of defeat. The expressions used by the pope in his condemnation were
very gentle. His propositions and expressions were declared rather as
leading to error, than erroneous; they were pronounced to be rash, ill
sounding, and pernicious in practice; but not heretical. While
condemning the book, the pope had learned to respect the author; and
said of him, to his opponents, "Peccavit in excessu amoris divini; sed
vos peccastis defectu amoris proximi;" an antithesis that caught the
ear, and was speedily in every body's mouth. His enemies were nettled.
They endeavoured to find flaws in his pastoral letter; they tried to
induce the pope to condemn the various writings which Fénélon had
published in defence of his work; but this Innocent XII. peremptorily
refused.
The king and the inimical bishops continued inveterate. The brief was
received and registered according to form. The metropolitan assemblies
applauded Fénélon's piety, virtue, and talents: some of his own
suffragans had the indecency and servility to make irrelevant objections
to his pastoral letter; but these were overruled. Bossuet drew up a
report of the whole affair, to be presented at the next assembly of the
clergy. Considerable want of candour is manifest in his account. He does
what he can to weaken the effect of Fénélon's submission, while he
insinuates excuses for his own vehemence. The report is remarkable with
regard to the testimony it gives to the innocence of madame Guyon. "As
to the abominations," it said, "which seemed the necessary consequences
of her doctrine, they were wholly out of the question; she herself
always mentioned them with horror." No reconciliation ever took place
between Fénélon and Bossuet, who died in 1714.[114]
Louis XIV. was inexorable. Fénélon continued in exile and his friends
in disgrace; such displeasure was shown, that the servile courtiers,
among whom we must rank, on this occasion, madame de Maintenon, kept
aloof from him. His friends, however, were true and faithful. They took
every opportunity of meeting together; it was their delight to talk of
him, to regret him, to express their wishes for his return, and to
contrive means of seeing him.
The circumstance that confirmed the king's distaste to the virtuous
archbishop, was the publication of Telemachus. Fénélon appears to have
employed his leisure, while preceptor to the princes, on composing a
work which hereafter would serve as a guide and instructor to the duke
of Burgundy. The unfortunate affair of quietism led him from such
studies; but Telemachus was already finished: he gave it to a valet to
copy, who sold it to a bookseller in Paris. The spies, who watched every
movement of the archbishop, gave notice of the existence of the book;
and when the printing had advanced to the 208th page, the whole was
seized, and every exertion to annihilate the work was made. Fortunately,
motives of gain sharpened men's wits for its preservation; a manuscript
copy was preserved; it was sold to Adrian Moetjens, a bookseller at the
Hague, who published it in June, 1699,--incorrectly, indeed, as it
remained during the author's life; but still it was printed; editions
were multiplied; it was translated into every European language, and
universally read and admired. In the work itself there was much to annoy
Louis XIV., who, as he grew old and bigoted, lost all the generosity
which he had heretofore possessed, and, spoilt by the sort of adoration
which all writers paid, grasped at flattery more eagerly than in his
earlier and more laudable career. The lessons of wisdom sounded like
censure in his ear. The courtiers increased his irritability, by making
particular applications of the personages in the tale[115]; but without
this frivolous and unfounded interpretation, there was enough to awaken
his sense of being covertly attacked. The very virtues fostered in the
duke of Burgundy, were, to his haughty mind, proof of the archbishop's
guilt. He saw, in the mingled loftiness and humility of his heir, in his
high sense of duty and love of peace, a living criticism of his reign.
From that moment Fénélon became odious; to visit, to love, to praise
him, ensured disgrace at court. Telemachus was never mentioned, though
Louis might have been aware that silence on such a subject, was to
acknowledge the justice of the lesson which he believed that it
conveyed.
