Fénelon: The Mystic

by James Mudge

The battle was now on, and it was between two giants. Bossuet, the eagle, was essentially masculine, marked by solidity, vigor, and logic. Fénelon, the swan, was essentially feminine, filled with tenderness, spiritual enthusiasm, aspiration. Bossuet had the experience of age, Fénelon the full powers of middle manhood; Bossuet had the greater skill in argument, Fénelon the richer imagination. Bossuet in style, it has been said, reminds one of the expansive and philosophical mind of Burke, combined with the heavy strength and dictatorial manner of Johnson. Fénelon had a large share of the luxuriant imagination of Jeremy Taylor, chastened by the refined taste and classic ease of Addison. Fénelon was naturally mild and forbearing in disposition, but inflexible in his principles and incapable of being influenced by pleasures on the one hand, or by threats on the other; he was amiable without weakness, firm without bitterness. Bossuet, on the other hand, was a man of strong passions, accustomed to ascendency, impatient of opposition, and, as the contest went on, irritated by the unexpected difficulties he encountered, he resorted to means for the carrying of his cause which have left a lasting stain upon his name. But Fénelon came forth from the ordeal, even as John Fletcher did in his controversy with Toplady, elevated all the higher in the admiration of mankind. Bossuet, in the course of the contest, referring to one of Fénelon’s publications, made the following remark: “His friends say everywhere that his reply is a triumphant work, and that he has great advantages in it over me. We shall see hereafter whether it is so.” Fénelon thereupon addressed a letter to Bossuet in the following terms: “May heaven forbid that I should strive for victory over any person, least of all over you. It is not man’s victory, but God’s glory which I seek; and happy, thrice happy shall I be if that object is secured, though it should be attended with my confusion and with your triumph. There is no occasion, therefore, to say, ‘We shall see who will have the advantage.’ I am ready now, without waiting for future developments, to acknowledge that you are my superior in science, in genius, in everything that usually commands attention. And in respect to the controversy between us, there is nothing which I wish more than to be vanquished by you if the positions which I take are wrong. Two things only do I desire—truth and peace; truth which may enlighten, and peace which may unite us.”

The two combatants put forth all their strength, and the conflict attracted the eyes of all Europe. Book followed book in close and quick succession on both sides. Each of the antagonists showed a thorough mastery of the subject, and exerted himself to the utmost, stimulated by the importance of the struggle and the large issues at stake, not only of a personal nature but of a general character. The whole Christian world looked on with deep interest.

The chief doctrine that Fénelon set himself to defend is summarized by Upham in the following three propositions: “First, the provisions of the Gospel are such that men may gain the entire victory over their sinful propensities, and may live in constant and accepted communion with God; second, persons are in this state when they love God with all their heart; in other words, with pure or unselfish love; third, there have been instances of Christians, though probably few in number, who, so far as can be decided by man’s imperfect judgment, have reached this state, and it is the duty of all, encouraged by the ample provision which is made, to strive to attain to it.” But the main issue was speedily confused with an abundance of side questions, particular sentences and parts of sentences being picked out for attack, much space being taken, as in all such cases, with merely verbal criticisms founded on misconceptions or on the necessary imperfection of language. The celebrated Leibnitz remarked that, before the war of words between Bossuet and Fénelon began, the prelates should have agreed on a definition of the word love, and that such a definition might have prevented the dispute. The worst thing was that Bossuet, driven to extremities by the trouble he found in making headway theologically and fearing defeat, descended to a personal attack on Fénelon’s character, insinuating things which he had not the audacity to state plainly or the facts to substantiate. This, of course, reacted. For Fénelon—against his own wishes, but being shown the necessity of it by his friends—wrote a marvelous reply, of which Charles Butler, one of his biographers, and by no means a partisan one, says: “A nobler effusion of the indignation of insulted virtue and genius, eloquence has never produced. In the very first lines of it Fénelon placed himself above his antagonist, and to the last preserves his elevation. Never did genius and virtue obtain a more complete triumph. Fénelon’s reply, by a kind of enchantment, restored to him every heart. Crushed by the strong arm of power, abandoned by the multitude, there was nothing to which he could look but his own powers. Obliged to fight for his honor, it was necessary for him, if he did not consent to sink under the accusation, to assume a port still more imposing than that of his mighty antagonist. Much had been expected from him; but none supposed that he would raise himself to so prodigious a height as would not only repel the attack of his antagonist but entirely reduce him to the defensive.”

