might argue that if, in Ap. 21b4–5, Socrates claims to lack all wisdom, he
contradicts the oracle’s claim that no one is wiser than he is (21a) and that he is
wisest (21b). For the oracle doesn’t lie (21b). One solution is to say that Socrates
disclaims wisdom only before hearing what the oracle said; after hearing what it
said, he decides that he is wise after all. He doesn’t contradict himself, holding
both p and not p at the same time; rather, upon reflection he changes his mind.⁸
I defend a different solution, according to which, even after reflecting on what
the oracle said, Socrates continues to believe that he lacks all wisdom. This is
consistent with what the oracle says. For Socrates can be wiser than others without
any of them being wise, just as one person can be wealthier than another without

⁵ This is how Richard Kraut understands the passage. He translates ‘sunoida’ as ‘know,’ and says that
‘you cannot know that you are not wise even in a small way; for to know something is to have a small
amount of wisdom’: Socrates and the State (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 272 n. 44.
⁶ In Rep. 428c–429a, Plato takes sophia to be just one kind of epistêmê. However, in Meno 96e–100c
he uses a variety of cognitive terms interchangeably, including sophia and epistêmê. Tht. 145d7–e6
explicitly identifies epistêmê and sophia. Despite this terminological variation, Plato often seems to
recognize different kinds, or levels, of epistêmê.
⁷ Either way, on the interpretation I’ve suggested 21b4–5 uses two different cognitive terms for two
different cognitive conditions. Gregory Vlastos, by contrast, argues that Socrates not only takes a variety
of cognitive terms to be synonymous but also takes each of them to be ambiguous as between two
senses of ‘know,’ which Vlastos calls ‘certain knowledge’ and ‘elenctic knowledge.’ See his ‘Socrates’
Disavowal of Knowledge,’ Philosophical Quarterly 35 (1985), 1–31. Reprinted in G. Fine (ed.), Plato I,
64–92, at 82–4, 91. Some commentators agree with Vlastos’s basic point but favor different senses of
‘knowledge’ than he does.
⁸ For this view, see Kraut, Socrates and the State, 271.
  3

either of them being wealthy. It’s just that Socrates comes closer to being wise than
others do, just as one person can be closer to being wealthy than others are.
Similarly, Socrates can be wisest by being the one who is closest to being wise, just
as the healthiest person in the room need not be healthy. It’s true that, after
reflecting on the oracle, he claims to have human wisdom (23ab); but he doesn’t
think that it is genuine wisdom or even genuine knowledge. For it consists just in
the fact that, when he doesn’t know that p, neither does he think he knows that p:
he differs from others in not having any false pretenses to knowledge. Though this
is compatible with his being wise, it doesn’t imply that he is wise. And it remains
his considered view, even after considering the oracle’s pronouncement, that he
lacks all wisdom.
Although Socrates consistently claims to lack all wisdom, he claims to know
some things. For example, at 29b he claims to know (eidenai) a moral truth. This
doesn’t contradict either his claim to lack all wisdom or the view that human
wisdom isn’t genuine wisdom. For the knowledge he says he has in 29b is not part
of his human wisdom. Nor is having it sufficient for him to be genuinely wise; it is
knowledge of a less demanding sort.
In deciding how best to understand Socrates’s various claims about his cogni-
tive condition, it is important to bear in mind that, as I have mentioned, Greek has
many cognitive terms; and it is not always clear how to understand them in a given
context. For example, we have seen that there is dispute about whether Socrates’s
claim, in 21b, to suneidenai something implies that he takes himself to be wise
with respect to it, or to know it in a way that falls short of being wise with respect
to it, or to be aware of it in a way that falls short of having knowledge. Similar
questions arise about other cognitive terms. For example, at 23b Socrates says that
he egnôken that his wisdom is worthless. To gignôskein something can be to know
it. But the term can also be used for a grasp that falls short of knowledge. How can
we decide which way it is used here? Further, there are disputes about what
knowledge is. How, then, do we know when it is appropriate to translate a given
Greek word as ‘knowledge’?
Here it is helpful to distinguish the concept of knowledge from particular
conceptions of it.⁹ The concept of knowledge provides an abstract account of
what knowledge is; particular conceptions fill in this account in more determinate
ways. Two people can agree about the concept of something while disagreeing
about the right, or best, conception of it. The distinction between a concept and a

⁹ This is the terminology I use in Chapter 5, where I also provide a fuller explanation of the
distinction than I do here. I draw the same distinction in Chapter 2, though in different terms, speaking
instead of the concept of knowledge and criteria for applying it. In Chapter 12, I provide what I call a
working account of subjectivity; this roughly corresponds to a concept of it, though it is looser and
more disjunctive than are the concepts I suggest of knowledge and belief. In Chapter 12, I sometimes
use ‘concept’ where I would now use ‘conception.’ In Chapter 14, I distinguish a core conception from
an outer shell; these roughly correspond to, respectively, a concept and a conception, as I explain those
notions here.
4 

conception is analogous to the distinction between a job description and the

candidates for it. The job description specifies what criteria the successful candi-
date should satisfy. The candidates purport to satisfy them. Some in fact don’t do
so. But more than one might do so; and one of them might satisfy the description
best of all. For example, a job description might say that the successful candidate
should be skilled at teaching at a variety of levels and should also be a good
administrator. Some candidates might satisfy one of these criteria but not the
other; if so, they don’t make the grade. More than one candidate might satisfy both
criteria, but some might do so better than others. The job description is analogous
to a concept; the candidates are analogous to conceptions.
I take the concept of knowledge to be that of a truth-entailing cognitive condition
that is appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief.¹⁰ Particular concep-
tions of knowledge say how knowledge is appropriately cognitively superior to mere
true belief: they say what it takes to get over that threshold. If to suneidenai
something isn’t truth entailing, or if isn’t appropriately cognitively superior to
mere true belief, it isn’t knowledge. It doesn’t satisfy the job description. If a given
cognitive term is used for a condition that is both truth entailing and also appro-
priately cognitively superior to mere true belief, it is used for knowledge: it satisfies
the job description, though we should then ask how well it does so. Is the candidate
minimally, or well, qualified?
Even when a given cognitive term can, in a given context, be properly translated
as ‘knowledge,’ it might be misleading to do so if it obscures the fact that, in that
context, more than one Greek term is used, all of which can, in some contexts,
properly be translated as ‘knowledge.’ Further, as we have seen, some Greek
terms—e.g. suneidenai and gignôskein—can be used both for knowledge and for
something less than that. We have to pay careful attention to the context to
determine how the terms are used. Even if a given term is always used for
knowledge, it might indicate different levels of knowledge in different contexts.
For example, two cognitive states might both count as genuine knowledge (not
just approximations to knowledge), yet one might be deeper than the other by
having a better explanation of why what one knows is true, or a better justification
for one’s belief that something is so.¹¹ Further, different dialogues might have
different conceptions of knowledge.
Even if each of the passages I have discussed so far is internally consistent, and
even if they are also all compatible with one another, other passages might be

¹⁰ This concept does not imply that knowledge is either a species or implication of belief, though it
is compatible with both of those options.
¹¹ To say that there are different levels of knowledge is not to say that ‘knowledge’ has different
senses. If something is a level of knowledge, it is genuine knowledge: it is a cognitive condition that is
appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief. But there can be different ways of being
cognitively superior to mere true belief. I discuss levels of knowledge, as well as of justification and
explanation, below; see also Chapter 2.
  5

more difficult to accommodate. However, in Chapter 2, I argue that nowhere in

the Apology does Socrates claim, or imply, that he knows that he knows nothing in
a way that involves contradiction. Every passage that might seem to do so is more
plausibly read in a different way, either as claiming that he is aware (in a way that
falls short of knowing) that he isn’t wise; or as knowing, in a low-level way, that he
lacks knowledge of a higher-level sort. Not only does Socrates not claim to know
that he knows nothing in a way that is self-contradictory; but neither does he
claim to know nothing. To be sure, we have seen that, at 21b, he claims to lack all
wisdom. But, as we have also seen, lacking all wisdom does not imply lacking all
knowledge. And, as we have seen, elsewhere in the Apology he claims to know
some things—though without implying that he is wise with respect to them.
If my account is correct, the Apology implicitly distinguishes levels of know-
ledge. For Socrates takes himself to have some knowledge that falls short of
wisdom: he has low-level knowledge but lacks high-level knowledge. He also
implicitly distinguishes knowledge from belief. If, for example, in 21b suneidenai
is used for awareness that falls short of knowledge, it is arguably used for mere
belief, that is, for belief that falls short of knowledge. (However, suneidenai doesn’t
mean ‘mere belief.’ As we have seen, it can be used in other ways. We have to rely
on the context to tell us how it is used on a given occasion.) Further, at 23ab, after
considering what the oracle says, Socrates eventually arrives at a settled and well-
reasoned view about what it meant and of what, in the light of that, his own
cognitive condition is. He has acquired what he takes to be a well-justified
true belief, though not one that he thinks is justified well enough to count as
knowledge.¹² However, the Apology doesn’t explicitly say what knowledge,
wisdom, belief, or true belief are. Plato is more explicit about some of these
cognitive conditions in the Meno, which I discuss in Chapter 3.¹³

2.

In the Meno, Plato explicitly distinguishes epistêmê from true or correct belief
(alêthes/orthê doxa). (At 97, he also notes some similarities between them: both
imply truth; both imply belief; and they are equally reliable guides to action on a
given occasion.) He also defines epistêmê as true belief that is tied down with
reasoning about the explanation (aitias logismos) (98a3–8). That is, one has
epistêmê that p if and only if one has the belief that p, p is true, and one can
explain why p is true.¹⁴

¹² This is not to say that he rejects the view that knowledge is justified true belief. He might think
that knowledge is justified true belief, where the justification has to be of a certain sort; not any old
justification will do. I discuss this view further below.
¹³ Chapter 2 also discusses some issues that are relevant to Chapter 3; see esp. n. 6 and n. 7.
¹⁴ For reasons for thinking this is at least an outline definition of epistêmê, see Chapter 3, sect. 4.
6 

In the previous paragraph, I used ‘belief ’ to translate doxa. However, the Meno
doesn’t provide an account of doxa; and there is dispute about whether doxa, as
Plato conceives of it, counts as belief as it is standardly understood nowadays. To be
sure, not everyone nowadays has the exact same view of belief. But on what I take to
be the standard view, which I shall assume here, for A to believe that p is for A to
take p to be true (with the aim of its being true: taking it to be true for the sake of
exploring a hypothesis doesn’t count).¹⁵ In Chapter 3, I assume rather than argue
that doxa, as Plato uses the term in the Meno, means ‘belief ’ in this sense; hence
I simply translate it as ‘belief.’ But in Chapter 5, I argue that doxa, as it is used in the
Phaedo, is belief in this sense. In Chapters 9 and 10, I briefly discuss Aristotle on
doxa and belief. In Chapter 11, I ask whether Sextus uses dogma for belief.
One reason to think that doxa, as it is discussed in the Meno, is belief in the
sense of taking to be true is that 98a defines epistêmê as a species of doxa.¹⁶
However, the dialogue also sometimes takes doxa to be mere belief: that is, belief
that falls short of knowledge. For example, in 97e–98a true doxai are compared to
Daedalus’ statues which, unlike epistêmê, are unstable. When doxa is mere belief,
epistêmê is not a species of, and doesn’t imply, doxa; similarly, knowledge is not a
species of, and doesn’t imply, mere belief. Though Plato uses doxa both for generic
taking to be true and for mere belief, he doesn’t use the term in two different

