“Quod non facet Barberi, facerunt Barberini,” quoted Mazzare.
“Uh, whut? This here hillbilly preachuh don’t get none of that thar Romish jabber.” For all his affected accent, Jones was the only one present not wearing a meshback cap against the bright sun, even if he was the only one with actual hillbilly roots.
Heinzerling could parse the Latin. ” ‘What the Barbarians did not do, the Barberini did,’ ” he translated. “But what does this mean?”
Mazzare smiled. “I shall add a note to our report. The Pantheon at Rome had its bronzes stripped for a Barberini creation of some sort, I forget what. I do remember the pasquinade, though. I think we need to warn the cardinal that he should not tear down ancient monuments to save a few scudi on the beautification of Rome.”
“Well, since we’re warning against every other error the Church made, I don’t see why not.” Jones eyed the pile of manuscript in the middle of the table. “There’s a lot there. A good ten inches of history, all stacked up neat.”
Heinzerling regarded the pile thoughtfully. He had ended up writing most of it longhand, having the only decent handwriting of the three of them. His hand still ached at the memory of it all. “I was telling about the father-general. Muzio Vitelleschi.”
“Oh?” Mazzare looked more alert. “I didn’t think you had to do with him, Gus.”
“No, ordinarily I do not. The father-general commands the provincial, who commands the heads of houses and collegia, who tell the priests what to do. And reports go back the same way. This is how it is done. But I came here by accident, found myself doing pastoral work, and was ordered to stay. The Society takes the resources it finds to use.”
Heinzerling paused a moment. “I speak no secrets, you understand? The Society does God’s work as well as it may and with what it finds to hand. It gives the opinion of stealthiness, dishonesty at times. What some would call . . . I am sorry, I do not know the English word. Scheinheilig? Holy-seeming, but without the reality?”
“Hypocritical,” Jones supplied. “I guess the Jesuits do have a reputation for a certain, uh, moral flexibility?”
“Moral flexibility, no. Moral absolutes, and practical flexibility.” Heinzerling nodded. He couldn’t think how long it had been since he read Saint Ignatius’ Exercises. Or, for that matter, how long since he’d even owned a copy. He felt a pang.
“You were saying, Gus?” Mazzare’s tone was gentle.
Heinzerling realized how transparent he had been. “So, the Society does what it may. Here, it has me in place and must needs ignore the fact that I have twice been so close—” he held up thumb and forefinger “—to being declared incorrigible.”
The other two priests nodded. Heinzerling was not proud of the way he had been. He was prepared to admit that he had been a sorry excuse for a Jesuit, even if he was about par for a regular priest in the seventeenth century, of any denomination. It was only being able to settle down, acknowledge Hannelore publicly and follow what shreds of his vocation remained to him that had let him be anything other than a brawling, drunken loser. There were very few clerics that weren’t, but the Society expected—and usually got—better.
“And so,” he went on, “I am instructed direct from the father-general that I must see that Father Mazzare does not stint with his researches, that he is complete and thorough and finds time to do it in a timely manner. Be a good curate, in other words.”
Mazzare chuckled. “Actually, you are that. All we have to get you cured of is that filthy thing.” He waved at the pipe.
“This is not so bad,” Heinzerling said. “It is a less rough smoke than the clay pipe. And lasts longer also. And the Turkish tobacco is much sweeter, not so?”
Heinzerling cringed as his wife spoke from behind him. “No, Herr Mazzare, you tell this fat fool! As soon as I hear from the Doctor Nichols about the canker in the lungs, I am telling him to quit. And telling him and telling him.”