Fénelon: The Mystic

by James Mudge

François de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon was born August 6, 1651, at the castle, or chateau, of Fénelon, about three miles from the town of Sarlat, in the department of Southern France, formerly called Perigord, now Dordogne, north of the river Garonne. The De Salignacs were of an ancient and distinguished family, counting in their long pedigree many of the best names of France—bishops, governors, generals, and ambassadors. But it is safe to say that they have derived more luster from the single name of the Archbishop of Cambrai than from all the rest who through several centuries filled lofty stations in camp and court and Church.

Very little is known about his parents or his early life. Pons de Salignac, Count of La Mothe Fénelon, father of Francis, was twice married, having fourteen children by his first wife and three by his second. The eldest of the three was Francis. His mother, Mademoiselle Louise de la Cropte de Saint-Arbre, sister of a celebrated lieutenant who served under Marshal Turenne, is said to have been unusually pious, which we can well believe, and to have perpetuated some of her other traits in her famous son. From his father’s side he doubtless inherited his diplomatic temperament and a goodly degree of worldly wisdom. His peculiar situation in the household could hardly fail to have had something to do with his character. The numerous grown-up sons and daughters of his father’s first marriage took umbrage at the second; hence the precocious and sensitive child had abundant occasion to practice all possible arts of ingratiation to obtain forgiveness for having intruded his existence upon them, and to make it pleasant for his mother. His constitution was delicate, and he had a sickly childhood; once at least in his early days his life was despaired of, and he only recovered to be for years the victim of sleeplessness and kindred ailments. He was the idol of his old father, who, recognizing his unusual talents, took special pains with his education. It was intrusted at first to a private preceptor, who seems to have been well fitted for his task, and gave to his pupil in a few years a better knowledge of Greek and Latin than is commonly obtained at so early an age, doubtless laying thus the foundation of his exquisitely finished style. At twelve he left the paternal roof for the neighboring University of Cahors (a town about sixty miles north of Toulouse, containing now an obelisk of Fénelon), where he pursued for some three years philosophical and philological studies and took his degrees in the arts.

His father probably died about this time, as we hear nothing further of him, and his uncle, the Marquis Antoine de Fénelon, who had lost his own son, acted henceforth as the father of his nephew. It was a most happy circumstance, for the marquis was deeply religious and of an unsullied private life, as well as very independent in his character. The Grand Condé, greatest general of his time, described him as “equally at home in society, war, and the council chamber.” When M. de Harlai was nominated to the Archbishopric of Paris, the marquis remarked to him, “There is a wide difference, my Right Reverend Lord, between the day when the nomination for such an office brings to the party the compliments of the whole kingdom, and the day on which he appears before God to render Him an account of his administration;” a reflection which, although much needed, could not have been very agreeable to De Harlai, for he was a notorious evil liver, who introduced every species of corruption into the administration of his diocese, and scandalized all by the iniquities also of his private life. Another indication of the marquis’s truly noble quality is seen in the fact that when M. Olier, the celebrated founder of the Congregation of St. Sulpice, wished to form an association of gentlemen whose courage was past impeachment, to bind themselves with an oath neither to accept any challenge nor act the part of second in any duel—that the practice of dueling might thus be checked—he asked M. de Fénelon to take the post of president of the association, being convinced that there was no one whose reputation was more firmly established both in court and camp.