¹⁵ For this view of belief, see e.g. S. Blackburn, sv ‘belief,’ The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy,
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996); E. Schwitzgebel, ‘Belief,’ in Zalta, E. (ed.), Stanford
Encyclopedia of Philosophy, (Summer 2015 Edition); B. Williams, ‘Deciding to Believe,’ in his
Problems of the Self (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973); R. Stalnaker, Inquiry
(Cambridge: MIT Press, 1984); D. Velleman, ‘The Possibility of Practical Reason,’ Ethics 106 (1996),
694–726 at 706–7; and his ‘On the Aim of Belief,’ in his The Possibility of Practical Reason (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2000), 244–81. Though the view that belief is taking to be true is widespread,
not everyone understands taking to be true in exactly the same way. I discuss this in Chapter 11, where
I also explain how I understand the notion. For a different view of belief, on which it need not involve
taking to be true, see M. Frede, ‘The Skeptic’s Beliefs,’ in his Essays in Ancient Philosophy (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1987), ch. 10; and his ‘Two Kinds of Assent and the Possibility of
Knowledge,’ also in his Essays, ch. 11. I discuss his alternative in Chapter 11.
¹⁶ This is sometimes doubted. For example, in ‘Three Platonist Interpretations of the Theaetetus,’ in
C. Gill and M. M. McCabe (eds.), Form and Argument in Late Plato (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996),
ch. 6, at 93, D. Sedley notes that Plato says that true beliefs become (gignontai) knowledge (98a6), which
might mean that they then cease to be true beliefs just as, when a child becomes an adult, she ceases to
be a child. (Though Sedley mentions this interpretation, he does not commit himself to it. Contrast
J. Moss and W. Schwab, ‘The Birth of Belief,’ Journal of the History of Philosophy 57 (2019), 1–32, at 9.)
But gignesthai can be used non-temporally, as it is in e.g. Meno 82d2. If it is used non-temporally in
98a6, the point is that it turns out that knowledge is true belief that is appropriately bound: that is the
conclusion of their reasoning. If, however, gignesthai is used temporally, the point might just be that
true belief becomes knowledge from not having been knowledge; it need not indicate that the true belief
ceases to be a true belief, though of course it ceases to be a mere true belief.
One might say that rather than taking knowledge to be a species of true belief, Plato means just that
true belief is a component of knowledge. When we say that water is H₂0, we don’t mean that water is a
species of hydrogen; we mean that hydrogen is a component of water. But even on this view, it remains
the case that the sort of true belief that is involved in the definition of knowledge is generic taking to be
true; mere true belief is not at issue. I shall continue to speak of knowledge being a species of true belief;
but the view that true belief is a component of knowledge would do for my purposes, as would the view
that knowledge implies true belief.
  7

senses.¹⁷ Rather, he uses it to mean taking something to be true, but sometimes a

given context makes it clear that only some beliefs are at issue.
Let’s now turn to epistêmê. It is sometimes thought that, in defining epistêmê in
98a, Plato is defining knowledge as justified true belief.¹⁸ I ask later whether
epistêmê is knowledge. But let’s ask first whether he defines epistêmê as justified
true belief. His definition mentions part of the justified true belief account of
knowledge: it says that epistêmê is a species of true belief. But is having an aitias
logismos having a justification? According to Myles Burnyeat, it is not: ‘the Meno’s
leading condition on knowledge, aitias logismos (98a) is Greek for working out the
explanation of something, not for assembling a justification for believing it, which
the slave already has at a stage when Plato denies he has knowledge (85c).’¹⁹
Burnyeat makes two points. One is that aitias logismos doesn’t mean ‘justification.’
The other is that Plato doesn’t take knowledge (epistêmê) to be justified true belief.
I agree with Burnyeat’s first point. That, however, leaves open the possibility
that Plato thinks that having the sort of justification that’s needed for one’s beliefs
to count as epistêmê consists in having an aitias logismos; and, in Chapter 3,
I argue that that is Plato’s view.
As to Burnyeat’s second point, it’s true that, by 85c, the slave has some
justification for his beliefs but is said to lack epistêmê. But this shows only that
Plato doesn’t think it’s sufficient for having epistêmê that one have a true belief
that is justified to any old degree or in any old way. Rather, he thinks one has
epistêmê when one has a justified true belief, where the justification involves being
able to explain why what one believes is true. Not all justification is on a par; some
is better than others. In taking epistêmê to require explanation, Plato isn’t bypass-
ing justification; he is specifying the sort of justification that’s needed for
epistêmê.²⁰
We can now ask whether epistêmê is knowledge. Once again, the distinction
between the concept of knowledge and particular conceptions of it proves useful.²¹

¹⁷ Pace Moss and Schwab, ‘The Birth of Belief,’ 8. In saying that the Meno uses doxa both for the
genus and for mere belief, I retract a claim made in Chapter 3 n. 32.
¹⁸ See e.g. D. M. Armstrong, Belief, Truth, and Knowledge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1973), 137.
¹⁹ M. F. Burnyeat, ‘Socrates and the Jury: Paradoxes in Plato’s Distinction between Knowledge and
True Belief,’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, suppl. 54 (1980), 173–91, at 187. See also M. F.
Burnyeat, ‘Introduction’ to The Theaetetus of Plato (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1990), 271.
²⁰ For the view that it is adding a certain sort of justification—not just any old justification—to true
belief that yields knowledge, see e.g. J. Cargile, ‘On Near Knowledge,’ Analysis 31 (1971), 145–52, at
145–6; and R. Fogelin, Pyrrhonian Reflections on Knowledge and Justification (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1994), ch. 1. In speaking of adding something to true belief, I do not mean to endorse
what is sometimes called the additive model of knowledge, for which, see Chapter 3 n. 39.
²¹ Or so I think. But not everyone finds the distinction between concept and conception helpful.
Indeed, in ‘Explanation in the Epistemology of the Meno,’ Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 48
(2015), 1–36, W. Schwab is skeptical about whether there even is a concept of knowledge (2); hence he
focuses instead on comparing Socrates’s account of epistêmê in the Meno with contemporary (2) (or
standard contemporary: 25) accounts of knowledge. He concedes that Socrates’s account of epistêmê in
the Meno is like some contemporary accounts of knowledge; but he argues that such accounts aren’t
8 

According to the concept of knowledge I have suggested, knowledge is a truth-

entailing cognitive condition that is appropriately cognitively superior to mere
true belief. Epistêmê, as Plato defines it, counts as knowledge when knowledge is so
described. For it implies truth and is also cognitively superior to mere true belief,
since it also involves justification, where the relevant justification consists in
explaining why what one knows is true. To be sure, epistêmê doesn’t have to be
justified true belief to be knowledge; that’s just one, controversial, conception of
knowledge.²² But it is a conception of knowledge: it fits the job description even if,
in the end, one favors a different candidate.
Plato takes epistêmê to be knowledge as such, not just one type of knowledge: he
thinks that it is the only candidate that satisfies the job description. For he thinks
that any cognitive condition that falls short of epistêmê is at best mere true belief.²³
Hence, in his view, one can have epistêmê, and so knowledge, that p is true only if
one can explain why p is true. By contrast, in contemporary epistemology it is
often assumed that one can know that p is true without knowing why it is true.
This indicates a difference in conceptions, but not in the concept, of knowledge.
We should not be surprised that there are different views of how knowledge is
appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief.
We have seen that Plato thinks that to know that p is true, one needs to be able
to explain why it is true. On one view, he thinks that, to do this, one must have a
deep synoptic grasp of a sort few can have. An alternative is that, though he
requires this sort of explanation in some cases (in particular, for knowledge of
forms), he doesn’t (in the Meno) require it for all epistêmê. For example, he says
that one can know who Meno is (71b) and how to get to Larissa (97a). To do so, an
explanation is needed; but it need not be one that involves a deep, synoptic grasp
that very few people can have. Nor does it require a grasp of forms: though forms
are explanatory, there are also explanations that do not invoke forms. Hence we
need not (as is sometimes done) dismiss these examples as mere analogies; they
are literal examples of things one can know.
In requiring explanation for all knowledge, Plato makes knowledge more
difficult to acquire than some—though not all—do nowadays. But in allowing

‘standard.’ If epistêmê, as Plato describes it, is like some contemporary accounts of knowledge, that’s
sufficient (though not necessary) for its being knowledge.
²² Vlastos, for example, says that hardly anyone nowadays accepts the justified-true-belief account
of knowledge: ‘Socrates’ Disavowal of Knowledge,’ n. 25.
²³ Nor does the Meno countenance a cognitive condition that is higher level than epistêmê (which is
consistent with the dialogue countenancing different levels of epistêmê, as it seems to do). Of course,
Plato didn’t have the de dicto belief that epistêmê is knowledge: he didn’t know English. My point is that
given what he says about various cognitive conditions, it is reasonable to describe his view as the view
that the only knowledge there is is epistêmê, and that any other cognitive condition is at best mere true
belief.
  9

levels of explanation, and so of knowledge, he doesn’t make all knowledge as

difficult to acquire as he is sometimes thought to do.²⁴
It is sometimes thought that the fact that Plato requires explanation for
epistêmê shows that epistêmê is understanding. And it is sometimes thought that
understanding is either just one (especially high-level) type of knowledge or else it
is different from knowledge altogether. How we decide about this depends not
only on how we think Plato conceives of epistêmê, but also on how we conceive of
knowledge and understanding. Whitney Schwab, for example, argues that
epistêmê is understanding but not knowledge, whereas Lindsay Judson takes
understanding to be a type of knowledge. They agree that epistêmê is understand-
ing; but they disagree about whether understanding is a type of knowledge.²⁵ If
one thinks that having an explanation of why what one knows is true is sufficient
for understanding, then epistêmê is understanding. Plato would in this case hold
the view that understanding is the only sort of knowledge there is. However, as we
have seen, he thinks there are levels of explanation, and so of understanding. Some
explanations are easier to come by than others are; and so some epistêmê is easier
to come by than linking it to understanding might suggest.
Plato is often thought to hold the so-called Two Worlds Theory (TW), accord-
ing to one version of which there can be knowledge only of forms, and belief only
about sensibles.²⁶ Whatever may be true elsewhere, the Meno rejects this view. For,
as we have seen, the dialogue allows knowledge of sensibles: we can know who
Meno is (71b), and how to get to Larissa (97a). It also allows belief about forms. For
Socrates says various things about, for example, the form of virtue—e.g. that it is
one and the the same in all cases (72b–d)—but he not only disclaims knowledge of
what it is but also thinks one must know what something is in order to know
anything at all about it (71). It is reasonable to think that he is expressing his beliefs
about what it is. Here belief is mere belief; and, of course, one can’t, at t1, both
know and merely believe that p. However, one can first merely believe that p and
then come to know that p.²⁷ Further, as we have also seen, Plato defines knowledge

²⁴ For the view that Plato allows levels of explanation, and so levels of knowledge, see also
R. Wedgwood, ‘Plato’s Theory of Knowledge,’ in D. Brink, S. Meyer, and C. Shields (eds.), Virtue,
Happiness, Knowledge: Themes from the Work of Gail Fine and Terence Irwin (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2018), 33–56. If knowledge requires explanation, different levels of explanation are
sufficient for different levels of knowledge. However, even if one doesn’t think knowledge requires
explanation, one could still posit levels of knowledge by, for example, distinguishing levels of justifi-
cation: among justifications that are sufficient for turning true belief into knowledge, some might be
higher level than others by, for example, being more synoptic.
²⁵ Schwab, ‘Explanation’; L. Judson, ‘The Meno,’ in G. Fine (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Plato
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2019; 2nd ed.), 161–81.
²⁶ For further discussion of TW, see Chapters 4 and 10. Discussion of TW typically focuses on
sensibles and forms, and that will be my focus here. However, Plato also countenances other sorts of
entities—e.g. souls and god.
²⁷ Hence Sedley’s suggestion about 98a (see n. 16 above) does not support TW, since it leaves open
the possibility that there can be knowledge and belief about the same objects; it rules out just one
person’s having both knowledge and true belief about something at one and the same time.
10 

as a species of belief, where belief is generic taking to be true. If knowledge is a

species of belief, then, whenever one knows something, one thereby believes it.
Hence Plato rejects TW both when belief is mere belief and when it is the genus.

3.

