The besetting sin of the young prince was a perverseness of temper always hard to manage and ready, for the slightest cause, to break out into open rebellion, on which occasions no one had been able to control him. Fénelon's manner of correcting this fault is full of instruction. He avoided direct attacks and punishments, seeking, by gentle remonstrance and good-natured raillery, to lead the boy into being ashamed of his fault. When there was a prospect of being listened to, he would make use of simple maxims showing the folly and wickedness of angry passion, and explaining his remarks by familiar illustrations likely to be easily understood and remembered. Sometimes he yielded without remonstrance, avoiding all recourse to authority or personal influence unless he was well assured that it would prove successful. The little work known as Fénelon's Fables was composed piecemeal, each fable being called forth by some fault the prince had committed, or for the purpose of helping him to remember some moral point, and leading him gradually on in the system of improvements his tutor had adopted.
One day, when the prince had made all around him unhappy by indulging in repeated bursts of spleen and disobedience, Fénelon took a sheet of paper and wrote in his presence the following sketch, which we find among the fables:
"What great disaster has happened to Melanthus? Outwardly nothing, inwardly every thing. He went to bed last night the delight of all the people; this morning we are ashamed of him; we shall have to hide him away. On rising, a fold of his garment has displeased him, the whole day will therefore be stormy, and every body will have to suffer: he makes us fear him, he makes us pity him, he cries like a child, he roars like a lion. A poisonous vapor darkens his imagination, as the ink he uses in writing soils his fingers. You must not speak to him about things that pleased him an hour ago; he loved them then, and for that very reason he hates them now. The amusements that interested him a little while ago are now become intolerable, and must be broken up; he wishes to contradict and to irritate those around him, and he is angry because people will not get angry with him. When he can find no pretext for attacking others, he turns against himself; he is low-spirited, and takes it very ill that any body should try to comfort him. He wishes for solitude, and he cannot bear to be left alone; he comes back into company, and it exasperates him. If his friends are silent, their affected silence goads him; if they speak low, he fancies they are talking about him; if they speak loud, it strikes him they have too much to say. If they laugh, it seems to him that they are making game of him; if they are sad, that their sadness is meant to reproach him for his faults. What is to be done? Why, to be as firm and patient as he is intolerable, and to wait quietly until he becomes to-morrow as sensible as he was yesterday. This strange humor comes and goes in the strangest fashion. When it seizes him, it is as sudden as the exploding of a pistol or a gun; he is like the pictures of those possessed by evil spirits; his reason becomes unreason; if you put him to it, you can make him say that it is dark night at twelve o'clock in the day; for there is no distinction of day or night for a man who is out of his head. He sheds tears, he laughs, he jokes, he is mad. In his madness he can be eloquent, amusing, subtle, full of cunning although he has not a particle of common sense left. You have to be extremely careful to pick your words with him; for although bereft of sense, he can become suddenly very knowing, and find his reason for a moment to prove to you that you have lost yours."
It is easy to understand the effect of a lesson like this on a high-spirited but self-conceited boy. He sought to overawe those around him and finds out that he has made himself unmistakably ridiculous! The instructor who wishes to correct his pupil's faults will succeed oftener by wounding his vanity than he will by flattering it.
His fables at another time present in charming images the happiness of being good.
"Who is," says one of them, "this god-like shepherd who enters the peaceful shade of our forest? He loves poetry and listens to our songs. Poetry will soften his heart, and render him as gentle as he is proud. May this young hero grow in virtue as a flower unfolds in the genial air of spring. May he love noble thoughts, and may graceful words ever sit upon his lips. May the wisdom of Minerva reign in his heart. May he equal Orpheus in the charms of his voice and Hercules in the greatness of his achievements. May he possess all the boldness of Achilles without his fiery temper. May he be good, wise, and beneficent, love mankind tenderly, and be much loved by all in return. He loves our sweet songs, they reach his heart even as cooling dews reach the green sward parched by the heat of mid-summer. Oh! may the gods teach him moderation and crown him with endless success. May he hold in his hand the horn of plenty, and may the golden age return under his sway. May wisdom fill his heart and run over into the hearts of his fellow-men, and may flowers spring up in his footsteps wherever he may go."
These fables gave a moral and practical meaning to the details of mythology which the prince was studying, and furnished him also with models of style. They speak to him and of him as one who is in time to be a king; but it will be observed that no traits of character are praised except those which it was desirable he should possess.
The main difficulty with the young prince still recurred—his impetuous outbreaks of temper, accompanied by the stubborn determination to make every body around him yield and allow him to have his way, however unreasonable. This dangerous condition of mind was always treated by Fénelon's advice in the same manner. The Duke de Beauvilliers, who was his governor; the Abbé de Fénelon, and his assistant tutor, the celebrated historian Fleury; even the officers of his household and his domestics, all treated him with proof not of apprehension but of humiliating compassion. When his ill-humor grew furiously excited, they kept aloof and avoided him as one who had lost the use of his reason by some sad distemper. If the fit held out, his books were taken from him, and instruction was refused him, as being altogether useless in the deplorable condition into which he had now fallen. Left alone, denied all sympathy, given time to cool down, made to feel that his rage was undignified and ineffectual, the boy soon grew weary, ashamed, and at length repentant. He would then sue for pardon, which was only granted after many promises on his honor that he would not behave so foolishly and wickedly again.
One of these promises of amendment, made in writing, has been preserved and it reads as follows:
"I promise, on my word of honor as a prince, to the Abbé de Fénelon to do on the instant whatever he may tell me, and to obey immediately when he may forbid me to do any thing; and if I fail, I hereby submit myself to every sort of punishment and dishonor. Done at Versailles, Nov. 29th, 1689, Signed Louis."