Meanwhile Fénélon looked upon his residence in his diocese as his
natural and proper position. To cultivate internal calm, and to spread
the blessings of peace around, were the labour of his day. On his first
arrival, he had been received with transport. "Here I am," he cried,
"among my children, and therefore in my true place." And to the duke de
Beauvilliers he wrote: "I work softly and gently, and endeavour, as much
as I can, to put myself in the way of being useful to my flock. They
begin to love me. I endeavour to make them find me easy of access,
uniform in my conduct, and without haughtiness, rigour, selfishness, or
deceit: they already appear to have some confidence in me; and let me
assure you, that even these good Fleminders, with their homely
appearance, have more finesse than I wish to put into my conduct towards
them. They inquire of one another, whether I am really banished; and
they question my servants about it: if they put the question to me, I
shall make no mystery. It is certainly an affliction to be separated
from you, and the good duchess and my other friends; but I am happy to
be at a distance from the great scene, and sing the canticle of
deliverance." In accordance with this view, from this hour he devoted
himself to his diocesans. Rich and poor alike had easy access to him.
Disappointment and meditation had softened every priestly asperity. His
manner was the mirror of his benevolent expansive heart. A curate
wishing to put an end to the festive assemblies of the peasants on
Sundays and other festivals, Fénélon observed, "We will not dance
ourselves, M. le Curé, but we will suffer these poor people to enjoy
themselves." That he might keep watch over his inferior clergy, he
visited every portion of his diocese; twice a week, during lent, he
preached in some parish church of his diocese. On solemn festivals he
preached in his metropolitan church; visited the sick, assisted the
needy, and reformed abuses. He was particularly solicitous in forming
worthy ecclesiastics for the churches under his care. He removed his
seminary from Valenciennes to Cambray, that it might be more immediately
under his eye. His sermons were plain, instructive, simple; yet burning
with faith and charity. He lived like a brother with his under-clergy,
receiving advice; and never used authority except when absolutely
necessary.
He slept little, and was abstemious at table. His walks were his only
pleasure. During these, he conversed with his friends, or entered into
conversation with the peasants he might chance to meet; sitting on the
grass, or entering their cottages, as he listened to their complaints.
Long after his death, old men showed, with tears in their eyes, the
wooden chair which, in their boyhood, they had seen occupied by their
beloved and revered archbishop. His admirable benevolence, his unbounded
sympathy and calm sense of justice, won the hearts of all. One man of
high birth, who had been introduced into his palace, ostensibly as high
vicar, but really as a spy, was so touched by the unblemished virtue he
witnessed, that he threw himself at Fénélon's feet, confessed his
crime, and then, unable to meet his eye, banished himself from his
presence, and lived ever after in exile and obscurity.
The duke of Burgundy had been commanded to hold no intercourse with his
beloved and unforgotten preceptor; and the spies set over both were on
the alert to discover any letters. When the duke of Anjou was raised to
the throne of Spain, his elder brother conducted him to the frontier.
Soon after his return, he came to a resolution to break through the
king's restriction, and wrote to his revered teacher through his
governor, the duke de Beauvilliers. His letter is unaffected and
sincere; it laments the silence to which he had been condemned, and
assures the archbishop that his friendship had been augmented, not
chilled, by his misfortunes. It speaks of his own struggles to keep in
the paths of virtue; and relates that he loved study better than ever,
and was desirous of sending several of his writings to be corrected by
his preceptor, as he had formerly corrected his themes. Fénélon's
answer marks his delight in finding that his pupil adhered to the
lessons he had taught him. He confirms him in his piety: "In the name of
God," he writes, "let prayer nourish your soul, as food nourishes your
body. Do not make long prayers; let them spring more from the heart than
the understanding; little from reasoning--much from simple affection;
few ideas in consecutive order, but many acts of faith and love. Be
humble and little. I only speak to you of God and yourself. There need
be no question of me: my heart is in peace. My greatest misfortune has
been, not to see you; but I carry you unceasingly with me before God,
into a presence more intimate than that of the senses. I would give a
thousand lives like a drop of water, to see you such as God would wish
you to be!"