We have seen that Plato rejects TW in the Meno. But it is often thought that he
accepts it in such middle dialogues as the Phaedo and Republic.²⁸ I have argued
elsewhere, however, that Republic 5 leaves open the possibility that one can
have beliefs about forms as well as knowledge of sensibles. I have also argued
elsewhere that, in the Republic, Socrates says that he has mere belief about the
form of the good (506c) and that the philosopher who returns to the cave will have
knowledge of the things there, that is, of sensibles (520c).²⁹
But what about the Phaedo, which is generally thought to have been written
after the Meno but before the Republic? In Chapter 4, I argue that the Phaedo also
rejects TW. For example, Socrates discusses a doxa that philosophers have; their
doxa countenances forms. And in discussing the theory of recollection, he coun-
tenances epistêmê of e.g. one’s friend and his cloak, and of a lyre. One might
dismiss these remarks as loose or, in the case of epistêmê, as mere analogies. But it
is not just that he mentions doxa about forms and epistêmê of sensibles. It is also
that, as we shall see, his more theoretical remarks make it reasonable to take his
examples at face value.
One might argue that, though the Phaedo countenances doxa about forms
and epistêmê about sensibles, it does not countenance beliefs about forms or
knowledge of sensibles, since doxa is not belief (at least, not as we understand it
nowadays), and epistêmê is not knowledge (at least, not as we understand
it nowadays). I address this issue in Chapter 5. In doing so, I again distinguish
the concepts of knowledge and belief from conceptions of them. I have suggested
that the concept of belief is taking something to be true, with the aim of its being
true. It has been argued that Plato, in at least some dialogues, does not use doxa for
generic taking to be true, but just for mere belief or, in Republic 10 but perhaps
also elsewhere, so as to include what we would call non-doxastic appearances,

In ‘The Birth of Belief,’ one reason Moss and Schwab give for their view that doxa is not belief (which
they take to be generic taking to be true) is that it has its own special objects, whereas generic taking to
be true does not; in particular, they argue that Plato does not countenance doxa about intelligibles. In
the Meno, however, doxa doesn’t have its own special objects. In Chapter 4, I argue that the same is true
of the Phaedo, and I have argued elsewhere that the same is true of the Republic.
²⁸ For the view that the Phaedo holds TW, see, for example, D. Gallop, Plato: Phaedo (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1975). The view that the Republic does so is widespread.
²⁹ Fine, ‘Knowledge and Fine, Belief in Republic V’ and ‘Knowledge and Belief in Republic V–VII,’
both reprinted in my Plato on Knowledge and Forms (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2003), chs. 3 and 4,
respectively.
  11

as when the oar appears bent in water to me, but I do not take it to be bent. It has
also been argued that, in some dialogues, Plato takes doxa to be narrower than we
take belief to be, insofar as he restricts it to claims that are accepted as a result of
active reflection.³⁰
Whatever may be true elsewhere, these views do not fit the Phaedo. None of
the doxai mentioned in the Phaedo is a non-doxastic appearance. And though
some of the doxai it mentions are carefully considered, not all of them are. For
example, the philosophers’ doxa that is described at 66b1–67b5 is carefully
considered. But the bones and sinews’ doxa that Socrates should flee (99a2) is
not carefully considered. Nor does the Phaedo use doxa to mean ‘mere belief.’ In
some cases doxa is used neutrally, without its being implied that the doxa is a mere
belief. For example, when Cebes says that he wants to hear Socrates’s doxa about
the soul (70b9), he does not mean to imply that Socrates has a mere belief here
(though Socrates would no doubt disclaim knowledge here). He wants to know
what Socrates thinks, what he takes to be true. But even if doxa were always used
with the conversational implicature that the doxa at issue is a mere belief, that
wouldn’t imply that doxa means ‘mere belief ’: we need to distinguish the meaning
of the term from its extension or reference in a given context.
Let’s now turn to epistêmê. According to Lloyd Gerson, the term ‘epistêmê’ in
the Phaedo ‘appears to be used so loosely that it is virtually equivalent to
“cognition.” ’ For example it is used for objects of sense-perception as well as for
forms (cf. 73c8, d3, 74b2). A self-conscious restriction in the use of the term for
epistêmê such as we find in the Republic is not in evidence here.’³¹ As we have seen,
some commentators think epistêmê isn’t knowledge because it is more demanding
than knowledge is. Gerson, however, thinks that, in the Phaedo, epistêmê is too
extensive to count as knowledge. One of his reasons is that the dialogue allows
epistêmê of sensibles. I have argued, however, that Plato allows epistêmê of
sensibles (where that counts as knowledge) both in the Meno, which precedes
the Phaedo, and in the Republic, which follows it. So we should not be surprised if
he also does so in the Phaedo.

³⁰ As we have seen, in ‘The Birth of Belief ’, Moss and Schwab argue that, at least in some dialogues,
Plato uses doxa not for generic taking to be true but, at best, for mere belief, and so more narrowly than
we use ‘belief.’ They also mention, but do not discuss, the view that Plato sometimes uses doxa so as to
include what we would call non-doxastic appearances. In ‘Plato’s Appearance-Assent Account of
Belief,’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 114 (2014), 213–38, J. Moss argues that, at least in Rep.
10, Plato uses doxa so as to include non-doxastic appearances. (Cf. H. Lorenz, The Brute Within:
Appetitive Desire in Plato and Aristotle (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).) She also argues that
in some later dialogues Plato restricts doxa to claims that are accepted as a result of active reflection,
and so more narrowly than we use ‘belief.’ For this latter view, see also S. Broadie, ‘The Knowledge
Unacknowledged in the Theaetetus,’ Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 51 (2016), 87–117, though
she sometimes qualifies her view with ‘typically’ (e.g. 92, 96).
³¹ L. Gerson, Knowing Persons: A Study in Plato (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 66. See
also his ‘The Recollection Argument Revisited,’ in M. McPherran (ed.), Recognition, Remembrance and
Reality, Apeiron suppl. vol. 32 (1999), 1–15.
12 

I also provide an account of how epistêmê is conceived in the Phaedo on which

it is knowledge: that is, it treats epistêmê as a truth-entailing cognitive condition
that is appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief. For epistêmê, as it is
conceived in the Phaedo, requires a truth-entailing logos (e.g. 76b) as well as a
certain degree of familiarity; neither of these is required for doxa.
It is not clear whether the sort of logos that the Phaedo requires for epistêmê
must be explanatory. If it must be, then all epistêmê, in the Phaedo as in the Meno,
requires explanation; but, also as in the Meno, there are levels of explanation, and
not all explanation requires a grasp of forms. If, however, the logos needn’t always
be explanatory, then, in the Phaedo, one can sometimes have epistêmê that
something is so even if one can’t explain why it is so. Nonetheless, all epistêmê
goes beyond mere true belief, even if not all of it requires explanation. On this
reading, the Phaedo differs from the Meno which, as we have seen, requires
explanation for epistêmê.
In Chapter 6, I continue my exploration of the Phaedo’s epistemology, focusing
on the theory of recollection. Plato’s argument for the claim that what we think of
as learning is really just recollecting what we once knew has been much maligned.
For example, it has been argued that it is invalid, that it is circular, and that it begs
the question. I defend Plato’s argument against these charges: which is not to say
that the argument is sound.
The theory of recollection is generally thought to posit innate knowledge. I have
argued elsewhere that the Meno, which also posits the, or a, theory of recollection,
does not countenance innate knowledge.³² In Chapter 6 of the present volume,
I argue that the Phaedo does not do so either. So far from doing so, it rejects its
existence. Indeed, Plato’s argument for recollection depends on rejecting it.
In Chapter 7, I discuss a further aspect of the Phaedo’s epistemology, compar-
ing its account of perception with a celebrated passage on perception in
Theaetetus 184–6. It’s debated whether, in the latter passage, Plato takes percep-
tion to be propositional,³³ or to fall below that threshold. I defend the latter view.
Some of those who favor that view of Theaetetus 184–6 think that the middle
dialogues, by contrast, take perception to be propositional. I defend a different
view. Although the Phaedo agrees with Theaetetus 184–6 at an abstract level,
insofar as both dialogues argue that perception is not knowledge, they give

³² See G. Fine, The Possibility of Inquiry: Meno’s Paradox from Socrates to Sextus (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2014), ch. 5. On pp. 172–3, I argue that the Phaedo also rejects innate knowledge; but
my discussion is very brief. In Chapter 6 of the present volume, I expand it.
³³ In asking whether perception is propositional, I am asking just whether every case of perception is
a case of perceiving that something is so. I am not assuming any particular analysis of what
propositions are. One might argue that even if perception isn’t propositional, it could be conceptual.
However, on my view and, I think, on Plato’s, one has the concept of F if and only if one grasps
propositions; one has the concept of cat, for example, if and only if one grasps that cats are thus and so.
So if Plato takes perception to be non-propositional, he also takes it to be non-conceptual. However,
one can have the concept of F, and so grasp some propositions about F, without being able to answer
the ‘What is F?’ question about F.
  13

different reasons. In Tht. 184–6, the point is that knowledge is propositional,

whereas perception is not. Hence perception falls short not only of knowledge but
also of belief; for belief, like knowledge, is propositional. In the Phaedo, the point is
that perception can’t grasp any truths about forms, but wisdom (phronêsis)
requires such a grasp. That view is compatible with perception’s being propos-
itional, for it leaves open the possibility that perception grasps other propositions—
e.g. about sensibles. But what the Phaedo says is also compatible with the view that
perception is not propositional. Unlike Theaetetus 184–6, the Phaedo takes no stand
on this issue. Perhaps that’s because its concerns lie elsewhere: in showing that we
need to engage in non-perceptual reasoning if we are to acquire wisdom, which is
just one sort of knowledge, an especially high-level sort. For this purpose, it doesn’t
matter whether perception is propositional. Of course, perceptual reasoning—
reasoning based on perception—is propositional. But the Phaedo distinguishes
perceptual reasoning from perception. Although the former is propositional, it
does not follow that the latter is; nor does it follow that it is not.

4.

In Chapter 8, I turn from Plato to [Plato]. Here I explore an unjustly neglected

spurious dialogue, the Sisyphus. Socrates begins by proposing an account of
deliberation. Sisyphus challenges this account and suggests a different one,
according to which deliberation is a type of inquiry. Socrates proceeds to challenge
that view. He also challenges the view that there could be such a thing as
deliberation, if deliberation requires knowledge; for the sort of knowledge it
would require is unattainable. If, however, deliberation does not require know-
ledge, deliberation is mere guesswork. But deliberation is not mere guesswork. So
deliberation is impossible whether or not it involves knowledge.
This Paradox of Deliberation neatly parallels Meno’s Paradox (or, as it is
sometimes called, the Paradox of Inquiry) as it is discussed in Plato’s Meno.³⁴
According to the Paradox of Deliberation, there are just two options: deliberation
either involves knowledge or it is mere guesswork; either way, deliberation is
impossible. These two options do not seem to be exhaustive. What, for example,
about true belief? Some true beliefs are neither knowledge nor mere guesswork.
Perhaps if we have and rely on them, we can deliberate. According to Meno’s
Paradox, one either knows or does not know what one is inquiring into; either
way, inquiry is impossible. Now, whereas knowledge and guesswork (the options
offered in the Sisyphus) are not exhaustive options, knowing and not knowing are
exhaustive. Or so it might seem. However, it is sometimes thought that Meno’s

³⁴ See esp. 80d–e. I discuss Meno’s Paradox in detail in The Possibility of Inquiry.
14 

Paradox takes knowledge to be complete knowledge, and not knowing to be

complete ignorance; and these are not exhaustive options. If so, we can reply to
Meno’s Paradox by noting that there are cognitive states that fall short of complete
knowledge but are more robust than ignorance: for example, true belief and
knowledge that is less than complete. If one has and relies on one of them, one
can inquire. But it is not clear that Meno’s Paradox takes knowledge to be
complete knowledge, and not knowing to be complete ignorance. It might instead
take knowing and not knowing to be exhaustive options. In this case we can reply
that there are different ways of knowing and of not knowing, and some of them
allow inquiry. For example, whether one is totally ignorant or has mere true belief,
one lacks knowledge. Although one can’t inquire if one is totally ignorant, one can
inquire so long as one has and relies on relevant true beliefs. The structural parallel
between the Paradox of Deliberation and Meno’s Paradox should lead us to
consider whether they can be disarmed in parallel ways.
Aristotle agrees with the Sisyphus that deliberation is a type of inquiry; and he
thinks deliberation is possible.³⁵ So, just as he thinks that Meno’s Paradox can be
answered,³⁶ he thinks that the Paradox of Deliberation can be answered. It is
unclear when the Sisyphus was written; but it is reasonable to think it was written
before the Nicomachean Ethics.³⁷ It does not follow that Aristotle is replying to it;
nonetheless, some of the connections are quite interesting. Whenever the dialogue
was written, it is a fascinating bridge between the Meno and Aristotle’s ethics and
epistemology.