It was seen at an early period of the controversy that there was no probability of its being settled by any tribunal short of that of the pope himself. Fénelon, seeing the unscrupulous, powerful forces that were arrayed against him in Paris, applied to the king in July, 1697, for permission to go to Rome under any restrictions His Majesty might think appropriate. This the monarch absolutely refused, knowing well, no doubt, that the personal charm of the saintly disputant would be likely to carry everything before it. He would only permit him to send agents there to act in his behalf. Fénelon himself he curtly ordered to proceed immediately to his diocese, to remain there, and not to stop in Paris on the way any longer than his affairs made his stay absolutely necessary. Fénelon received this undeserved sentence of banishment, very roughly couched, with his customary calmness and submission. In passing through the city he stopped before the seminary of St. Sulpice, where he had spent so many happy hours, and which he was never to see again; but he forbore from entering the house lest his showing a regard for it might expose its inhabitants to His Majesty’s displeasure. The king, with his own hands, some time after this, crossed off Fénelon’s name from the list of court officials, and also dismissed from service every one connected with him, save only the Abbé Fleury, who, though a devoted friend of the archbishop, had never taken any part in the exciting topics of the day. But the rest who had been employed about the Duke of Burgundy for nine years, not blamelessly alone but how successfully his altered character and advanced education could show, were rudely sent off without any acknowledgment whatever of their valuable services, without even a civil word or a penny of reward.

And how went matters at Rome? The Abbé de Chanterac, an intimate friend and relation, of highest probity and piety, was Fénelon’s agent there. The Abbé Bossuet, a nephew of the bishop, a vulgar, blustering, unscrupulous fellow, with a most violent, intemperate spirit, fitly represented the interests of his uncle. The pope, Innocent XII, a man of a benevolent and equitable temper, found his position a very difficult one, somewhat similar to that of Pilate at the trial of Jesus. His sympathies were wholly with Fénelon, and there is no doubt that he would gladly have given a verdict in his favor, or dismissed the whole matter, could he have done so without mortally offending the king. He had at first hoped that the business might be settled in France by mild and conciliatory measures, and had expressed this wish to Louis; but the suggestion was entirely unavailing. So he was obliged to take up the very unpleasant task. He appointed a commission of ten persons called “Consulters” to give a thorough examination of Fénelon’s books. But after sixty-four successive and protracted sittings of six or seven hours each, at many of which the pope himself assisted, they found themselves so evenly divided in relation to it that no satisfactory result could reasonably be expected from the continuance of their deliberations. The pope accordingly selected a commission of cardinals to pronounce upon the matter; but after twelve sittings they were unable to come to any conclusion, and were dissolved. Next a new congregation of cardinals were selected, and met in consultation no less than fifty-two times without getting on very far. The long delays and the hesitation shown at Rome to condemn Fénelon were utterly unexpected by either Bossuet or the king, and made them furious. Constantly increasing pressure was brought to bear from Paris to secure the result pleasing to the monarch.

At the very beginning, in July, 1697, the king, by Bossuet’s instigation, wrote an urgent letter to the pope calling upon him speedily to condemn Fénelon’s book. Missive after missive of similar purport went forward, and all the arts of diplomacy, all the influences which Louis could in any way exert, were unblushingly employed for Fénelon’s overthrow. Affairs at Rome, indeed, before long involved themselves into a perfect tangle of chicanery and intrigue, cardinal against cardinal, ambassador against ambassador. Other courts besides that of France took a hand. The imperial ambassador worked hard for Fénelon; the Spanish minister was zealous on the other side; and a smaller potentate, Cosmo, Grand Duke of Tuscany, a dabbler in theology, threw his weight in the latter direction. The poor pope was violently pulled, now this way, now that. He greatly liked Fénelon, admiring his beautiful spirit and appreciating his loyal attachment to the Holy See. He resented the disgraceful attempt to browbeat him on the part of the desperate king and the Bishop of Meaux, a pragmatical, pugnacious bully. He could scarcely see any way of censuring any of Fénelon’s propositions without censuring also other writers of the same sort, like St. Bernard and St. Francis of Sales, whom the Church had delighted to honor. It seemed to him also, as was indeed the case, almost if not quite wholly a dispute about words. As to a habitual state of disinterested Divine love, the attainment of which was said to be inculcated in Fénelon’s writings, Fénelon himself uniformly declared his opinion that a permanent state of Divine love, without hope and without fear, was above the lot of man. And Bossuet himself allowed that there might be moments when the soul, dedicated to the love of God, would be lost in heavenly contemplation, and then love and adore without being influenced by either hope or fear, or being sensible of either. Their real ground of difference was, after all, very small, and there was much to be said on both sides. And, under all these circumstances, it is scarcely surprising that it took so long to reach a decision.