In all Fénélon's letters there is not a querulous word concerning his
exile, although we perceive traces in the view he takes of the position
of others, and in the advice he gives, of the pleasure he must have
derived from the cultivated society then collected in Paris; but he
could cheerfully bear absence from the busy scene. His simple and
affectionate heart found food for happiness among his flock. To instruct
his seminarists with the patience and gentleness that adorned his
character; to watch over the affairs of his diocese; to teach by
sermons, which flowed from the abundance of his heart; and in writing
letters of instruction to various of the laity, who placed themselves
under his direction,--were his occupations; and his time employed by
these duties and by writing, was fully and worthily employed. He
regretted his absence from some of his friends, with whom he
corresponded; but he never complained. The peace of heaven was in his
heart; and he breathed an air purged of all human disquietude. It was
his religion not to make himself unhappy about even his own errors. He
taught that we ought to deliver our souls into the hands of God, and
submit, as to his pleasure, to the shame and annoyance brought on us by
our imperfections; not only to feel as nothing before him, but not even
to wish to feel any thing. "I adore you, infant Jesus," he wrote,
"naked, and weeping, and stretched upon the cross. I love your infancy
and poverty: O! that I were as childlike and poor as you. O Eternal
wisdom, reduced to infancy, take away my vain and presumptuous wisdom;
make me a child like yourself. Be silent, ye wise men of the earth! I
desire to be nothing, to know nothing; to believe all, to suffer all,
and to love all. The Word, made flesh, lisps, weeps, and gives forth
infantine cries;--and shall I take pride in wisdom; shall I take
pleasure in the efforts of my understanding, and fear that the world
should not entertain a sufficiently high idea of my ability. No, no; all
my delight will be to grow little; to crush myself; to become obscure;
to be silent; to join to the shame of Jesus crucified, the impotence and
lisping of the infant Jesus."
When we reflect that this was written by a man who sedulously adorned
his mind by the study of the ancients, and who added to his own
language, books written with elegance and learning, and which display a
comprehensive understanding and delicate taste, we feel the extent of
that humility which could disregard all these human acquirements
compared with the omniscience of God; and that as Socrates acknowledged
that he knew nothing, and was therefore pronounced to be the wisest of
men, so did the sense which Fénélon entertained of the nothingness of
human wisdom, stamp him as far advanced in that higher knowledge which
can look down on all human efforts as the working of emmets on an
ant-hill.
Fénélon believed that man had no power to seek heavenly good without
the grace of the Saviour. When man does right, he alleged that he only
assented to the impulse of God, who disposed him through his grace so to
assent. When he did ill, he only resisted the action of God, which
produces no good in him without the co-operation of his assent, thus
preserving his free will. He considered true charity, or love of God, to
which he gave this name, as an intimate sense of and delight in God's
perfections, without any aspiration to salvation. He supposed that there
was a love of the beautiful, the perfect, and the orderly, beyond all
taste and sentiment, which may influence us when we lose the pleasurable
sense of the action of the grace of God, and which is a sufficing reason
to move the will in all the pains and privations which abound on the
holy paths of virtue. He would have carried this notion further, but was
obliged to mould his particular notion by the faith of the church, which
enforces what it calls a "chaste hope of salvation," in contradiction to
the quietists, who banish every idea of beatification, and profess to be
willing to encounter perdition, if such were the Almighty's will. He was
more opposed to jansenism, which makes salvation all in all, while it
confines it to the elect of God. Jansenism, indeed, he considered as
peculiarly injurious, and destructive to the true love of God. But as
bigotry made no part of his nature, he tolerated the jansenists, though
he would gladly have converted them; he invited their chief, father
Quesnell, to his palace, promising not to introduce any controversy
unless he wished; but testifying his desire, at the same time, to prove
that he mistook the meaning of St. Augustin, on whom Jansenius founded
his doctrine. Of Pascal's Provincial Letters, he wrote to the duke de
Beauvilliers, that he recommended that his royal pupil should read them,
as the great reputation they enjoyed, would cause him certainly to
desire to see them; and sent a memorial at the same time, which he
considered as a refutation of the mistakes into which he believed Pascal
had fallen. He was equally tolerant of protestants; and when M. Brunier,
minister of the protestants dispersed on the frontiers of France, came
to Mons to see him, Fénélon received him with his accustomed cordial
hospitality, and begged him often to repeat his visit.