5.

In Part II, I consider Aristotle’s epistemology, focusing on issues explored in Part

I. In Chapter 9, I ask how he conceives of epistêmê in the Posterior Analytics (APo.)
In particular, is it knowledge and, if so, is it knowledge as such or just a kind of
knowledge? In considering this question, I compare Aristotle’s account of epistêmê
in the Posterior Analytics with Plato’s account of it in the Meno. As we have seen,
in Meno 98a Plato says that epistêmê is true belief bound with an aitias logismos.
That is, A has epistêmê that p just in case p is true, A believes that p, and A can
explain why p is true. This is a definition of epistêmê as such, not of just one
kind of epistêmê. It is also a definition of knowledge as such. That is, it is the only

³⁵ See EN 1142a. For discussion of Aristotle’s view that deliberation is a type of inquiry, see
K. Nielsen, ‘Deliberation as Inquiry,’ Philosophical Review 120 (2011), 383–421.
³⁶ I discuss Aristotle’s reply to Meno’s Paradox in The Possibility of Inquiry, ch. 6.
³⁷ C. W. Müller, Die Kurzdialog der Appendix Platonica (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1975), 94–104, and
D. S. Hutchinson, ‘Introduction to Sisyphus,’ in J. M. Cooper and D. S. Hutchinson (eds.), Plato:
Complete Works (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997), 1707, plausibly suggest that the Sisyphus was written in
the mid-fourth century; see Chapter 8.
  15

truth-entailing cognitive condition Plato countenances that goes beyond, and is

appropriately cognitively superior to, mere true belief. Hence he imposes more
demanding conditions on knowledge than is common nowadays, since it is not
usually thought nowadays that, to know that p is true, one must be able to explain
why p is true. (However, as we have also seen, it is not clear that he takes all
explanations to be difficult to come by.) This may not be the most familiar
conception of knowledge nowadays. Be that as it may, it is a conception of
knowledge: it fits the job description.
But what about Aristotle? In APo. 1.2, he says:³⁸

We think we epistasthai something without qualification (haplôs) (and not in the

sophistical, incidental way) whenever we think we ginôskein the explanation
(aitia) because of which the thing is, ginôskein that it is the explanation of that
thing, and ginôskein that it cannot be otherwise.

We may paraphrase this as follows: A epistatai haplôs x=df. A ginôskei y, which is

the explanation of x; A ginôskei that y is the explanation of x; and A ginôskei that x
is necessary.³⁹
haplôs (without qualification, simpliciter) might indicate that Aristotle is defin-
ing just an ideal kind of epistêmê, one that leaves room for other sorts of epistêmê
that fall short of the ideal.⁴⁰ Alternatively, haplôs might indicate that he is defining
epistêmê as such: if something falls short of epistêmê so defined, it isn’t epistêmê,
period, but, at best, it approximates to it.⁴¹ Sometimes, but not always, being an
ideal F and being an F diverge. For example, a line that isn’t perfectly, ideally
straight, isn’t really straight; it just approximates to being straight. By contrast, an
ideal parent has all the virtues that are proper to being a parent. But one can be a

³⁸ There is dispute about whether 1.2 offers a definition, or something less than that. I shall assume,
with Barnes, that Aristotle is offering a definition. See J. Barnes, Aristotle: Posterior Analytics (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1975 (1st edition = B1), 96; 1994 (2nd edition = B2)), 90. Aristotle defines, not
epistêmê, but epistasthai: he uses the verb, not the noun. Although it’s been argued that the verb is more
specialized than the noun, I don’t think that affects anything I say here; and I shall move freely
between them.
³⁹ I leave to one side the question of what necessity amounts to here. For one account, see
M. Peramatzis, ‘Aristotle on Knowledge and Belief: Posterior Analytics 1.33,’ in G. Salmieri (ed.),
Knowing and Coming to Know: Essays on Aristotle’s Epistemology (Pittsburgh: Pittsburgh University
Press, forthcoming). Thanks to Peramatzis for letting me cite this paper in advance of its publication.
⁴⁰ This sometimes seems to be Burnyeat’s view: see M. F. Burnyeat, ‘Aristotle on Understanding
Knowledge,’ in E. Berti (ed.), Aristotle on Science: The Posterior Analytics, Proceedings of the VIII
Symposium Aristotelicum (Padua: Antenore, 1981), 97–139, at e.g. 100–1. (I discuss Burnyeat more
fully in Chapter 9; see also Chapter 2, n. 6 and n. 7.) See also R. Pasnau, After Certainty (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2017), 3–8, 142–5.
⁴¹ This may be Barnes’s view: see B1, 90, 149; cf. B2, 89–92. In Chapter 9, I also consider a third
interpretation of haplôs, which I leave to one side here. Nous is sometimes taken to be cognitively
superior to epistêmê as defined in 1.2. Aristotle vacillates, at least terminologically, as to whether nous is
a type of epistêmê. 71b6–7 seems to leave open the possibility that it is. But according to 2.19 it isn’t. In
EN 6.7 Aristotle says that sophia is nous plus epistêmê. I shall leave this issue to one side here, since my
focus is on epistêmê and cognitive conditions that fall short of it.
16 

parent even if one lacks all these virtues. If epistêmê functions like ‘straight,’ we
need not choose between saying that Aristotle is defining an ideal sort of epistêmê
and saying that he is defining epistêmê as such. But if epistêmê functions like
‘parent,’ we do need to choose between these alternatives. In Chapter 9, I incline to
the former view (on which being an F and an ideal F do not diverge), in which case
Aristotle is defining epistêmê as such; anything that falls short of epistêmê so
understood isn’t epistêmê. Similarly, I suggested that Meno 98a is an account of
epistêmê as such.
Suppose 1.2 defines epistêmê as such, not just one kind of epistêmê. We can then
ask whether epistêmê, so defined, is knowledge, either as such or just one kind. As
in the case of Plato, at least three views have been defended: that Aristotle is
defining knowledge as such; that he is defining just an ideal kind of knowledge but
allows that there are also other, less ideal, kinds of knowledge; and that he isn’t
defining either knowledge as such or a kind of knowledge, but a different phe-
nomenon, understanding.
In Chapter 9, I argue that, in defining epistêmê, Aristotle is defining
knowledge—but just one kind of knowledge, not knowledge as such.⁴² Epistêmê
counts as knowledge, because it is a truth-entailing cognitive condition that is
appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief. But it isn’t knowledge as
such, because Aristotle recognizes other cognitive conditions that also fall under
the concept of knowledge but that do not count as epistêmê as it is defined in 1.2.
I say more about this in a moment. But first we can note that the claim that he is
defining either knowledge as such or a kind of knowledge might be challenged on
the ground that his definition doesn’t mention truth, yet knowledge is truth
entailing. However, although his definition of epistêmê doesn’t explicitly mention
truth, it mentions necessity, which implies truth.⁴³ Further, his general discussion
makes it clear that he takes epistêmê to be truth entailing. Similarly, though his
definition doesn’t explicitly say that epistêmê implies belief in the sense of taking
to be true, his discussion makes it clear that he thinks it does. To be sure, he may
not take epistêmê to be a species of, or even to imply, doxa. For he tends to use
doxa for mere belief or, at any rate, for something that falls short of epistêmê: see,
for example, APo. 1.33, which I discuss in Chapter 10. But in EN 6, 1140b31–2

⁴² As with Plato so with Aristotle: it’s not that he has the de dicto belief that epistêmê is knowledge.
The point is rather that as he describes epistêmê and other cognitive conditions, it is reasonable to think
not only that epistêmê counts as knowledge, but also that he also countenances other types of
knowledge, since they too are truth-entailing cognitive conditions that are appropriately cognitively
superior to mere true belief, where belief is taking to be true.
⁴³ At least, this is so when the necessity at issue governs propositions. (I take the relevant sort of
truth, in the claim that knowledge implies truth, to be semantic or propositional truth.) However,
Aristotle’s definition may include not only propositions that are necessary, but also things that are in
some sense necessary. But he thinks one can know such things only if one knows propositions to be
true of them. Either way, epistêmê implies truth.
  17

(cf. DA 427b25) Aristotle says that epistêmê is a species of hupolêpsis, which is

taking something to be true. So he takes epistêmê to be a species of belief in
the sense of taking to be true, whether or not he takes it to be a species of or to
imply doxa.⁴⁴
So, though Aristotle’s definition doesn’t explicitly mention truth or belief, he
takes epistêmê to imply true belief. He also makes it clear that epistêmê is
appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief; for example, unlike mere
true belief, it includes grasping an aitia of why what one knows can’t be otherwise.
Hence, Aristotle takes epistêmê to be a truth-entailing cognitive condition that is
appropriately cognitively superior to mere true belief, and so it counts as know-
ledge. But unlike Plato in the Meno, he recognizes other kinds of knowledge than
epistêmê. For example, he allows that one can eidenai that something is so, even if
one doesn’t grasp why it is so (see e.g. APo. 79a). This doesn’t count as epistêmê,
since to have epistêmê of something, one must grasp why it is so. But it goes
beyond mere true belief.⁴⁵ It’s unclear exactly what Aristotle thinks is required for
knowing that something is so even if one doesn’t know why it is so. But one
possibility that I am sympathetic to is that he thinks one must have a justified true
belief that p is so, where the justification gives one more than mere true belief but
falls short of the sort of justification that is needed for epistêmê.⁴⁶
This yields an interesting result. As Aristotle conceives of epistêmê, its scope is
less extensive than Plato takes it to be in the Meno. For Aristotle thinks one can
have epistêmê of something only if it can’t be otherwise, whereas Plato does not
think this. For example, he allows one to have epistêmê of how to get to Larissa;
but the route to Larissa could have been different. Even if one dismisses this as a
mere analogy, still, Plato’s account of epistêmê doesn’t restrict it to what can’t be
otherwise, whereas Aristotle’s does. However, unlike Plato in the Meno, Aristotle
doesn’t think that epistêmê exhausts the scope of knowledge since, as we have seen,
he allows one to know that something is so without knowing why it is so. So,
though Aristotle has more demanding conditions for epistêmê than Plato does, he
has less demanding conditions for knowledge.
It is, however, difficult to determine what Aristotle takes the lower bounds of
knowledge to be. For example, in 2.19 he counts the sort of perception animals
and humans have from birth as gnôsis; and gignôskein can be used for knowledge.

⁴⁴ I discuss this briefly in Chapter 9. See also Moss and Schwab, ‘The Birth of Belief.’
⁴⁵ However, as with nous, Aristotle’s terminology is not fixed. APo. 1.13, for example, begins by
distinguishing epistasthai why, and that, something is so, as though both are possible. Similarly, 2.1
seems to open by allowing one to have epistêmê that something is so even if one doesn’t grasp why it is
so. But it may be significant that after this opening remark, he uses forms of eidenai and gignôskein
instead (89b28, 29, 30, 34) for grasping that something is so. See also 2.2. I take it that, in these passages,
eidenai and gignôskein indicate knowledge that falls short of epistêmê.
⁴⁶ Another possibility, suggested by J. L. Ackrill, is that one must grasp that the relevant proposition
or object can be explained. See his ‘Aristotle’s Theory of Definition: Some Questions on Posterior
Analytics II 8–10,’ in E. Berti (ed.), Aristotle on Science: The ‘Posterior Analytics’ (Padua: Antenore,
1981), 359–84, at 376–81.
18 

That’s how it is used in Aristotle’s definition of epistêmê in 1.2. So one might think
that he is saying that animals, and humans from birth, have knowledge. However,
both Plato and Aristotle sometimes use forms of gignôskein for something less
than knowledge; and that is how Aristotle uses it in 2.19 when he says that
animals, and humans from birth, have perception, which is a kind of gnôsis.
This isn’t to say that Aristotle doesn’t think there’s such a thing as perceptual
knowledge. It’s just that he doesn’t count the sort of perception humans have from
birth, and that animals have, as knowledge. That leaves open the possibility,
though it does not imply, that he thinks that an adult who perceives that the cat
is on the mat thereby knows that it is. Be that as it may, Aristotle’s conditions on
knowledge are not so permissive as to allow that animals, or humans from birth,
have knowledge. But insofar as he allows one to know that p is so without knowing
why p is so, he disagrees with Plato in the Meno, though they agree that grasping
that p is so without grasping why it is so doesn’t count as epistêmê.