It was postponed from month to month in the hope that some chance—the death of the king or of Bossuet—might relieve the pressure, and allow the papal conscience its rights as against the papal policy. As late as the autumn of 1698, a whole year after the conference of the ten “Consulters” began, five of them persisted, in defiance of every pressure that could be brought to bear upon them, in pronouncing the book to be absolutely orthodox, and so proceedings had to be begun again. The real issue of the struggle had probably never been doubtful in case the French court insisted. For, as the cardinals said: “It will not do to fire great guns at the king. Rome’s wisest course demands of her to yield to him whatever may be yielded without wounding the first principles of religion.” It is absolutely certain that, but for this unseemly influence, the decision would have been in Fénelon’s favor. As it was, the pope and his advisers struggled hard to wriggle out of their dilemma with as little violence to their feelings and their honor as they could. After it was settled that they must in some way give the decision as the king so imperatively demanded, there were a great many meetings of the Conclave to decide on the precise form it should take. This required months of wrangling and debate. It was at first intended to issue a simple brief, distinctly affirming that His Holiness did not intend to condemn the author’s explanations of his book, but giving some general disapproval of certain inferences drawn from it, and asserting the Church’s true doctrine as opposed to the Quietists, without casting any blame on the Archbishop of Cambrai. This would have been done had not Bossuet’s agents at Rome, assisted by the Cardinal Cassanata, a man of most imperious will and overbearing temper, exerted themselves to the utmost, fortified by fresh letters from the king dictated by Bossuet, insisting, with hardly veiled threats of the direful consequences that would ensue from disobedience, that the decision be “clear, precise, capable of no misinterpretation, such as is necessary to remove all doubt with regard to doctrine and eradicate the very root of the evil.” Thus badgered and driven and terrified, there seemed to be nothing to do but submit; so at length, on the 12th of March, the whole Sacred College was assembled at the palace of Monte Cavallo, where the decree was accepted by the whole body of cardinals, signed by the pope in their presence, and immediately posted in all the principal public places of Rome.

The book itself, strictly speaking, was not condemned, but only twenty-three propositions which purported to be extracted from it. The pope took pains to say, and to have it clearly understood, that they were condemned, not in the sense which they might bear or in the sense in which they were explained by Fénelon himself. The propositions were said to be condemned because, not being worded in conformity with the author’s real intentions, they might insensibly lead the faithful to errors already condemned by the Catholic Church; because they contained words which, in the sense that more immediately presented itself were rash, ill-sounding, offensive to pious ears, and erroneous. The cardinals refused to associate the name of heretic, or of anything resembling heresy, with Fénelon—his name, indeed, was not once mentioned in the brief—and they absolutely rejected the usual appendage to a brief of condemnation, an order for the book to be burned. Very little was really decided. The words were very gentle, and in important ways noncommittal. Disinterestedness in the larger sense was neither asserted nor denied; all that was done was to prune Fénelon’s system of what might be considered its extravagances. In pronouncing, on the whole, against the “Maxims,” Rome had not really declared for Bossuet. Fénelon could lawfully tell his friends that disinterestedness was not condemned, but only its exaggerated statement; self-interest had not been made an essential condition of our love of God,—it was still possible to love Him for Himself, provided that hope and desire of heaven were not habitually of set purpose excluded. All this soothed the sorrows of the friends of Fénelon’s, as it was designed to do, and considerably mortified his enemies, which mortification was increased by a bon mot of the pope, which was soon in every mouth, that “Fénelon was in fault for too great love of God; and his enemies equally in fault for too little love of their neighbor.” The pope, indeed, had repeatedly called Fénelon “a very great archbishop, most pious, most holy, most learned;” and he gave to the Abbé de Chanterac every indication of the extreme reluctance with which he moved in the matter.