During the war for the Spanish succession, Fénélon's admirable
character shone forth in all its glory. Living on a frontier exposed to
the incursions of the enemy, he was active in alleviating the sufferings
of the people. The nobles and officers of the French armies, who passed
through Cambray, pointedly avoided him, out of compliment to their
mistaken sovereign; while a contrary sentiment, a wish to annoy Louis
XIV., joined to sincere admiration of his genius and virtue, caused the
enemy to act very differently. The English, Germans, and Dutch, were
eager to display their veneration of the archbishop. They afforded him
every facility for visiting the various parts of his diocese. They sent
detachments to guard his fields, and to escort his harvest into the
city. He was often obliged to have recourse to artifice to avoid the
honours which the generals of the armies of the enemy were desirous of
paying. He declined the visits of the duke of Marlborough and prince
Eugene, who were desirous of rendering homage to his excellence. He
refused the military escorts offered to ensure his safety; and, with the
attendance only of a few ecclesiastics, he traversed countries
devastated by war, carrying peace and succour in his train, so that his
pastoral visits might be termed the truce of God. The French biographers
delight in recording one trait of his benevolence. During one of his
journeys, he met a peasant in the utmost affliction. The archbishop
asked the cause of his grief; and was told that the enemy had driven
away his cow, on which his family depended for support, and that his
life was in danger if he went to seek it. Fénélon, on this, set off in
pursuit, found the cow, and drove it home himself to the peasant's
cottage.
Deserted and neglected by his countrymen, he took pleasure in receiving
foreigners, and learning from them the manners, customs, and laws of
their various countries. His philanthropy was of the most extensive
kind: "I love my family," he said, "better than myself; I love my
country better than my family; but I love the human race more than my
country." A German prince visited him, desirous of receiving lessons of
wisdom. Him he taught toleration; satisfaction in a constitutional
government; and a desire for the progress of knowledge among his
subjects. The duke of Orleans, afterwards the libertine regent of
France, consulted him with regard to many sceptical doubts. He asked him
how the existence of God was proved; what worship the Deity approved,
and whether he was offended by a false one. Fénélon replied by a
treatise on the existence of God, which is characterised, as his
theology always is, by a fervent spirit of charity.
In 1702 the duke of Burgundy headed the army in Flanders. He with
difficulty obtained leave to see the archbishop, when he visited
Cambray; his interview, when permitted, was restricted to being a public
one. Fénélon, fearing to raise a painful struggle in his beloved
pupil's mind, had left Cambray, when the letter came to apprise him that
they were allowed to meet. They met at a public dinner at the town-house
of Cambray. It passed in cold ceremony and painful reserve: it was only
at the close, when Fénélon presented the napkin to the prince, that
the latter marked his internal feeling, when, on returning it, he said
aloud, "I am aware, my lord archbishop, of what I owe you, and you know
what I am." They corresponded after this, and Fénélon's letters are
remarkable for the care he takes to check all bigotry, intolerance, and
petty religious observances in his pupil; telling him that a prince
cannot serve God as a hermit or an obscure individual. He informed him
that the public regarded him as virtuous, but as stern, timid, and
scrupulous. He endeavoured to raise him above these poorer thoughts, to
the lofty height he himself had reached. He taught him to regard his
rank in its proper light, as a motive for goodness and benevolence, and
to desire to be the father, not the master of his people. His opinions
with regard to the duke are given in great detail in a letter of advice
addressed to the duke Beauvilliers, in which we see that the priest has
no sinister influence over the man; and that while Fénélon practised
privation in his own person, he could recommend an opposite course to an
individual differently placed. This intercourse was again renewed in
1708, when the duke again made a campaign in Flanders. The letters of
his ancient preceptor on this occasion, are frank and manly: he tells
him the public opinion; he advises him how best to gain general
confidence; and to sacrifice all his narrow and peculiar opinions to an
elevated, unprejudiced view of humanity. The reply of the prince,
thanking him for his counsels, and assuring him of his resolution to act
upon them, is highly worthy of a man of honour and virtue.