6.

Just as there is dispute about whether Plato favors TW, so there is dispute about
whether Aristotle does so. One main source of evidence is Posterior Analytics
1.33, which contrasts epistêmê and doxa—as Plato also does in Republic 5.
Earlier we looked at Plato’s attitude to TW in the Meno and Phaedo; and
elsewhere I’ve discussed his attitude to it in Republic 5–7.⁴⁷ In Chapter 10,
I consider Aristotle’s attitude to it in APo. 1.33, and I compare his views with
Plato’s in Republic 5–7.
There are different versions of TW. In Chapter 10, I discuss several of them.⁴⁸
First, we can distinguish a Two Worlds Theory about propositions from one about
objects. Secondly, we can distinguish strong from weak Two Worlds Theories.
According to a Strong Two Worlds Theory for Propositions (STWP), no prop-
osition can be both believed and known. According to a Strong Two Worlds
Theory for Objects (STWO), there are no objects about which both knowledge
and belief are possible. According to a Weak Two Worlds Theory for Propositions
(WTWP), not every proposition that can be known can also be believed. (Of
course, not every proposition that can be believed can be known, since there are
false beliefs. So a WTWO shouldn’t say that not every proposition can be both
known and believed; for if it did, it would be trivially true. To be sure, Protagoras
denies that there are false beliefs. But we can safely leave him to one side here.)
According to a Weak Two Worlds Theory for Objects (WTWO), the set of objects

⁴⁷ See the articles cited in n. 29. ⁴⁸ See also Chapters 3 and 4.