It was, on the whole, a very barren victory for Bossuet; but he accepted it rather than run any further risk in the long-drawn-out contest, of which all parties were thoroughly weary. It had cost him dear in both reputation and character. No one now, however small his admiration for Fénelon, attempts to defend the steps which Bossuet took or the dishonorable means to which in his desperation he resorted to compass his end. He contended not lawfully, and deserves no crown. He showed an irritation, rancor, bitterness, and malignity most lamentable; used invective, artifice, and garbled quotations; sullied himself forever by the course he took. With brutal irony and savage harshness he hectored, threatened, plotted, violated confidences, and made accusations as base as they were reckless. He used without scruple secret writings which he had received from Madame Guyon, private letters written to him by Fénelon during their early intimacy, and a letter which, under the seal of friendship, Fénelon had written to Madame de Maintenon, and which in this trying hour she unfeelingly communicated to Bossuet, having entirely changed in her attitude toward him since the king’s animosity was evident. Bossuet’s personal charges against his amiable and estimable adversary, not believed by any one, showed the innate smallness of his nature, the desperate strait to which he was driven, and the degree to which he had let jealousy and rivalry of one greater than he take possession of his bosom. That he himself was of plebeian birth—a bar which kept him from the goal of his ambition in the cardinalate—while Fénelon was of the patricians, had doubtless something to do with it. He squandered his waning powers on a controversy which added no luster to his reputation, and brought him no nearer to the summit of his desires. Too late he realized that it was impossible to ruin such a man as Fénelon in the eyes of those who had learned to love him. He might be banished from the Vatican and from Versailles, silenced by the pope, and disgraced by the king, but he was cherished none the less in the hearts of the devout, idolized and adored as an oracle of piety and virtue.

Fénelon was not once betrayed into abuse or slander throughout the struggle in which he had so much at stake. No unkind word respecting any of his persecutors escaped him. He continually exhibited wonderful gentleness and dignity, elevated self-respect, the urbanity of a refined gentleman, and the grace of an exalted Christian. His style was forcible and effective, but with no mixture of sarcasm. Posterity has done him justice; has affirmed that throughout this contest no stain rests upon his moral character, and that he was absolutely sincere when he said, “I ask God to grant M. de Meaux as many blessings as he has heaped crosses upon me;” curses, he might have said. All this while his enemies were using every means “to hunt him down like a wild beast;” this was the expression they used. “Never once,” says a person who has thoroughly examined the entire correspondence, “in the mass of letters that Fénelon sent to his confidential agent at Rome, do we come across a mean or unjust expression; there is not one letter that one feels inclined to wish had not been kept for the sake of the writer.” As attack after attack descends upon him, intended to humiliate and crush, he rises above it, greater and nobler, more faithful in following his Master’s footsteps than ever. He continually implored the pope to stop the endless war of pamphlets which was doing so much harm to the cause of religion and the Church. It was with the greatest reluctance that he was forced into the fight. Under the grossest of libels he would have remained silent had his friends consented. But he was compelled by the actions of his adversaries to speak out sometimes with great vigor. And he had to obey the voice of his conscience and the dictates of chivalry, being thoroughly indignant at the unjust treatment accorded to his friend, Madame Guyon. His grief at the rupture of the bond between him and Bossuet was deep and sincere. He wrote, “God alone knows what pain it is to me to give pain to one for whom, in all the world, I have the most attachment and respect.” He wrote this even when he was defending himself from the most virulent attacks; and he would not have called God to witness to a profession that was not absolutely true. By his candor and simplicity, his openness and gentleness, the beauty of his genius, and the reputation of his virtue, he commanded the widest possible respect from all who were capable of appreciating these things. His challenge to his maligners rang out without ambiguity: “I fear nothing, thank God, that will be communicated and examined judicially. I fear nothing but vague report and unexamined allegation.”