That word came. The pope condemned his book. With all the childlike simplicity that he so earnestly recommended to others, the learned and wise archbishop yielded instant obedience to a fiat which it was a portion of his faith to deem infallible. He was in the act of ascending his pulpit to preach, when he received a letter from his brother, which conveyed intelligence of the pope's brief. Fénélon paused for a few moments to recollect himself; and then, changing the plan of his sermon, preached on the duty of obedience to the church. His calm and gentle manner, the sentiments it expressed, the knowledge that was abroad of how sorely his adherence to his doctrine was about to be tried, deeply moved his audience, inspiring it at once with respect, regret, and admiration.
He did not delay a formal and public announcement of his obedience. He addressed a pastoral letter to all the faithful of his district, saying in it, "Our holy father has condemned my book, entitled the 'Maxims of the Saints,' and has condemned in a particular manner twenty-three propositions extracted from it. We adhere to his brief; and condemn the book and the twenty-three propositions, simply, absolutely, and without a shadow of reserve."[112] He sent his pastoral letter to the pope, and solemnly assured his holiness, that he could never attempt to elude his sentence, or to raise any objections with regard to it. To render his obedience clear and universal to the unlettered and ignorant of his diocese, he caused to be made for the altar of his cathedral a sun borne by two angels, one of whom was trampling on several heretical books, among which was one inscribed with the title of his own.
There is something deeply touching in this humility and obedience. We examine it carefully to discover its real merits; what the virtues were that dictated it, and whether it were clouded by any human error. We must remember that Fénélon opposed the jansenists, who had sought to elude the papal decrees; that he supported the infallibility of his church, and considered that the pure Catholicism rested chiefly on the succession of pastors who had a right to exact obedience from all Christians; that the language he thought due to the papal authority was, "God forbid that I should ever be spoken of, except to have it said that a shepherd thought it his duty to be more docile than the last sheep of his flock." Supporting these opinions, he had but one course to pursue,—unqualified and instant submission. This his conduct displayed; yet it remains as a question, whether his heart acknowledged the justice of the condemnation of a book which he wrote in a fervent belief in its utility, and had defended with so much zeal. His meaning in his submission was this,—that the book contained nothing heretical, nothing that the saints had not said; and that he might adhere to the principles it enounced: but that the expression and effect of the book was faulty; and that he believed this in his heart ever since the pope's brief had so declared it. His own account of his sentiments, rendered several years after to a friend, gives this explanation:—"My submission," he said, "was not an act of policy, nor a respectful silence; but an internal act of obedience rendered to God alone. According to the catholic principle, I regarded the judgment of my superiors as an echo of the supreme will. I did not consider the passions, the prejudices, the disputes that preceded my condemnation; I heard God speak, as to Job, from the midst of the whirlwind, saying to me, Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge? And I answered from the bottom of my heart, What shall I answer thee? I will lay my hand upon my mouth. From that moment I have not entrenched myself in vain subterfuges concerning the question of fact and right; I have accepted my condemnation in its whole extent. It is true that the propositions and expressions I used, and others much stronger, and with much fewer correctives, are to be found in canonised authors, but they were not fit for a dogmatic work. A different style belongs to different subjects and persons. There is a style of the heart, and another of the understanding; a language of sentiment, another of reason. What is a merit in one is an imperfection in another. The church, with infinite wisdom, permits one to its untaught children, another to its teachers. She may, therefore, according to the variation of circumstances, without condemning the doctrine of the saints, reject their fanatic expressions, of which a wrong use is made."[113]
Such was Fénélon's explanation of his feelings several years after. His letters at the time are full of that gentle spirit of peace and resignation which was his strength and support in adversity. In general, however, he avoided the subject. He had struggled earnestly in the cause of his book, while its fate was problematical; but he considered the question decided, and he wished to dismiss the subject from his own thoughts and the minds of others.
There were several accompanying circumstances to mitigate the disgrace 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.