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 Elle sortit précipitamment, dit à Josette de faire chauffer de l’eau
pour un bain de pieds, et revint près de sa maîtresse.
—N’effrayez pas monsieur, ne lui dites rien, Martha, s’écria
madame Claës. Pauvres chères filles, ajouta-t-elle, en pressant sur
son cœur Marguerite et Félicie par un mouvement désespéré, je
voudrais pouvoir vivre assez de temps pour vous voir heureuses et
mariées. Martha, reprit-elle, dites à Lemulquinier d’aller chez
monsieur de Solis, pour le prier de ma part de passer ici.
Ce coup de foudre se répercuta nécessairement jusque dans la
cuisine. Josette et Martha, toutes deux dévouées à madame Claës
et à ses filles, furent frappées dans la seule affection qu’elles
eussent. Ces terribles mots:—Madame se meurt, monsieur l’aura
tuée, faites vite un bain de pieds à la moutarde! avaient arraché
plusieurs phrases interjectives à Josette qui en accablait
Lemulquinier. Lemulquinier, froid et insensible, mangeait assis au
coin de la table, devant une des fenêtres par lesquelles le jour venait
de la cour dans la cuisine, où tout était propre comme dans le
boudoir d’une petite maîtresse.
—Ça devait finir par là, disait Josette, en regardant le valet de
chambre et montant sur un tabouret pour prendre sur une tablette un
chaudron qui reluisait comme de l’or. Il n’y a pas de mère qui puisse
voir de sang-froid un père s’amuser à fricasser une fortune comme
celle de monsieur, pour en faire des os de boudin.
Josette, dont la tête coiffée d’un bonnet rond à ruches
ressemblait à celle d’un casse-noisette allemand, jeta sur
Lemulquinier un regard aigre que la couleur verte de ses petits yeux
éraillés rendait presque venimeux. Le vieux valet de chambre
haussa les épaules par un mouvement digne de Mirabeau
impatienté, puis il enfourna dans sa grande bouche une tartine de
beurre sur laquelle étaient semés des appétits.
—Au lieu de tracasser monsieur, madame devrait lui donner de
l’argent, nous serions bientôt tous riches à nager dans l’or! Il ne s’en
faut pas de l’épaisseur d’un liard que nous ne trouvions...
 —Hé! bien, vous qui avez vingt mille francs de placés, pourquoi
ne les offrez-vous pas à monsieur? C’est votre maître! Et puisque
vous êtes si sûr de ses faits et gestes...
—Vous ne connaissez rien à cela, Josette, faites chauffer votre
eau, répondit le Flamand en interrompant la cuisinière.
—Je m’y connais assez pour savoir qu’il y avait ici mille marcs
d’argenterie, que vous et votre maître vous les avez fondus, et que,
si on vous laisse aller votre train, vous ferez si bien de cinq sous six
blancs, qu’il n’y aura bientôt plus rien.
—Et monsieur, dit Martha survenant, tuera madame pour se
débarrasser d’une femme qui le retient, et l’empêche de tout avaler.
Il est possédé du démon, cela se voit! Le moins que vous risquiez en
l’aidant, Mulquinier, c’est votre âme, si vous en avez une, car vous
êtes là comme un morceau de glace, pendant que tout est ici dans la
désolation. Ces demoiselles pleurent comme des Madeleines.
Courez donc chercher monsieur l’abbé de Solis.
—J’ai affaire pour monsieur, à ranger la laboratoire, dit le valet de
chambre. Il y a trop loin d’ici le quartier d’Esquerchin. Allez-y vous-
même.
—Voyez-vous ce monstre-là? dit Martha. Qui donnera le bain de
pieds à madame? la voulez-vous laisser mourir? Elle a le sang à la
tête.
—Mulquinier, dit Marguerite en arrivant dans la salle qui
précédait la cuisine, en revenant de chez monsieur de Solis, vous
prierez monsieur Pierquin le médecin de venir promptement ici.
—Hein! vous irez, dit Josette.
—Mademoiselle, monsieur m’a dit de ranger son laboratoire,
répondit Lemulquinier en se retournant vers les deux femmes qu’il
regarda d’un air despotique.
—Mon père, dit Marguerite à monsieur Claës qui descendait en
ce moment, ne pourrais-tu pas nous laisser Mulquinier pour
l’envoyer en ville?
 —Tu iras, vilain chinois, dit Martha en entendant monsieur Claës
mettre Lemulquinier aux ordres de sa fille.
Le peu de dévouement du valet de chambre pour la maison était
le grand sujet de querelle entre ces deux femmes et Lemulquinier,
dont la froideur avait eu pour résultat d’exalter l’attachement de
Josette et de la duègne. Cette lutte si mesquine en apparence influa
beaucoup sur l’avenir de cette famille, quand, plus tard, elle eut
besoin de secours contre le malheur. Balthazar redevint si distrait,
qu’il ne s’aperçut pas de l’état maladif dans lequel était Joséphine. Il
prit Jean sur ses genoux, et le fit sauter machinalement, en pensant
au problème qu’il avait dès lors la possibilité de résoudre. Il vit
apporter le bain de pieds à sa femme qui, n’ayant pas eu la force de
se lever de la bergère où elle gisait, était restée dans le parloir. Il
regarda même ses deux filles s’occupant de leur mère, sans
chercher la cause de leurs soins empressés. Quand Marguerite ou
Jean voulaient parler, madame Claës réclamait le silence en leur
montrant Balthazar. Une scène semblable était de nature à faire
penser Marguerite, qui placée entre son père et sa mère, se trouvait
assez âgée, assez raisonnable déjà pour en apprécier la conduite. Il
arrive un moment dans la vie intérieure des familles, où les enfants
deviennent, soit volontairement, soit involontairement, les juges de
leurs parents. Madame Claës avait compris le danger de cette
situation. Par amour pour Balthazar, elle s’efforçait de justifier aux
yeux de Marguerite ce qui, dans l’esprit juste d’une fille de seize ans,
pouvait paraître des fautes chez un père. Aussi le profond respect
qu’en cette circonstance madame Claës témoignait pour Balthazar,
en s’effaçant devant lui, pour ne pas en troubler la méditation,
imprimait-il à ses enfants une sorte de terreur pour la majesté
paternelle. Mais ce dévouement, quelque contagieux qu’il fût,
augmentait encore l’admiration que Marguerite avait pour sa mère à
laquelle l’unissaient plus particulièrement les accidents journaliers de
la vie. Ce sentiment était fondé sur une sorte de divination de
souffrances dont la cause devait naturellement préoccuper une
jeune fille. Aucune puissance humaine ne pouvait empêcher que
parfois un mot échappé soit à Martha, soit à Josette, ne révélât à
Marguerite l’origine de la situation dans laquelle la maison se
trouvait depuis quatre ans. Malgré la discrétion de madame Claës,
sa fille découvrait donc insensiblement, lentement, fil à fil, la trame
mystérieuse de ce drame domestique. Marguerite allait être, dans un
temps donné, la confidente active de sa mère, et serait au
dénoûment le plus redoutable des juges. Aussi tous les soins de
madame Claës se portaient-ils sur Marguerite à laquelle elle tâchait
de communiquer son dévouement pour Balthazar. La fermeté, la
raison qu’elle rencontrait chez sa fille la faisaient frémir à l’idée d’une
lutte possible entre Marguerite et Balthazar, quand, après sa mort,
elle serait remplacée par elle dans la conduite intérieure de la
maison. Cette pauvre femme en était donc arrivée à plus trembler
des suites de sa mort que de sa mort même. Sa sollicitude pour
Balthazar éclatait dans la résolution qu’elle venait de prendre. En
libérant les biens de son mari, elle en assurait l’indépendance, et
prévenait toute discussion en séparant ses intérêts de ceux de ses
enfants; elle espérait le voir heureux jusqu’au moment où elle
fermerait les yeux; puis elle comptait transmettre les délicatesses de
son cœur à Marguerite, qui continuerait à jouer auprès de lui le rôle
d’un ange d’amour, en exerçant sur la famille une autorité tutélaire et
conservatrice. N’était-ce pas faire luire encore du fond de sa tombe
son amour sur ceux qui lui étaient chers? Néanmoins elle ne voulut
pas déconsidérer le père aux yeux de la fille en l’initiant avant le
temps aux terreurs que lui inspirait la passion scientifique de
Balthazar; elle étudiait l’âme et le caractère de Marguerite pour
savoir si cette jeune fille deviendrait par elle-même une mère pour
ses frères et sa sœur, pour son père une femme douce et tendre.
Ainsi les derniers jours de madame Claës étaient empoisonnés par
des calculs et par des craintes qu’elle n’osait confier à personne. En
se sentant atteinte dans sa vie même par cette dernière scène, elle
jetait ses regards jusque dans l’avenir; tandis que Balthazar,
désormais inhabile à tout ce qui liait économie, fortune, sentiments
domestiques, pensait à trouver l’Absolu. Le profond silence qui
régnait an parloir n’était interrompu que par le mouvement monotone
du pied de Claës qui continuait à le mouvoir sans s’apercevoir que
Jean en était descendu. Assise près de sa mère de qui elle
contemplait le visage pâle et décomposé, Marguerite se tournait de
moments en moments vers son père, en s’étonnant de son
insensibilité. Bientôt la porte de la rue retentit en se fermant, et la
famille vit l’abbé de Solis appuyé sur son neveu, qui tous deux
traversaient lentement la cour.
—Ah! voici monsieur Emmanuel, dit Félicie.
—Le bon jeune homme! dit madame Claës en apercevant
Emmanuel de Solis, j’ai du plaisir à le revoir.
Marguerite rougit en entendant l’éloge qui échappait à sa mère.
Depuis deux jours, l’aspect de ce jeune homme avait éveillé dans
son cœur des sentiments inconnus, et dégourdi dans son
intelligence des pensées jusqu’alors inertes. Pendant la visite faite
par le confesseur à sa pénitente, il s’était passé de ces
imperceptibles événements qui tiennent beaucoup de place dans la
vie, et dont les résultats furent assez importants pour exiger ici la
peinture des deux nouveaux personnages introduits au sein de la
famille. Madame Claës avait eu pour principe d’accomplir en secret
ses pratiques de dévotion. Son directeur, presque inconnu chez elle,
se montrait pour la seconde fois dans sa maison; mais là, comme
ailleurs, on devait être saisi par une sorte d’attendrissement et
d’admiration à l’aspect de l’oncle et du neveu. L’abbé de Solis,
vieillard octogénaire à chevelure d’argent, montrait un visage
décrépit, où la vie semblait s’être retirée dans les yeux. Il marchait
difficilement, car, de ses deux jambes menues, l’une se terminait par
un pied horriblement déformé, contenu dans une espèce de sac de
velours qui l’obligeait à se servir d’une béquille quand il n’avait pas le
bras de son neveu. Son dos voûté, son corps desséché offraient le
spectacle d’une nature souffrante et frêle, dominée par une volonté
de fer et par un chaste esprit religieux qui l’avait conservée. Ce
prêtre espagnol, remarquable par un vaste savoir, par une piété
vraie, par des connaissances très-étendues, avait été
successivement dominicain, grand-pénitencier de Tolède, et vicaire-
général de l’archevêché de Malines. Sans la révolution française, la
protection des Casa-Réal l’eût porté aux plus hautes dignités de
l’Église; mais le chagrin que lui causa la mort du jeune duc, son
élève, le dégoûta d’une vie active, et il se consacra tout entier à
l’éducation de son neveu, devenu de très-bonne heure orphelin. Lors
de la conquête de la Belgique, il s’était fixé près de madame de
Claës. Dès sa jeunesse, l’abbé de Solis avait professé pour sainte
Thérèse un enthousiasme qui le conduisit autant que la pente de
son esprit vers la partie mystique du christianisme. En trouvant, en
Flandre, où mademoiselle Bourignon, ainsi que les écrivains
illuminés et quiétistes firent le plus de prosélytes, un troupeau de
catholiques adonnés à ses croyances, il y resta d’autant plus
volontiers qu’il y fut considéré comme un patriarche par cette
Communion particulière où l’on continue à suivre les doctrines des
Mystiques, malgré les censures qui frappèrent Fénelon et madame
Guyon. Ses mœurs étaient rigides, sa vie était exemplaire, et il
passait pour avoir des extases. Malgré le détachement qu’un
religieux si sévère devait pratiquer pour les choses de ce monde,
l’affection qu’il portait à son neveu le rendait soigneux de ses
intérêts. Quand il s’agissait d’une œuvre de charité, le vieillard
mettait à contribution les fidèles de son église avant d’avoir recours
à sa propre fortune, et son autorité patriarcale était si bien reconnue,
ses intentions étaient si pures, sa perspicacité si rarement en défaut
que chacun faisait honneur à ses demandes. Pour avoir une idée du
contraste qui existait entre l’oncle et le neveu, il faudrait comparer le
vieillard à l’un de ces saules creux qui végètent au bord des eaux, et
le jeune homme à l’églantier chargé de roses dont la tige élégante et
droite s’élance du sein de l’arbre moussu, qu’il semble vouloir
redresser.
Sévèrement élevé par son oncle, qui le gardait près de lui
comme une matrone garde une vierge, Emmanuel était plein de
cette chatouilleuse sensibilité, de cette candeur à demi rêveuse,
fleurs passagères de toutes les jeunesses, mais vivaces dans les
âmes nourries de religieux principes. Le vieux prêtre avait comprimé
l’expression des sentiments voluptueux chez son élève, en le
préparant aux souffrances de la vie par des travaux continus, par
une discipline presque claustrale. Cette éducation, qui devait livrer
Emmanuel tout neuf au monde, et le rendre heureux s’il rencontrait
bien dans ses premières affections, l’avait revêtu d’une angélique
pureté qui communiquait à sa personne le charme dont sont
investies les jeunes filles. Ses yeux timides, mais doublés d’une âme
forte et courageuse, jetaient une lumière qui vibrait dans l’âme
comme le son du cristal épand ses ondulations dans l’ouïe. Sa figure
expressive, quoique régulière, se recommandait par une grande
précision dans les contours, par l’heureuse disposition des lignes, et
par le calme profond que donne la paix du cœur. Tout y était
harmonieux. Ses cheveux noirs, ses yeux et ses sourcils bruns
rehaussaient encore un teint blanc et de vives couleurs. Sa voix était
celle qu’on attendait d’un si beau visage. Ses mouvements féminins
s’accordaient avec la mélodie de sa voix, avec les tendres clartés de
son regard. Il semblait ignorer l’attrait qu’excitaient la réserve à demi
mélancolique de son attitude, la retenue de ses paroles, et les soins
respectueux qu’il prodiguait à son oncle. A le voir étudiant la marche
tortueuse du vieil abbé pour se prêter à ses douloureuses déviations
de manière à ne pas les contrarier, regardant au loin ce qui pouvait
lui blesser les pieds et le conduisant dans le meilleur chemin, il était
impossible de ne pas reconnaître chez Emmanuel les sentiments
généreux qui font de l’homme une sublime créature. Il paraissait si
grand, en aimant son oncle sans le juger, en lui obéissant sans
