It was about this same time that Sir Matthew Hale in England (he died in 1676)—who was reckoned the best judge of his time, acute, learned, sensible, setting himself strongly against bribery, one of the serious vices of his age, a friend of Richard Baxter, an austere scholar, leaning to the side of the Puritans—sentenced women to be executed for witchcraft, and sent John Bunyan to jail for frequenting conventicles, politely dismissing, without redress, his wife, who pleaded for his discharge. And in our own time we have seen the Earl of Shaftesbury, who did such wonderful things for the oppressed in some directions, most bitter against the reformers in all other lines except his own, the stanchest of Tories, and the most rigid of Churchmen, denouncing the democratic principle as anti-Christian, and upholding the infamous Conventicle Act, which forbade worship in a private house by more than twenty persons. Similar inconsistencies can be pointed out in the record of nearly all good men. What does it prove? Simply that it is given to very few to rise much above the age in which they live, or to be at all points independent of the impress placed upon them in their early years. We see no reason to believe that Fénelon’s attitude toward the Protestants of his day was other than an entirely sincere and conscientious one, such as might be fairly looked for in a person of his surroundings.
It is possible to impute sinister and selfish motives to any, if one is so disposed, but we see no benefit from this policy. It is not the way we would wish to be treated ourselves. Almost every act of a man’s life is susceptible of an evil construction, if sufficient pains is taken and sufficient force applied. But we can not join with those who appear to delight in pulling down from their pedestals all that have been lifted above their fellows in goodness by the general suffrage of mankind. Truth, of course, is to be sought at all costs. But it makes a vast difference from what standpoint the facts are approached, whether with suspicion and aversion, or cordial appreciation and comprehension. There is often an underlying dislike to a certain type of character or to certain sentiments and opinions, because of the wide difference between them and those which the writer himself holds and practices, which makes it impossible that he should see them in an unbiased light. We can not escape the conclusion that Fénelon has been treated by some recent writers in this manner, and we protest against its unfairness.
It may be truthfully said that Fénelon, while doing faithfully what appeared to him the duty of the hour on this mission, did not particularly enjoy it. He had no love for life in the country or for the work in which he was engaged. He longed for the quiet of his former post, with its larger opportunities for study and reflection, and for the time when he should be free to return to Paris. In a letter to Bossuet he playfully threatens to bring suspicion of heresy upon himself or “incur a lucky disgrace” that might give him excuse for his recall. He was permitted, shortly after this, to go back to his place at the New Catholics, where for some two years more he occupied himself in a quiet, inconspicuous manner. Summing up the results of his controversial work among the Huguenots, we are disposed to conclude, with one of his biographers, that “if his moderation and humanity in an age in which such qualities were not esteemed, were remembered against him when other clouds were gathering, and contributed to his ultimate ruin, they add no less grace to the record of his life, and must have deepened his influence with those whose eyes were undimmed by prejudice and bigotry.”
The most important period in the life of Fénelon was now to begin; that for which the earlier years were but a preparation; that which would color and dominate all his succeeding days. The time had come when the little grandson of the king, the Duke of Burgundy, the hope of France (for his father, the dauphin, was a failure, wholly incompetent to fill any large place), should pass from the hands of nurses to masculine rule. What could be of greater importance, considering how much was at stake for the kingdom, than the proper selection of those who should take this weighty charge? When the dauphin had been at a similar stage of his education he was committed to the care of the Duke de Montausier and Bossuet as the greatest and most celebrated men of their day. But though they did their best, the course they took was not in all respects well advised, and the results, at least, had not been satisfactory. This would make the utmost care now all the more imperative. Happily the king was fully alive to his responsibility, and, in addition to his own penetration, had the benefit of good counsel in the matter. Madame de Maintenon was now a power at court, and was using her influence in the best directions. She was a warm friend of the Duke de Beauvilliers, who also stood high in the good graces of Louis; for the monarch, in spite of his own serious lapses from virtue, admired it in others, and knew its importance with the young. The duke was accordingly made governor of the royal grandchildren, Burgundy and his two younger brothers, with unlimited power of nominating all the other officers about them and all the inferior attendants. He had no hesitation as to the best preceptor France could produce for the little prince, and immediately named Fénelon, a choice which was loudly applauded by the public throughout the kingdom. The people said that Louis the Great had once more outshone all earlier monarchs, and shown himself wiser than Phillip of Macedon when he appointed Aristotle tutor to his son. Bossuet was overjoyed at the good fortune of Church and State, and regretted only that the Marquis de Fénelon had not lived to see an elevation of the merit which hid itself with so much care. It was a great surprise to the recipient, who was leading his ordinary retired life, neither seeking nor expecting court favor. It was a great gratification to his friends, who poured in lavish congratulations. But M. Tronson, the wise old tutor from St. Sulpice, wrote that his joy was mixed with fear, considering the perils to which his favorite pupil would now be exposed. He says: “It opens the door to earthly greatness, but you must fear lest it should close that of the real greatness of heaven. You are thrown into a region where the Gospel of Jesus Christ is little known, and where even those who know it use their knowledge chiefly as a means to win human respect. If ever the study and meditation of Holy Scripture were necessary to you, now indeed they have become overwhelmingly indispensable. Above all, it is of infinite importance that you never lose sight of the final hour of death, when all this world’s glory will fade away like a dream, and every earthly stay on which you may have leaned must fail.” This counsel was most creditable to both tutor and pupil, showing a love stronger than ordinary friendship. The post which seemed so dazzling and so promising did indeed prove one of much danger as well as glory, but not exactly in the way that the aged teacher anticipated.
