François Fénelon: Modern philosopher or conservative theologian?

Abstract

Ryan Patrick Hanley makes two original claims about François Fénelon: (1) that he is best regarded as a political philosopher, and (2) that his political philosophy is best understood as “moderate and modern.” In what follows, I raise two concerns about Hanley’s revisionist turn. First, I argue that the role of philosophy in Fénelon’s account is rather as a handmaiden of theology than as an autonomous area of inquiry—with implications for both the theory and practice of politics. Second, I use Fénelon’s writings on the education of women as an illustration of the more radical and reactionary aspects of his thought. Despite these limits, the book makes a compelling case for recovering Fénelon and opens up new conversations about education, religion, political economy, and international relations in early modern political thought.

Scholars working on the early modern period owe a great debt of gratitude for Hanley’s two recent volumes dedicated to the work of Fénelon: The Political Philosophy of François Fénelon (PPF) and Fénelon: Moral and Political Writings (MPW). The excellent new translations, together with the reconstruction and interpretation of Fénelon’s political thought, invite new assessments of the historical significance and contemporary relevance of his ideas.

My comments in this brief review focus on Hanley’s interpretation of Fénelon’s political thought in The Political Philosophy of François Fénelon. The magisterial study is striking in its breadth and originality, drawing unexpected connections between Fénelon’s writings on education, political economy, statecraft, international relations, and theology. The Fénelon that emerges from Hanley’s exegesis is a “moderate and modern” political realist with a distinctive and underappreciated political philosophy (PPF, p. 18). I find Hanley’s Fénelon more friendly and familiar than the imposing old “Catholic archbishop.” However, I believe the claims about his political philosophy and modernity require further scrutiny.

In what follows, I raise two concerns about Hanley’s revisionist turn. First, I argue that the role of philosophy in Fénelon’s account is rather as a handmaiden of theology than as an autonomous area of inquiry—with implications for both the theory and the practice of politics. Second, I use Fénelon’s writings on the education of women as an illustration of the more radical and reactionary aspects of his thought.

Philosophy as the handmaiden of theology

Hanley provides two main arguments for reading Fénelon as a political philosopher. First, Fénelon is a political philosopher because he is concerned with distinguishing truth from falsehood (PPF, p. 20). I call this the epistemic argument. Second, Fénelon is a political philosopher because he sees the world of politics as a distinctive and circumscribed domain bounded by the world of religion (PPF, p. 21). I call this the boundedness of politics argument. In this section, I put some pressure on both arguments to see how well they hold against a more conservative reading of Fénelon as a Catholic theologian whose account of politics subordinates it to religion in both theory and practice.

Hanley develops the epistemic argument most clearly in the first half of the book where he notes Fénelon’s consistent preoccupation with distinguishing between true and false glory (Chapter 1), true and false riches (Chapter 2), true and false courage (Chapter 3), and true and false pleasures (Chapter 4). While it is true that Fénelon employs the language of truth and falsehood repeatedly (if not obsessively), one must also investigate the ground for these distinctions. The source of Fenelon’s knowledge about truth and falsehood appears to be theological. This includes primarily scripture, especially its interpretation through the Catholic tradition, as well as theological speculations regarding metaphysics. Due to space constraints, I provide only a few passages to illustrate the way in which Fénelon treats philosophy as a handmaiden of theology rather than as a distinctive epistemic domain.

In Examination of Conscience on the Duties of Kings, the prince must first ask himself whether he knows the truth regarding the duties of kingship. These are epistemic questions about the correct sources of knowledge about politics. The answer suggested by the leading questions is unambiguously theological:

Do you know all the truths of Christianity? Like the least of your subjects, you will be judged by the Gospels. Do you study your duties in this divine law? Could you endure a magistrate who always judged the people in your name without knowing your laws and your ordinances, which must be the standard of his judgments? Do you hope that God will allow you to be ignorant of His law, according to which He wishes that you might live and govern His people? (MPW, p. 141)

A similar point is made in Fénelon’s searing critique of French politics in his Letter to Louis XIV. After listing the king’s failures in both domestic affairs and international relations, Fénelon attributes them to a lack of knowledge derived from lack of faith: “But, alas, you do not understand these truths. How would you know them? You do not know God, you do not love Him, you do not pray to Him from the heart, and you make no effort to know Him” (MPW, p. 113). Knowledge of one’s earthly duties as a king, Fénelon suggests, is only possible through theological instruction, faith, and prayer.