jamais discuter ses ordres, que chacun voulait voir une
prédestination dans le nom suave que lui avait donné sa marraine.
Quand, soit chez lui, soit chez les autres, le vieillard exerçait son
despotisme de dominicain, Emmanuel relevait parfois la tête si
noblement, comme pour protester de sa force s’il se trouvait aux
prises avec un autre homme, que les personnes de cœur étaient
émues, comme le sont les artistes à l’aspect d’une grande œuvre,
car les beaux sentiments ne sonnent pas moins fort dans l’âme par
les conceptions vivantes que par les réalisations de l’art.
Emmanuel avait accompagné son oncle quand il était venu chez
sa pénitente, pour examiner les tableaux de la maison Claës. En
apprenant par Martha que l’abbé de Solis était dans la galerie,
Marguerite, qui désirait voir cet homme célèbre, avait cherché
quelque prétexte menteur pour rejoindre sa mère, afin de satisfaire
sa curiosité. Entrée assez étourdiment, en affectant la légèreté sous
laquelle les jeunes filles cachent si bien leurs désirs, elle avait
rencontré près du vieillard vêtu de noir, courbé, déjeté, cadavéreux,
la fraîche, la délicieuse figure d’Emmanuel. Les regards également
jeunes, également naïfs de ces deux êtres avaient exprimé le même
étonnement. Emmanuel et Marguerite s’étaient sans doute déjà vus
l’un et l’autre dans leurs rêves. Tous deux baissèrent leurs yeux et
les relevèrent ensuite par un même mouvement, en laissant
échapper un même aveu. Marguerite prit le bras de sa mère, lui
parla tout bas par maintien, et s’abrita pour ainsi dire sous l’aile
maternelle, en tendant le cou par un mouvement de cygne, pour
revoir Emmanuel qui, de son côté, restait attaché au bras de son
oncle. Quoique habilement distribué pour faire valoir chaque toile, le
jour faible de la galerie favorisa ces coups d’œil furtifs qui sont la joie
des gens timides. Sans doute chacun d’eux n’alla pas, même en
pensée, jusqu’au si par lequel commencent les passions; mais tous
deux ils sentirent ce trouble profond qui remue le cœur, et sur
lesquels au jeune âge on se garde à soi-même le secret, par
friandise ou par pudeur. La première impression qui détermine les
débordements d’une sensibilité long-temps contenue, est suivie chez
tous les jeunes gens de l’étonnement à demi stupide que causent
aux enfants les premières sonneries de la musique. Parmi les
enfants, les uns rient et pensent, d’autres ne rient qu’après avoir
pensé; mais ceux dont l’âme est appelée à vivre de poésie ou
d’amour écoutent long-temps et redemandent la mélodie par un
regard où s’allume déjà le plaisir, où poind la curiosité de l’infini. Si
nous aimons irrésistiblement les lieux où nous avons été, dans notre
enfance, initiés aux beautés de l’harmonie, si nous nous souvenons
avec délices et du musicien et même de l’instrument, comment se
défendre d’aimer l’être qui, le premier, nous révèle les musiques de
la vie? Le premier cœur où nous avons aspiré l’amour n’est-il pas
comme une patrie? Emmanuel et Marguerite furent l’un pour l’autre
cette Voix musicale qui réveille un sens, cette Main qui relève des
voiles nuageux et montre les rives baignées par les feux du midi.
Quand madame Claës arrêta le vieillard devant un tableau de Guide
qui représentait un ange, Marguerite avança la tête pour voir quelle
serait l’impression d’Emmanuel, et le jeune homme chercha
Marguerite pour comparer la muette pensée de la toile à la vivante
pensée de la créature. Cette involontaire et ravissante flatterie fut
comprise et savourée. Le vieil abbé louait gravement cette belle
composition, et madame Claës lui répondait; mais les deux enfants
étaient silencieux. Telle fut leur rencontre. Le jour mystérieux de la
galerie, la paix de la maison, la présence des parents, tout
contribuait à graver plus avant dans le cœur les traits délicats de ce
vaporeux mirage. Les mille pensées confuses qui venaient de
pleuvoir chez Marguerite se calmèrent, firent dans son âme comme
une étendue limpide et se teignirent d’un rayon lumineux, quand
Emmanuel balbutia quelques phrases en prenant congé de madame
Claës. Cette voix, dont le timbre frais et velouté répandait au cœur
des enchantements inouïs, compléta la révélation soudaine
qu’Emmanuel avait causée et qu’il devait féconder à son profit; car
l’homme dont se sert le destin pour éveiller l’amour au cœur d’une
jeune fille, ignore souvent son œuvre et la laisse alors inachevée.
Marguerite s’inclina tout interdite, et mit ses adieux dans un regard
où semblait se peindre le regret de perdre cette pure et charmante
vision. Comme l’enfant, elle voulait encore sa mélodie. Cet adieu fut
fait au bas du vieil escalier, devant la porte du parloir; et, quand elle
y entra, elle regarda l’oncle et le neveu jusqu’à ce que la porte de la
rue se fût fermée. Madame Claës avait été trop occupée des sujets
graves, agités dans sa conférence avec son directeur, pour avoir pu
examiner la physionomie de sa fille. Au moment où monsieur de
Solis et son neveu apparaissaient pour la seconde fois, elle était
encore trop violemment troublée pour apercevoir la rougeur qui
colora le visage de Marguerite en révélant les fermentations du
premier plaisir reçu dans un cœur vierge. Quand le vieil abbé fut
annoncé, Marguerite avait repris son ouvrage, et parut y prêter une
si grande attention qu’elle salua l’oncle et le neveu sans les
regarder. Monsieur Claës rendit machinalement le salut que lui fit
l’abbé de Solis, et sortit du parloir comme un homme emporté par
ses occupations. Le pieux dominicain s’assit près de sa pénitente en
lui jetant un de ces regards profonds par lesquels il sondait les
âmes, il lui avait suffi de voir monsieur Claës et sa femme pour
deviner une catastrophe.
—Mes enfants, dit la mère, allez dans le jardin. Marguerite,
montrez à Emmanuel les tulipes de votre père.
Marguerite, à demi honteuse, prit le bras de Félicie, regarda le
jeune homme qui rougit et qui sortit du parloir en saisissant Jean par
contenance. Quand ils furent tous les quatre dans le jardin, Félicie et
Jean allèrent de leur côté, quittèrent Marguerite, qui, restée presque
seule avec le jeune de Solis, le mena devant le buisson de tulipes
invariablement arrangé de la même façon, chaque année, par
Lemulquinier.
—Aimez-vous les tulipes? demanda Marguerite après être
demeurée pendant un moment dans le plus profond silence sans
qu’Emmanuel parût vouloir le rompre.
—Mademoiselle, c’est de belles fleurs, mais pour les aimer, il faut
sans doute en avoir le goût, savoir en apprécier les beautés. Ces
fleurs m’éblouissent. L’habitude du travail, dans la sombre petite
chambre où je demeure, près de mon oncle, me fait sans doute
préférer ce qui est doux à la vue.
En disant ces derniers mots, il contempla Marguerite, mais sans
que ce regard plein de confus désirs contînt aucune allusion à la
blancheur mate, au calme, aux couleurs tendres qui faisaient de ce
visage une fleur.
—Vous travaillez donc beaucoup? reprit Marguerite en
conduisant Emmanuel sur un banc de bois à dossier peint en vert.
D’ici, dit-elle en continuant, vous ne verrez pas les tulipes de si près,
elle vous fatigueront moins les yeux. Vous avez raison, ces couleurs
papillotent et font mal.
—A quoi je travaille? répondit le jeune homme après un moment
de silence pendant lequel il avait égalisé sous son pied le sable de
l’allée. Je travaille à toutes sortes de choses. Mon oncle voulait me
faire prêtre...
—Oh! fit naïvement Marguerite.
—J’ai résisté, je ne me sentais pas de vocation. Mais il m’a fallu
beaucoup de courage pour contrarier les désirs de mon oncle. Il est
si bon, il m’aime tant! il m’a dernièrement acheté un homme pour me
sauver de la conscription, moi, pauvre orphelin.
—A quoi vous destinez-vous donc? demanda Marguerite qui
parut vouloir reprendre sa phrase en laissant échapper un geste et
qui ajouta:—Pardon, monsieur, vous devez me trouver bien
curieuse.
 —Oh! mademoiselle, dit Emmanuel en la regardant avec autant
d’admiration que de tendresse, personne, excepté mon oncle, ne
m’a encore fait cette question. J’étudie pour être professeur. Que
voulez vous? je ne suis pas riche. Si je puis devenir principal d’un
collége en Flandre, j’aurai de quoi vivre modestement, et j’épouserai
quelque femme simple que j’aimerai bien. Telle est la vie que j’ai en
perspective. Peut-être est-ce pour cela que je préfère une
paquerette sur laquelle tout le monde passe, dans la plaine
d’Orchies, à ces belles tulipes pleines d’or, de pourpre, de saphirs,
d’émeraudes qui représentent une vie fastueuse, de même que la
paquerette représente une vie douce et patriarcale, la vie d’un
pauvre professeur que je serai.
—J’avais toujours appelé, jusqu’à présent, les paquerettes des
marguerites, dit-elle.
Emmanuel de Solis rougit excessivement, et chercha une
réponse en tourmentant le sable avec ses pieds. Embarrassé de
choisir entre toutes les idées qui lui venaient et qu’il trouvait sottes,
puis décontenancé par le retard qu’il mettait à répondre, il dit:—Je
n’osais prononcer votre nom... Et n’acheva pas.
—Professeur! reprit-elle.
—Oh! mademoiselle, je serai professeur pour avoir un état, mais
j’entreprendrai des ouvrages qui pourront me rendre plus
grandement utile. J’ai beaucoup de goût pour les travaux
historiques.
—Ah!
Ce ah! plein de pensées secrètes, rendit le jeune homme encore
plus honteux, et il se mit à rire niaisement en disant:—Vous me
faites parler de moi, mademoiselle, quand je devrais ne vous parler
que de vous.
—Ma mère et votre oncle ont terminé, je crois, leur conversation,
dit-elle en regardant à travers les fenêtres dans le parloir.
—J’ai trouvé madame votre mère bien changée.
 —Elle souffre, sans vouloir nous dire le sujet de ses souffrances,
et nous ne pouvons que pâtir de ses douleurs.
Madame Claës venait de terminer en effet une consultation
délicate, dans laquelle il s’agissait d’un cas de conscience, que
l’abbé de Solis pouvait seul décider. Prévoyant une ruine complète,
elle voulait retenir, à l’insu de Balthazar, qui se souciait peu de ses
affaires, une somme considérable sur le prix des tableaux que
monsieur de Solis se chargeait de vendre en Hollande, afin de la
cacher et de la réserver pour le moment où la misère pèserait sur sa
famille. Après une mûre délibération et après avoir apprécié les
circonstances dans lesquelles se trouvait sa pénitente, le vieux
dominicain avait approuvé cet acte de prudence. Il s’en alla pour
s’occuper de cette vente qui devait se faire secrètement, afin de ne
point trop nuire à la considération de monsieur Claës. Le vieillard
envoya son neveu, muni d’une lettre de recommandation, à
Amsterdam, où le jeune homme enchanté de rendre service à la
maison Claës réussit à vendre les tableaux de la galerie aux
célèbres banquiers Happe et Duncker, pour une somme ostensible
de quatre-vingt-cinq mille ducats de Hollande, et une somme de
quinze mille autres qui serait secrètement donnée à madame Claës.
Les tableaux étaient si bien connus, qu’il suffisait pour accomplir le
marché de la réponse de Balthazar à la lettre que la maison Happe
et Duncker lui écrivit. Emmanuel de Solis fut chargé par Claës de
recevoir le prix des tableaux qu’il lui expédia secrètement afin de
dérober à la ville de Douai la connaissance de cette vente. Vers la
fin de septembre, Balthazar remboursa les sommes qui lui avaient
été prêtées, dégagea ses biens et reprit ses travaux; mais la maison
Claës s’était dépouillée de son plus bel ornement. Aveuglé par sa
passion, il ne témoigna pas un regret, il se croyait si certain de
pouvoir promptement réparer cette perte qu’il avait fait faire cette
vente à réméré. Cent toiles peintes n’étaient rien aux yeux de
Joséphine auprès du bonheur domestique et de la satisfaction de
son mari; elle fit d’ailleurs remplir la galerie avec les tableaux qui
meublaient les appartements de réception, et pour dissimuler le vide
qu’ils laissaient dans la maison de devant, elle en changea les
ameublements. Ses dettes payées, Balthazar eut environ deux cent
mille francs à sa disposition pour recommencer ses expériences.
Monsieur l’abbé de Solis et son neveu furent les dépositaires des
quinze mille ducats réservés par madame Claës. Pour grossir cette
somme, l’abbé vendit les ducats auxquels les événements de la
guerre continentale avaient donné de la valeur. Cent soixante-six
mille francs en écus furent enterrés dans la cave de la maison
habitée par l’abbé de Solis. Madame Claës eut le triste bonheur de
voir son mari constamment occupé pendant près de huit mois.
Néanmoins trop rudement atteinte par le coup qu’il lui avait porté,
elle tomba dans une maladie de langueur qui devait nécessairement
empirer. La Science dévora si complétement Balthazar, que ni les
revers éprouvés par la France, ni la première chute de Napoléon, ni
le retour des Bourbons ne le tirèrent de ses occupations; il n’était ni
mari, ni père, ni citoyen, il fut chimiste. Vers la fin de l’année 1814,
madame Claës était arrivée à un degré de consomption qui ne lui
permettait plus de quitter le lit. Ne voulant pas végéter dans sa
chambre, où elle avait vécu heureuse, où les souvenirs de son
bonheur évanoui lui auraient inspiré d’involontaires comparaisons
avec le présent qui l’eussent accablée, elle demeurait dans le parloir.
Les médecins avaient favorisé le vœu de son cœur en trouvant cette
pièce plus aérée, plus gaie, et plus convenable à sa situation que sa
chambre. Le lit où cette malheureuse femme achevait de vivre, fut
dressé entre la cheminée et la fenêtre qui donnait sur le jardin. Elle
passa là ses derniers jours saintement occupée à perfectionner
l’âme de ses deux filles sur lesquelles elle se plut à laisser rayonner
le feu de la sienne. Affaibli dans ses manifestations, l’amour conjugal
permit à l’amour maternel de se déployer. La mère se montra
d’autant plus charmante qu’elle avait tardé d’être ainsi. Comme
toutes les personnes généreuses, elle éprouvait de sublimes
délicatesses de sentiment qu’elle prenait pour des remords. En
croyant avoir ravi quelques tendresses dues à ses enfants, elle
cherchait à racheter ses torts imaginaires, et avait pour eux des
attentions, des soins qui la leur rendaient délicieuse; elle voulait en
quelque sorte les faire vivre à même son cœur, les couvrir de ses
ailes défaillantes et les aimer en un jour pour tous ceux pendant
lesquels elle les avait négligés. Les souffrances donnaient à ses
caresses, à ses paroles, une onctueuse tiédeur qui s’exhalait de son
âme. Ses yeux caressaient ses enfants avant que sa voix ne les