Under the guidance, then, of this admirable relative, who was so exceptionally well fitted by character, position, and situation to give his nephew the best possible start in life, and who tenderly loved him, young Francis came to Paris in 1666, at the age of fifteen. It was not, of course, the Paris of the present day; but even then it was a great city, reaching back for its beginning to the Roman times, and recognized as the seat of government for at least a thousand years. Under Henry of Navarre (1589-1610) great improvements had been made, and by the accession of Louis XIV—who began to reign nominally in 1643, at the age of five, but really took charge of the kingdom in 1661—through the completion of several bridges, roads, and quays, and the erection of various public and private palaces, a new face had been put on the old city. It was already the focus of European civilization, learning, and eloquence, as well as the center of all that was most attractive and distinguished in France. The best institutions were there, the best opportunities for advancement, the highest privileges and advantages of every sort; so that to it naturally gravitated all who wished to make the most of themselves under the eye of that Grand Monarch whose favor was life. Francis, therefore, no doubt counted himself greatly blessed at this change, and entered upon his Parisian life—which was to last thirty-one years—with very high, ambitious hopes. His guardian sent him for two years to the Collége du Plessis, then under the rule of M. Gobinet, a first-rate principal. There he speedily distinguished himself as a scholar, and he also gave such tokens of possessing the gift of eloquence that before he was sixteen he was put forward to preach to an admiring audience. It is, perhaps, worth noting that Bossuet—who was so soon to be closely associated with Fénelon, at first in friendship, then in fierce hostility—also preached at the same age, with similar applause, before a brilliant assemblage in Paris.

What was the next step? A noble under Louis XIV had two possible careers open to him, and only two; they were the army and the Church. It is not probable that the matter was long debated, if at all, in Francis’ case. Everything about him, his gifts of speech, his high scholarship, his deep piety, his rather delicate health, pointed to the clerical vocation, and there can be no question but this was with him a divine calling, to which doubtless his heart gave full assent. So he was placed, in 1688, at the seminary of St. Sulpice to be trained for the priesthood.

Since he was to spend no less than ten happy years, in the formative period of seventeen to twenty-seven, in connection with this institution, it may be well that we say a few words about it and its director. It was the principal fruit of the great Catholic revival at the beginning of the century, the embodiment of all the force of that movement—a movement marked by very earnest piety and a somewhat unusual combination of emotionalism and asceticism. It was founded by a group of devoted men sprung from the upper-middle class; and chief among them was M. Olier, a man justly celebrated for his saintly life. He was appointed in 1642 to the parish of St. Sulpice when it was noted as the most depraved quarter of Paris. He labored unremittingly and very successfully to reform this unpromising flock, and the young priests who were associated with him in his task constituted the nucleus of the seminary and community of St. Sulpice. The necessary building to house the institution, to the establishment of which Monsieur Olier gave himself with highest enthusiasm, was completed in 1652—a square edifice capable of receiving one hundred inmates. This became the center of a most wholesome and inspiring activity.

The founder had a very high ideal of sacerdotal character. He would not admit any who embraced the sacred calling from considerations of ambition or expediency, and those admitted were subjected to the sharpest kind of tests. Whatever their birth or condition they were required to perform the menial duties of the house, and to mingle on terms of absolute equality with their fellow-students. The complete immolation of self was set as the paramount aim before those who looked forward to holy orders. The will must be entirely surrendered. The good priest must become the model of all the virtues. All earthly interests and ties must be renounced. The closest union with the Divine was to be cultivated. A very literal interpretation of the teaching of the Master was followed. The pupils were urged to study the Gospels till they could bring the Divine life before them at any moment in a series of mental pictures which should help them in the decision of all perplexing questions of duty, and were exhorted to keep themselves in such a disposition that meditation on that model life would never seem strange or demand a violent mental revulsion whatever their outward circumstances might be. While the ceremonies of the Church were observed with minute exactness, and occasional austerities were practiced, and learning was not neglected, the main thought was that the perfection of personal character must be secured at all costs; the world was to be abandoned, the flesh crucified, the devil in all his forms resisted, and lessons of humility, obedience, and charity were to be most carefully learned. They were taught that in the silence which succeeds the struggle of self-abandonment they would find Christ coming to them—the Christ who had borne all and understood all, and whose presence was far more worth having than the prizes they had missed or put away.