One could interpret Telemachus as having a similar message about the divine sources of political knowledge. The primary lessons regarding politics were directly and indirectly given by the goddess Minerva. The answers about politics that Telemachus gives to the council of wise men in Crete had been taught directly by the goddess (Fénelon, 1994: 67–70). The passage into the underworld is secured by Minerva so that Telemachus can directly observe which kings are rewarded with eternal salvation and which are damned (Fénelon, 1994: 241). Finally, the project of reforming Salente which occupies the last half of the book is presented as Minerva’s lessons in government for Telemachus:

And thus did Minerva, in the guise of Mentor, establish the government of Salente upon the best of laws and the most useful maxims of government; not so much to make the dominions of Idomeneus flourish as to show Telemachus, when he returned, by a visible example, how much a wise administration contributed to render a nation happy, and to procure a good king a lasting glory. (Fénelon, 1994: 197)

In light of this, I would argue it makes more sense to read Fénelon as a theologian interested in the implications of theology for politics rather than as a political philosopher independently seeking the truth about politics as a distinctive epistemic domain. Moreover, Fénelon’s moral and institutional prescriptions regarding the relationship between politics and religion instantiate a similar subordination of politics to religion.

Hanley’s distinctiveness of politics argument is formulated most clearly in Chapter 5. According to Hanley, Fénelon saw politics and religion as separate (but not equal) spheres, with religion addressing the higher truths about salvation (PPF, p. 167). Contrary to some interpreters, Hanley does not read Fénelon as having directly “drawn” his politics from scripture (PPF, p. 168). Rather, he views Fénelon as using religion to prevent the worst abuses of politics. The faith of kings limits their vanity and glory-seeking. The religious institutions serve as a limit on the power of the sovereign. There is much to recommend Hanley’s careful interpretation. However, his account understates the degree to which Fénelon’s primary preoccupation is the autonomy of religion rather than the distinctiveness of politics.

Take, for example, the discussion of institutions. Hanley is right that Fénelon argues in favor of a policy of separating political and religious institutions. It is a consistent policy prescription that appears in his Political Memoranda (MPW, pp. 191–194), his Discourse Delivered at the Consecration of the Elector of Cologne (MPW, pp. 121–128), and in Telemachus (Fénelon, 1994: 305). However, close inspection of the arguments shows that Fénelon’s main concern is preserving the autonomy of religious institutions against political encroachments. In Telemachus, for example, he claims: “If kings interfere in the disputes of religion, instead of protecting, they enslave it” (Fénelon, 1994: 305). In the Discourse at the Consecration, he worries about the usurpation of religious authority and decision-making power by earthly sovereigns in the way King Henry VIII did in England. Fénelon describes this as the “fatal excess” through which “England broke the sacred bonds of unity, in wanting to give the authority of the head of the Church to the prince, who must always be only its protector” (MPW, p. 127). The relationship of political institutions to religious institutions is one of subordination rather than clear separation:

The world, in submitting itself to the Church, did not acquire the right of subjecting her: the princes, in becoming the children of the Church, did not become her masters; they must serve her, and not dominate her; lick up the dust of thy feet, and not impose the yoke on her. (MPW, p. 124)

Moreover, Fénelon accepts an executive role for kings in implementing the decisions of religious leaders. Unlike liberal advocates of separating church and state, Fénelon is comfortable using the state to punish non-believers. In his Political Memoranda, he notes that the “prince can punish innovators against the church” (MPW, p. 193) and refers to kings as “protectors of the canons,” which includes supporting the church “against her enemies, against rebellious children” (MPW, p. 194). In the Examination of Conscience, he counsels the prince to ask himself: “Have you put your authority in the service of silencing irreligion?” (MPW, p. 148). Even in Telemachus, Mentor advises Idomeneus to avoid interfering in religious decisions that belong to properly constituted religious authorities, but does not prohibit (and seems to encourage) enforcing these religious decrees: “Leave then the determinations of them [questions related to sacred things] entirely to the ministers of the gods, and content yourself with restraining those who refuse submission to the judgment they pronounce” (Fénelon, 1994: 305).