The Duke of Burgundy, now seven years old, was, in the most emphatic sense, an enfant terrible. He was very different from his heavy, stupid father, inheriting some of his qualities, it is said, from his mother, Mary Anne of Bavaria, a delicate, melancholy, unattractive princess, passionate, proud, and caustic. Burgundy was a frail, unhealthy creature, whose body lacked symmetry as well as his mind. One shoulder very early outgrew the other, defying the most cruel efforts of the surgeons to set it right, and doing serious mischief to his general health. His nervous system was much deranged, so that he was subject to hurricanes of passion. The least contradiction made him furious. He would fall into ungovernable fits of rage even against inanimate objects. He had an insatiable appetite for all sorts of pleasure. His pride and arrogance were indescribable. Mankind he looked upon as atoms with whom he had nothing in common; his brothers were only intermediate beings between him and the human race. He had a quick, penetrating mind, and a marvelous memory. He was stiff against threats, on his guard against flattery, amenable only to reason; but by no means always to that. Often when it reasserted itself, after one of his tornadoes, he was so much ashamed of himself that he fell into a new fit of rage. He was, however, frank and truthful in the extreme.
Such was the prince who—with his brothers, the Duke of Anjou, afterwards Philip V of Spain, and the Duke of Berri—was committed entirely to the care of Fénelon. When he accepted his new appointment he abandoned all other offices and occupations, permitting himself no distractions even of friendship, that he might concentrate all his powers of insight and reflection upon his charges. Now, indeed, his studies of education would be fully tested, and on the most conspicuous conceivable field his theories must be reduced to practice. It is said that “he pursued only one system, which was to have none.” In other words, he devoted his fertile mind to meeting the necessities of the hour as they arose in his volatile, chameleon-like pupil, instead of subjecting him to a Procrustean system which could only have had the worst outcome. His facile pen was employed without stint in the service of his pupil. Many fables, some in French, some in Latin, full of poetry and grace, were written to convey special lessons to the little duke. “Dialogues of the Dead” also were composed for the same purpose, bringing in the principal personages of antiquity to converse on such themes as would instruct in regard to history and morals. And all this was but a preparation for “Telemaque,” or Telemachus, composed for the instruction of the heir to the throne, and endowed with such unfailing charm by the beauty of its style and the admirable nature of its sentences, that it has been read ever since in many nations and by many classes. The same mythology is employed in it that was used by Homer and Virgil, but refined by the knowledge of the Divine revelation and adorned by a tincture of Christianity that runs easily through the whole narrative. The best classical and moral maxims are placed before the mind of the reader, animated with love and heightened with action. The author shows that the glory of a prince is to govern men in such a way as to make them good and happy; that his authority is never so firmly established as in the love of his people; that the true riches and prosperity of a State consists in taking away what ministers to general luxury, and in being content with innocent and simple pleasures.
But, as may well be supposed, it was not the intellectual means alone—the text-books that were prepared, the treatises that were written, the pains taken with instruction—which most awaken our admiration, but rather the good sense shown in the various special expedients that were employed as from time to time they were found adapted to the needs of the case. Every effort was made to relieve study from tedium. Lessons were abandoned whenever the prince wished to begin a conversation from which he might derive useful information. There were frequent intervals for exercise. Learning was turned into a pleasure. The real struggle was with his fiery temperament, which had been hitherto so badly mismanaged, and which could only be met by patience and gentleness with firmness. When one of the evil moods seized him, it was an understood thing in the household that every one should relapse into an unwonted silence. Nobody spoke to him if they could help it; his attendants waited upon him with averted eyes as though reluctant to witness his degradation through passion. He was treated with the sort of humiliating compassion which might be shown to a madman; his books and appliances for study were put aside as useless to one in such a state, and he was left to his own reflections. Such a course was the destruction of self-complacency; he ceased to find relief in swearing when his hearers ceased to be disconcerted by his abuse, and, being left to consider the situation in solitude, he saw himself for the first time as others saw him. Gradually this treatment would bring the passionate but generous child to a better mind, and then, full of remorse and penitence, he would come to throw himself with the fullest affection and trust upon the never-failing patience and goodness of the preceptor, whom he almost worshiped to his dying day.