It can well be believed that this wholly consecrated man, the first superior of St. Sulpice, won to himself so large a share of personal affection and loyalty from his students that when he was removed from its care many feared its collapse. But this was not to be. A suitable successor was found in M. Louis Tronson, a man every way as capable as the first founder—indeed more learned in theology—and fully disposed to continue the traditions of the institution as already laid down; a man who coveted no external recognition, joined in no race for preferment, but gave himself with singleness of eye to the great work intrusted to him by the Master. It was to his care that Francis Fénelon was committed, and he speedily won the enthusiastic affection of the young man. In a few years Fénelon writes concerning his teacher to Pope Clement XI as follows: “Never have I seen his equal for piety and prudence, for love of justice and insight into character. I glory in the thought that I was brought up under his wing.” Fénelon was evidently one of the Abbé Tronson’s favorites, for he was a favorite with everybody, and all could see in the brilliant youth a promise that would do honor to those who had a share in his development. A high degree of confidence was given and received on both sides. Francis wrote to his uncle, in a burst of gratitude, one day: “I earnestly desire to be able to tell you some part of all that passes between M. Tronson and me; but indeed, Monsieur, I know not how to do so. I find I can be much more explicit with him than with you, nor would it be easy to describe the degree of union we have reached. If you could hear our conversation you would not know your pupil, and you would see that God has very marvelously helped on the work which you begun. My health does not improve, which would be a great trial to me if I were not learning how to comfort myself.” This was very beautiful, very delightful, and though such complete dominance of one personality by another is not devoid of danger, the results in this case appear to have justified the experiment. Francis’ early bent to deep piety was greatly intensified during these years, and his views of disinterested or perfect love, so strongly brought out in later times, were scarcely more than the natural evolution of the thoughts and habits drilled into him during this formative period. He greatly enjoyed this home of piety and study. His love for the seminary never decayed. He declared on his death-bed that he knew of no institution more venerable or more apostolic.

It was while at the seminary that Fénelon thought he had a call to the mission field. The congregation of St. Sulpice had a large missionary establishment at Montreal, and many of the students from the Paris house had gone thither. It was natural, with his intense unworldliness, that he should wish to follow in their footsteps, and in one of his descent it would not be surprising if the love of adventure was unconsciously mingled with a more religious ambition to show his love for the Savior by doing a great work for Him in a difficult field. How many have had these longings, but have been providentially prevented from carrying them out! In Fénelon’s case difficulties at once sprung up. His uncle, the Marquis Antoine, strongly objected on account of the delicacy of his constitution, and another uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat, coincided with this opinion. A letter on the subject to the bishop from M. Tronson, dated February, 1667, says, “His strong, persisting inclination, the firmness of his resolution, and the purity of his intentions have made me feel that they deserved attention, and led me to give you as exact a report as may be of our action in the matter.” The teacher had done his very best to dissuade the youth from his purpose. “I have told him plainly that if he can calm his longings and be quiet, he might, by going on with his studies and spiritual training, become more fitted to work usefully hereafter for the Church.” He adds, “I perceive too confirmed a resolution to have much hope of change.” The feelings called out were so strong that persuasion seemed useless, and so the teacher appealed to the authority of the guardians; which proved sufficient to stop the rash enterprise.

But the missionary impulse still burned strongly in the breast of this enthusiastic youth, and it burst forth again a few years later. He received the tonsure, and entered holy orders in 1675, at the age of twenty-four, and went for a while to work in the diocese of his uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat. It was at this time that his thoughts were turned to the Levant. A letter of October 9, 1675, sets forth somewhat rhapsodically his excited feelings: “I long to seek out that Areopagus whence St. Paul preached the unknown God to heathen sages.... Neither will I forget thee, O island consecrated by the heavenly visions of the beloved disciple! O blessed Patmos, I will hasten to kiss the footsteps left on thee by the apostle, and to imagine heaven open to my gaze!... Already I see schism healed; East and West reunited; Asia awaking to the light after her long sleep; the Holy Land, once trodden by our Savior’s feet and watered by his blood, delivered from profaners and filled with new glory; the children of Abraham, more numerous than the stars, now scattered over the face of the earth, gathered from all her quarters to confess the Christ they crucified, and to rise again with him.” This was decidedly visionary, and somewhat overwrought; but it shows at least a heart on fire to do something extraordinary for God, and this he had at all periods of his life. He did not go to Greece and Palestine, abandoning the project in deference to the wishes of his family, to whom he was extremely reluctant to give pain. It was a romantic dream rather than a true vocation.