[Sidenote: 1709.
Ætat.
58.]
The effect of the war was to spread famine and misery throughout France:
1709 was a year marked by suffering and want; the army in Flanders was
destitute of dépôts for food. Fénélon set the example of furnishing
the soldiery with bread. Some narrow-minded men around him remonstrated,
saying that the king had treated him so ill, that he did not deserve
that he should come forward to assist his subjects. Fénélon, animated
by that simple sense of justice that characterised him, replied, "The
king owes me nothing; and in the evils that overwhelm the people, I
ought, as a Frenchman and a bishop, to give back to the state what I
have received from it." His palace was open to the officers who needed
assistance and shelter; and after the battle of Malplaquet, that, as
well as his neighbouring seminary, was filled with the wounded. His
generosity went so far as to hire houses to receive others, when his own
apartments were full. His prudence and order afforded him the means of
meeting these calls on his liberality, which he did not confine to the
upper classes. Whole villages were emptied by the approach of the
armies, and the inhabitants took refuge in the fortified towns: to watch
over these sufferers--to console them, and prevent the disorders usually
incident to such an addition to the population, was another task, which
he cheerfully fulfilled, going about among them, and soothing them with
his gentleness and kindness.
[Sidenote: 1711.
Ætat.
60.]
When the dauphin, father of the duke of Burgundy, died,--men, supple in
their servility, began to consider that, on the event of his pupil's
accession to the throne, Fénélon would become powerful; and the nobles
and officers began to pay him court, when passing through Cambray:
Fénélon received them with the same simplicity with which he regarded
their absence. He was far above all human grandeur; he only made use of
the respect rendered him, for the benefit of those who paid it. It was a
miserable reverse to his hopes for France when his royal pupil died.
[Sidenote: 1712.
Ætat.
61.]
Fénélon received the intelligence of his death with that mingled grief
and resignation that belonged to his character. He declared, that though
all his ties were broken, and that nothing hereafter would attach him to
earth, yet that he would not move a finger to recall the prince to life,
against the will of God. His last years were marked by the deaths of
several of his dearest friends. The abbé de Langeron, banished from
court for his sake, and who resided with him at Cambray, had died 1710,
and with his death began the series of losses afterwards destined to
afflict Fénélon deeply. In 1713 the dukes de Bouvilliers and de
Chevreuse, both died. He felt his losses deeply; knowing that they came
from the hand of God, he resigned himself, but grew entirely detached
from the affections and interests of this world.
Louis at last learnt to appreciate the merits of the most virtuous and
wisest man in his kingdom. His misfortunes, and the deaths, one after
the other, of all his posterity, softened his heart; added to this, the
death of Fénélon's pupil took away the sting of envy; he no longer
feared that he should be surpassed in glory and good by his successor;
and he could love the teacher of those virtues, which existed no longer
in the person of his grandson to eclipse his own. That such unworthy
motives might actuate him, is proved by his act of burning all the
papers and letters of Fénélon which were found among the effects of
the duke of Burgundy after his death. Fénélon requested the duke de
Beauvilliers to claim them, who made the request to madame de Maintenon.
She replied: "I was desirous of sending you back all the papers
belonging to you and M. de Cambray; but the king chose to burn them
himself. I confess that I am truly sorry; nothing so beautiful or so
good was ever written. If the prince whom we lament had some faults, it
was not because the counsels given him were feeble, or because he was
too much flattered. We may say, that those who act uprightly are never
put to confusion." But though the king indulged a mean spirit in
destroying these invaluable papers, the reading them led him to esteem
the writer. Accordingly, he often sent to consult him, and was about to
recall him to court, when the fatal event arrived, which robbed the
world of him. We are told also that the pope, Clement XI., had destined
for him a cardinal's hat.