Fénelon had studied childhood, and knew how deeply rooted is the child’s fear of ridicule; in the prince it was exaggerated by his abnormal vanity, and a system which showed him how he degraded himself, and lost all shadow of dignity when he lost his self-control, was the surest to produce a radical reform. There are still in existence two pledges of his childish repentance, testifying to the difficulty with which his faults were conquered. “I promise, on my word as a prince to M. l’Abbé de Fénelon, that I will do at once whatever he bids me, and will obey him instantly in what he forbids; and if I break my word I will accept any kind of punishment and disgrace. Given at Versailles, November 29, 1689. Louis.” This promise, in spite of the word of a prince, was probably broken; for many months later he enters on another engagement pathetic in its brevity: “Louis, who promises afresh to keep his promise better. This 20th of September, I beseech M. de Fénelon to take it again.” He was at this time but eight years old. The child loved his teacher passionately, and it was seldom that he did not yield speedily to Fénelon’s wise and loving discipline.
Once, however, there was a serious scene between them which appears to have had a lasting influence upon the prince. Fénelon had been obliged to reprove him with more than usual severity, and the boy, in his angry pride, had resisted, exclaiming, “No, no, sir; I remember who I am, and who you are.” It was impossible to pass over such a speech and maintain authority; but acting upon his own maxim, never to administer reproof while either actor concerned is excited, Fénelon made no reply, and for the remainder of the day preserved a total silence toward his pupil, who could not fail to perceive by his manner that the usually indulgent master was much displeased. Night came with no explanation. But the next morning, as soon as the prince was awake, the abbé came into his room, and, addressing him in a grave, ceremonious manner, very unlike the usual easy tone of their intercourse, said: “I do not know, Monsieur, whether you remember what you said to me yesterday, that you knew what you are and what I am; but it is my duty to teach you your ignorance alike of both. You fancy yourself a greater personage than I—some of your servants may have told you so; but since you oblige me to do it I must tell you without hesitation that I am greater than you. You must see at once that there can be no question of birth in the matter. It is one of personal merit. You can have no doubt that I am your superior in understanding and knowledge; you know nothing but what I have taught you, and that is a mere shadow compared with what you have yet to learn. As to authority, you have none over me, whereas I, on the other hand, have full and entire authority over you, as the king has often told you. Perhaps you imagine that I think myself fortunate in holding the office I fill about yourself; but there again you are mistaken. I undertook it only to obey the king, and in no way for the irksome privilege of being your preceptor. And to convince you of this truth I am now going to take you to His Majesty and beg of him to appoint some one else whose care of you will, I hope, be more successful than mine.” This was no idle threat; for Fénelon had always been determined to resign the tutorship as soon as he felt himself to be failing in it; and the prince was obliged to weigh his pride against his love. His love proved the greater; for life had been very different with him since Fénelon came into it, and no sacrifice of his vanity was too galling if he might cancel his offense and keep his friend. Moreover, he was sensitive to the last degree to public opinion and the faintest shadow of disgrace. What would the world think of a prince who was so hopelessly naughty that a man so universally admired and respected was forced to give him up, and what would become of the poor little boy to whom his nearest relatives were, after all, only “His Majesty” and “Monseigneur,” if the dear, kind preceptor, who loved him and devoted himself so entirely to him, were to go away? Poor Louis! The storm broke out anew; but this time it was of penitence and shame and regret, while with passionate sobs and tears he cried out: “O Monsieur, I am so sorry for what I did yesterday. If you tell the king he will not care for me any more; and what will people think if you leave me? I promise, O I promise ever so much, that you shall not have to complain of me if only you will promise not to go.” But Fénelon would promise nothing—the lesson would be lost if it were not sharp—and for a whole day he allowed the duke to undergo the pangs of anxiety and uncertainty. But at last, when his repentance seemed unlikely to be soon forgotten, Madame de Maintenon’s intercession was admitted, and the preceptor consented to remain.
At a much later date Fénelon, writing about these days to a friend, said of the prince: “He was sincere and ingenuous to a degree that one only needed to question him in order to know whatever he had done wrong. One day, when he was very much out of temper, he tried to conceal some act of disobedience, and I urged him to tell the truth, remembering that we were in God’s sight. Then he threw himself into a great passion, and said, ‘Why do you put it in that way? Well, then, since you ask it so, I can not deny that I did that,’ whatever it was. He was beside himself with anger, but still his sense of religious duty was so strong that it drew forth the most humiliating acknowledgments. I never corrected him save where it was really necessary, and then with great caution. The moment his passion was over he would come back to me, and confess himself to blame, so that we had to console him; and he was really grateful to those who corrected him. He used sometimes to say to me, ‘Now I shall leave the Duke of Burgundy behind the door, and be only little Louis with you.’ This was when he was nine years old. Directly he saw me doing any work for him he wanted to do the same, and would set to on his own account. Except in his moments of passion I never knew him influenced save by the most straightforward principles and most strictly in accordance with the teachings of the Gospel. He was kind and gracious to all who had a claim upon him; but he reserved his confidence wholly for such as he believed to be religious people, and they could tell him nothing about his faults which he did not acknowledge with gratitude. I never saw any one whom I should less have feared to displease by telling him the harshest truths concerning himself. I have proved that by some wonderful experiences.”