were his Dialogues on Eloquence, wherein he entered an eloquent
plea for greater simplicity and naturalness in the pulpit, and
urged preachers to take the scriptural, natural style of Bossuet
as their model, rather than the coldly analytic eloquence of his
great rival, Bourdaloue. Still more important was his Treatise
on the Education of Girls, being the first systematic attempt
ever made to deal with that subject as a whole. Hence it was
probably the most influential of all Fénelon’s books, and guided
French ideas on the question all through the 18th century. It
holds a most judicious balance between the two opposing parties
of the time. On the one side were the précieuses, enthusiasts
for the “higher” education of their sex; on the other were
the heavy Philistines, so often portrayed by Molière, who
thought that the less girls knew the better they were likely to
be. Fénelon sums up in favour of the cultivated house-wife;
his first object was to persuade the mothers to take charge of
their girls themselves, and fit them to become wives and mothers
in their turn.
The book brought its author more than literary glory. In 1689 Fénelon was gazetted tutor to the duke of Burgundy, eldest son of the dauphin, and eventual heir to the crown. The character of this strange prince has been drawn once for all by Saint-Simon. Shortly it may be said that he was essentially a mass of contradictions—brilliant, passionate to the point of mania, but utterly weak and unstable, capable of developing into a saint or a monster, but quite incapable of becoming an ordinary human being. Fénelon assailed him on the religious side, and managed to transform him into a devotee, exceedingly affectionate, earnest and religious, but woefully lacking in tact and common sense. In justice, however, it should be added that his health was being steadily undermined by a mysterious internal complaint, and that Fénelon’s tutorship came to an end on his disgrace in 1697, before the pupil was fifteen. The abiding result of his tutorship is a code of carefully graduated moral lessons—the Fables, the Dialogues of the Dead (a series of imaginary conversations between departed heroes), and finally Télémaque, where the adventures of the son of Ulysses in search of a father are made into a political novel with a purpose. Not, indeed, that Fénelon meant his book to be the literal paper Constitution some of his contemporaries thought it. Like other Utopias, it is an easy-going compromise between dreams and possibilities. Its one object was to broaden Burgundy’s mind, and ever keep before his eyes the “great and holy maxim that kings exist for the sake of their subjects, not subjects for the sake of kings.” Here and there Fénelon carries his philanthropy to lengths curiously prophetic of the age of Rousseau—fervid denunciation of war, belief in nature and fraternity of nations. And he has a truly 18th-century belief in the all-efficiency of institutions. Mentor proposes to “change the tastes and habits of the whole people, and build up again from the very foundations.” Fénelon is on firmer ground when he leads a reaction against the “mercantile system” of Colbert, with its crushing restrictions on trade; or when he sings the praises of agriculture, in the hope of bringing back labour to the land, and thereby ensuring the physical efficiency of the race. Valuable and far-sighted as were these ideas, they fitted but ill into the scheme of a romance. Seldom was Voltaire wider of the mark than when he called Télémaque a Greek poem in French prose. It is too motivé, too full of ingenious contrivances, to be really Greek. As, in Fénelon’s own opinion, the great merit of Homer was his “amiable simplicity,” so the great merit of Télémaque is the art that gives to each adventure its hidden moral, to each scene some sly reflection on Versailles. Under stress of these preoccupations, however, organic unity of structure went very much to the wall, and Télémaque is a grievous offender against its author’s own canons of literary taste. Not that it altogether lost thereby. There is a curious richness in this prose, so full of rhythm and harmony, that breaks at every moment into verse, as it drags itself along its slow and weary way, half-fainting under an overload of epithets. And although no single feature of the book is Greek, there hangs round it a moral fragrance only to be called forth by one who had fulfilled the vow of his youth, and learnt to breathe, as purely as on “the double summit of Parnassus,” the very essence of the antique.
Télémaque was published in 1699. Four years before, Fénelon had been appointed archbishop of Cambrai, one of the richest benefices in France. Very soon afterwards, however, came the great calamity of his life. In the early days of his tutorship he had met the Quietist apostle, Mme Guyon (q.v.), and had been much struck by some of her ideas. These he developed along lines of his own, where Christian Neoplatonism curiously mingles with theories of chivalry and disinterestedness, borrowed from the précieuses of his own time. His mystical principles are set out at length in his Maxims of the Saints, published in 1697 (see Quietism). Here he argues that the more love we have for ourselves, the less we can spare for our Maker. Perfection lies in getting rid of self-hood altogether—in never thinking of ourselves, or even of the relation in which God stands to us. The saint does not love Christ as his Redeemer, but only as the Redeemer of the human race. Bossuet (q.v.) attacked this position as inconsistent with Christianity. Fénelon promptly appealed to Rome, and after two years of bitter controversy his book was condemned by Innocent XII. in 1699. As to the merits of the controversy opinion will always be divided. On the point of doctrine all good judges agree that Fénelon was wrong; though many still welcome the obiter dictum of Pope Innocent, that Fénelon erred by loving God too much, and Bossuet by loving his neighbour too little. Of late years, however, Bossuet has found powerful defenders; and if they have not cleared his character from reproach, they have certainly managed to prove that Fénelon’s methods of controversy were not much better than his. One of the results of the quarrel was Fénelon’s banishment from court; for Louis XIV. had ardently taken Bossuet’s side, and brought all the batteries of French influence to bear on the pope. Immediately on the outbreak of the controversy, Fénelon was exiled to his diocese, and during the last eighteen years of his life he was only once allowed to leave it.
To Cambrai, accordingly, all his energies were now directed. Even Saint-Simon allows that his episcopal duties were perfectly performed. Tours of inspection, repeated several times a year, brought him into touch with every corner of his diocese. It was administered with great strictness, and yet on broad and liberal lines. There was no bureaucratic fussiness, no seeking after popularity; but every man, whether great or small, was treated exactly as became his station in the world. And Saint-Simon bears the same witness to his government of his palace. There he lived with all the piety of a true pastor, yet with all the dignity of a great nobleman, who was still on excellent terms with the world. But his magnificence made no one angry, for it was kept up chiefly for the sake of others, and was exactly proportionate to his place. With all its luxuries and courtly ease, his house remained a true bishop’s palace, breathing the strictest discipline and restraint. And of all this chastened dignity the archbishop was himself the ever-present, ever-inimitable model—in all that he did the perfect churchman, in all the high-bred noble, in all things, also, the author of Télémaque.
The one great blot on this ideal existence was his persecution of the Jansenists (see Jansenism). His theories of life were very different from theirs; and they had taken a strong line against his Maxims of the Saints, holding that visionary theories of perfection were ill-fitted for a world where even the holiest could scarce be saved. To suppress them, and to gain a better market for his own ideas, he was even ready to strike up an alliance with the Jesuits, and force on a reluctant France the doctrine of papal infallibility. His time was much better employed in fitting his old pupil, Burgundy, for a kingship that never came. Louis XIV. seldom allowed them to meet, but for years they corresponded; and nothing is more admirable than the mingled tact and firmness with which Fénelon spoke his mind about the prince’s faults. This exchange of letters became still more frequent in 1711, when the wretched dauphin died and left Burgundy heir-apparent to the throne. Fénelon now wrote a series of memorable criticisms on the government of Louis XIV., accompanied by projects of reform, not always quite so wise. For his practical