émût par des intonations pleines de bons vouloirs, et sa main
semblait toujours verser sur eux des bénédictions.
Si après avoir repris ses habitudes de luxe, la maison Claës ne
reçut bientôt plus personne, si son isolement redevint plus complet,
si Balthazar ne donna plus de fête à l’anniversaire de son mariage,
la ville de Douai n’en fut pas surprise. D’abord la maladie de
madame Claës parut une raison suffisante de ce changement, puis
le paiement des dettes arrêta le cours des médisances, enfin les
vicissitudes politiques auxquelles la Flandre fut soumise, la guerre
des Cent Jours, l’occupation étrangère firent complétement oublier le
chimiste. Pendant ces deux années, la ville fut si souvent sur le point
d’être prise, si consécutivement occupée soit par les Français, soit
par les ennemis; il y vint tant d’étrangers, il s’y réfugia tant de
campagnards, il y eut tant d’intérêts soulevés, tant d’existences
mises en question, tant de mouvements et de malheurs, que chacun
ne pouvait penser qu’à soi. L’abbé de Solis et son neveu, les deux
frères Pierquin étaient les seules personnes qui vinssent visiter
madame Claës, l’hiver de 1814 à 1815 fut pour elle la plus
douloureuse des agonies. Son mari venait rarement la voir, il restait
bien après le dîner pendant quelques heures près d’elle, mais
comme elle n’avait plus la force de soutenir une longue
conversation, il disait une ou deux phrases éternellement
semblables, s’asseyait, se taisait et laissait régner au parloir un
épouvantable silence. Cette monotonie était diversifiée les jours où
l’abbé de Solis et son neveu passaient la soirée à la maison Claës.
Pendant que le vieil abbé jouait au trictrac avec Balthazar,
Marguerite causait avec Emmanuel, près du lit de sa mère qui
souriait à leurs innocentes joies sans faire apercevoir combien était
à la fois douloureuse et bonne sur son âme meurtrie, la brise fraîche
de ces virginales amours débordant par vagues et paroles à paroles.
L’inflexion de voix qui charmait ces deux enfants lui brisait le cœur,
un coup d’œil d’intelligence surpris entre eux la jetait, elle quasi
morte, en des souvenirs de ses heures jeunes et heureuses qui
rendaient au présent toute son amertume. Emmanuel et Marguerite
avaient une délicatesse qui leur faisait réprimer les délicieux
enfantillages de l’amour pour n’en pas offenser une femme endolorie
dont les blessures étaient instinctivement devinées par eux.
Personne encore n’a remarqué que les sentiments ont une vie qui
leur est propre, une nature qui procède des circonstances au milieu
desquelles ils sont nés; ils gardent et la physionomie des lieux où ils
ont grandi et l’empreinte des idées qui ont influé sur leurs
développements. Il est des passions ardemment conçues qui restent
ardentes comme celle de madame Claës pour son mari; puis il est
des sentiments auxquels tout a souri, qui conservent une allégresse
matinale, leurs moissons de joie ne vont jamais sans des rires et des
fêtes; mais il se rencontre aussi des amours fatalement encadrés de
mélancolie ou cerclés par le malheur, dont les plaisirs sont pénibles,
coûteux, chargés de craintes, empoisonnés par des remords ou
pleins de désespérance. L’amour enseveli dans le cœur
d’Emmanuel et de Marguerite sans que ni l’un ni l’autre ne
comprissent encore qu’il s’en allait de l’amour, ce sentiment éclos
sous la voûte sombre de la galerie Claës, devant un vieil abbé
sévère, dans un moment de silence et de calme; cet amour grave et
discret, mais fertile en nuances douces, en voluptés secrètes,
savourées comme des grappes volées au coin d’une vigne, subissait
la couleur brune, les teintes grises qui le décorèrent à ses premières
heures. En n’osant se livrer à aucune démonstration vive devant ce
lit de douleur, ces deux enfants agrandissaient leurs jouissances à
leur insu par une concentration qui les imprimait au fond de leur
cœur. C’était des soins donnés à la malade, et auxquels aimait à
participer Emmanuel, heureux de pouvoir s’unir à Marguerite en se
faisant par avance le fils de cette mère. Un remercîment
mélancolique remplaçait sur les lèvres de la jeune fille le mielleux
langage des amants. Les soupirs de leurs cœurs, remplis de joie par
quelque regard échangé, se distinguaient peu des soupirs arrachés
par le spectacle de la douleur maternelle. Leurs bons petits
moments d’aveux indirects, de promesses inachevées,
d’épanouissements comprimés pouvaient se comparer à ces
allégories peintes par Raphaël sur des fonds noirs. Ils avaient l’un et
l’autre une certitude qu’ils ne s’avouaient pas; ils savaient le soleil
au-dessus d’eux, mais ils ignoraient quel vent chasserait les gros
nuages noirs amoncelés sur leurs têtes; ils doutaient de l’avenir, et
craignant d’être toujours escortés par des souffrances, ils restaient
timidement dans les ombres de ce crépuscule, sans oser se dire:
Achèverons-nous ensemble la journée? Néanmoins la tendresse
que madame Claës témoignait à ses enfants cachait noblement tout
ce qu’elle se taisait à elle-même. Ses enfants ne lui causaient ni
tressaillement ni terreur, ils étaient sa consolation, mais ils n’étaient
pas sa vie; elle vivait par eux, elle mourait pour Balthazar. Quelque
pénible que fût pour elle la présence de son mari pensif durant des
heures entières, et qui lui jetait de temps en temps un regard
monotone, elle n’oubliait ses douleurs que pendant ces cruels
instants. L’indifférence de Balthazar pour cette femme mourante eût
semblé criminelle à quelque étranger qui en aurait été le témoin;
mais madame Claës et ses filles s’y étaient accoutumées, elles
connaissaient le cœur de cet homme, et l’absolvaient. Si, pendant la
journée, madame Claës subissait quelque crise dangereuse, si elle
se trouvait plus mal, si elle paraissait près d’expirer, Claës était le
seul dans la maison et dans la ville qui l’ignorât; Lemulquinier, son
valet de chambre, le savait: mais ni ses filles auxquelles leur mère
imposait silence, ni sa femme ne lui apprenaient les dangers que
courait une créature jadis si ardemment aimée. Quand son pas
retentissait dans la galerie au moment où il venait dîner, madame
Claës était heureuse, elle allait le voir, elle rassemblait ses forces
pour goûter cette joie. A l’instant où il entrait, cette femme pâle et
demi-morte se colorait vivement, reprenait un semblant de santé, le
savant arrivait auprès du lit, lui prenait la main, et la voyait sous une
fausse apparence; pour lui seul, elle était bien. Quand il lui
demandait: «Ma chère femme, comment vous trouvez-vous
aujourd’hui?» elle lui répondait: «Mieux, mon ami!» et faisait croire à
cet homme distrait que le lendemain elle serait levée, rétablie. La
préoccupation de Balthazar était si grande qu’il acceptait la maladie
dont mourait sa femme, comme une simple indisposition. Moribonde
pour tout le monde, elle était vivante pour lui. Une séparation
complète entre ces époux fut le résultat de cette année. Claës
couchait loin de sa femme, se levait dès le matin, et s’enfermait dans
son laboratoire ou dans son cabinet; en ne la voyant plus qu’en
présence de ses filles ou des deux ou trois amis qui venaient la
visiter, il se déshabitua d’elle. Ces deux êtres, jadis accoutumés à
penser ensemble, n’eurent plus, que de loin en loin, ces moments de
communication, d’abandon, d’épanchement qui constituent la vie du
cœur, et il vint un moment où ces rares voluptés cessèrent. Les
souffrances physiques vinrent au secours de cette pauvre femme, et
l’aidèrent à supporter un vide, une séparation qui l’eût tuée, si elle
avait été vivante. Elle éprouva de si vives douleurs que, parfois, elle
fut heureuse de ne pas en rendre témoin celui qu’elle aimait
toujours. Elle contemplait Balthazar pendant une partie de la soirée,
et le sachant heureux comme il voulait l’être, elle épousait ce
bonheur qu’elle lui avait procuré. Cette frêle jouissance lui suffisait,
elle ne se demandait plus si elle était aimée, elle s’efforçait de le
croire, et glissait sur cette couche de glace sans oser appuyer,
craignant de la rompre et de noyer son cœur dans un affreux néant.
Comme nul événement ne troublait ce calme, et que la maladie qui
dévorait lentement madame Claës contribuait à cette paix intérieure,
en maintenant l’affection conjugale à un état passif, il fut facile
d’atteindre dans ce morne état les premiers jours de l’année 1816.
 Vers la fin du mois de février, Pierquin le notaire porta le coup qui
devait précipiter dans la tombe une femme angélique dont l’âme,
disait l’abbé de Solis, était presque sans péché.
—Madame, lui dit-il à l’oreille en saisissant un moment où ses
filles ne pouvaient pas entendre leur conversation, monsieur Claës
m’a chargé d’emprunter trois cent mille francs sur ses propriétés,
prenez des précautions pour la fortune de vos enfants.
Madame Claës joignit les mains, leva les yeux au plafond, et
remercia le notaire par une inclination de tête bienveillante et par un
sourire triste dont il fut ému. Cette phrase fut un coup de poignard
qui tua Pépita. Dans cette journée elle s’était livrée à des réflexions
tristes qui lui avaient gonflé le cœur, et se trouvait dans une de ces
situations où le voyageur, n’ayant plus son équilibre, roule poussé
par un léger caillou jusqu’au fond du précipice qu’il a longtemps et
courageusement côtoyé. Quand le notaire fut parti, madame Claës
se fit donner par Marguerite tout ce qui lui était nécessaire pour
écrire, rassembla ses forces et s’occupa pendant quelques instants
d’un écrit testamentaire. Elle s’arrêta plusieurs fois pour contempler
sa fille. L’heure des aveux était venu. En conduisant la maison
depuis la maladie de sa mère, Marguerite avait si bien réalisé les
espérances de la mourante que madame Claës jeta sur l’avenir de
sa famille un coup d’œil sans désespoir, en se voyant revivre dans
cet ange aimant et fort. Sans doute ces deux femmes pressentaient
de mutuelles et tristes confidences à se faire, la fille regardait sa
mère aussitôt que sa mère la regardait, et toutes deux roulaient des
larmes dans leurs yeux. Plusieurs fois, Marguerite, au moment où
madame Claës se reposait, disait:—Ma mère? comme pour parler;
puis, elle s’arrêtait, comme suffoquée, sans que sa mère trop
occupée par ses dernières pensées lui demandât compte de cette
interrogation. Enfin, madame Claës voulut cacheter sa lettre;
Marguerite, qui lui tenait une bougie, se retira par discrétion pour ne
pas voir la suscription.
—Tu peux lire, mon enfant! lui dit sa mère d’un ton déchirant.
Marguerite vit sa mère traçant ces mots: A ma fille Marguerite.
 —Nous causerons quand je me serai reposée, ajouta-t-elle en
mettant la lettre sous son chevet.
Puis elle tomba sur son oreiller comme épuisée par l’effort qu’elle
venait de faire et dormit durant quelques heures. Quand elle
s’éveilla, ses deux filles, ses deux fils étaient à genoux devant son
lit, et priaient avec ferveur. Ce jour était un jeudi. Gabriel et Jean
venaient d’arriver du collége, amenés par Emmanuel de Solis,
nommé depuis six mois professeur d’histoire et de philosophie.
—Chers enfants, il faut nous dire adieu, s’écria-t-elle. Vous ne
m’abandonnez pas, vous! et celui que...
Elle n’acheva pas.
—Monsieur Emmanuel, dit Marguerite en voyant pâlir sa mère,
allez dire à mon père que maman se trouve plus mal.
Le jeune Solis monta jusqu’au laboratoire, et après avoir obtenu
de Lemulquinier que Balthazar vînt lui parler, celui-ci répondit à la
demande pressante du jeune homme:—J’y vais.
—Mon ami, dit madame Claës à Emmanuel quand il fut de retour,
emmenez mes deux fils et allez chercher votre oncle. Il est
nécessaire, je crois, de me donner les derniers sacrements, je
voudrais les recevoir de sa main.
Quand elle se trouva seule avec ses deux filles, elle fit un signe à
Marguerite qui, comprenant sa mère, renvoya Félicie.
—J’avais à vous parler aussi, ma chère maman, dit Marguerite
qui ne croyant pas sa mère aussi mal qu’elle l’était, agrandit la
blessure faite par Pierquin. Depuis dix jours, je n’ai plus d’argent
pour les dépenses de la maison, et je dois aux domestiques six mois
de gages. J’ai voulu déjà deux fois demander de l’argent à mon
père, et je ne l’ai pas osé. Vous ne savez pas! les tableaux de la
galerie et la cave ont été vendus.
—Il ne m’a pas dit un mot de tout cela, s’écria madame Claës. O
mon Dieu! vous me rappelez à temps vers vous. Mes pauvres
enfants, que deviendrez-vous? Elle fit une prière ardente qui lui
teignit les yeux des feux du repentir.—Marguerite, reprit-elle en tirant
la lettre de dessous son chevet, voici un écrit que vous n’ouvrirez et
ne lirez qu’au moment où, après ma mort, vous serez dans la plus
grande détresse, c’est-à-dire si vous manquiez de pain ici. Ma chère
Marguerite, aime bien ton père, mais aie soin de ta sœur et de tes
frères. Dans quelques jours, dans quelques heures peut-être! tu vas
être à la tête de la maison. Sois économe. Si tu te trouvais opposée
aux volontés de ton père, et le cas pourrait arriver, puisqu’il a
dépensé de grandes sommes à chercher un secret dont la
découverte doit être l’objet d’une gloire et d’une fortune immense, il
aura sans doute besoin d’argent, peut-être t’en demandera-t-il,
déploie alors toute la tendresse d’une fille, et sache concilier les
intérêts dont tu seras la seule protectrice avec ce que tu dois à un
père, à un grand homme qui sacrifie son bonheur, sa vie, à
l’illustration de sa famille; il ne pourrait avoir tort que dans la forme,
ses intentions seront toujours nobles, il est si excellent, son cœur est
plein d’amour; vous le reverrez bon et affectueux, vous! J’ai dû te
dire ces paroles sur le bord de la tombe, Marguerite. Si tu veux
adoucir les douleurs de ma mort, tu me promettras, mon enfant, de
me remplacer près de ton père, de ne lui point causer de chagrin; ne
lui reproche rien, ne le juge pas! Enfin, sois une médiatrice douce et
complaisante jusqu’à ce que, son œuvre terminée, il redevienne le
chef de sa famille.
—Je vous comprends, ma mère chérie, dit Marguerite en baisant
les yeux enflammés de la mourante, et je ferai comme il vous plaît.
—Ne te marie, mon ange, reprit madame Claës, qu’au moment
où Gabriel pourra te succéder dans le gouvernement des affaires et
de la maison. Ton mari, si tu te mariais, ne partagerait peut-être pas
tes sentiments, jetterait le trouble dans la famille et tourmenterait ton
père.
Marguerite regarda sa mère et lui dit:—N’avez-vous aucune autre
recommandation à me faire sur mon mariage?
—Hésiterais-tu, ma chère enfant? dit la mourante d’effroi.
—Non, répondit-elle, je vous promets de vous obéir.