Hanley is right that Fénelon does not see politics as a naive instantiation of Christian ideals. However, Fenelon’s political prescriptions seem grounded in a religious epistemology that subordinates politics to religion in theory and in practice. We might therefore be more warranted to read Fénelon as a political theologian rather than a political philosopher.

Conservative implications: The social and political role of women

In this section, I briefly turn to Fénelon’s writings on education, particularly The Education of Girls, to illustrate one way in which his commitment to Christian theology has radical implications in prescribing a regressive shift in upper-class women’s social and political status. Despite his modern pedagogy, Fénelon’s writings on the education of upper-class women advocate a return to domesticity that Fénelon himself acknowledges to be at odds with the social and political practice of the time.

Fénelon’s educational methods are modern and anticipate the famous proposals associated with Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education and Rousseau’s Emile. Like them, Fénelon pays close attention to early education and advocates a child-centered approach. Like Locke, he argues against excessive corporal punishment and prefers to guide children naturally using their curiosity (see especially Fénelon, 1891: 33–34). Like Rousseau, he sometimes uses “indirect instruction” such as staged conversations between adults for the sake of the child’s education (Fénelon, 1891: 28).

If the similarities between Fénelon, Locke, and Rousseau are striking, so are the differences. Once children acquire language skills, Fénelon’s emphasis shifts toward teaching children about Catholicism. Chapters 5–8 include detailed instructions about which Biblical stories to tell children, how to explain Christian sacraments, how to talk about the immortality of the soul, and even how to argue against the errors of Calvinists. ¹ The content of Fénelon’s religious teaching is conservative, conventional, and closely bound up with respecting the authority of the Catholic church.

While Fénelon’s conservative approach to Catholic teachings is unexceptional for his period, his arguments regarding the social and political status of upper-class women can be described as reactionary. Fénelon is writing at a time when such women were increasingly active at court and in literary salons. Like Rousseau, Fénelon’s attitude toward this is unambivalently negative. In Examination of Conscience, he calls this “a monstrous abuse, to which the nation has grown accustomed” (MPW, p. 147), and advises the king to consult his conscience on whether he has permitted such “immodest freedom” in women (MPW, p. 146). In The Education of Girls, he argues that wealthy women’s vanity leads to excessive expenditure on fashion that “ruins families” and, through their influence on lower-class women, leads to “the corruption of morals” at the national level (Fénelon, 1891: 90). Wealthy women’s education must therefore guard against their nefarious social and political influence. Positively, this involves promoting a model of female virtue that honors domestic tasks and manual labor. Negatively, the project involves repressing girls’ frivolous inclinations, as well as restricting women’s knowledge and speech to appropriate domains.

The ideal upper-class women must only be instructed in topics necessary for the three primary tasks given to women: educating their children, supervising the conduct of servants, and managing the expenditures and income of their estate. These are also the only topics on which women should speak. Moreover, women should learn to speak rarely and concisely. In Telemachus, this is identified as a key virtue of the young man’s love interest. Telemachus begins his description of Antiope by emphasizing “her silence, her modest reserve, her constant employment” (Fénelon, 1994: 302). Mentor then confirms the assessment, further praising the appropriately silent manner of his chosen wife: “she never speaks but when it is proper” and “I have hardly heard her speak at any length” (Fénelon, 1994: 304).

Fénelon, of course, is aware that this prescription will be seen as excessively constraining by contemporaneous women: “If an inquisitive woman feels that this is setting narrow bounds to her curiosity, she deceives herself; she does not realize the importance and the extent of the matters upon which I propose that she shall be instructed” (Fénelon, 1891: 96). He anticipates he will be classed among “foolish barbarians” for his advocacy of ancient morals (Fénelon, 1891: 91). This indicates that he was self-consciously advocating for a radical and unpopular social and political change.

Fénelon’s writings on women’s education offer an illustration of the radical and reactionary aspects of his thought. A full assessment of his political theory must do justice to both the moderate and modern and the radical and reactionary aspects of it.

Conclusion

Hanley has rescued Fénelon from an unjustified lapse into the dustbin of history. I expect that the Catholic archbishop will stay with us for a long time—the subject of many articles, dissertations, and books. (I hope at least one of these will be a comparative study of the politics and philosophy of education in Fénelon, Locke, and Rousseau.) And having unsettled Fénelon’s image as a radical and reactionary thinker, Hanley’s original interpretation will be responsible for a welcome wave of reassessments of Fénelon’s political thought.