When did the word “dossier” become so sinister? If you’re eager to ratchet up the tension or create a sense of skulduggery then the other options simply won’t suffice. When, for instance, you are concocting outlandish theories about why Benedict XVI resigned, there’s a lack of drama in talking about cardinals producing a “file” after they had completed their investigations. No, a “secret dossier” landing on the pope’s desk has much more oomph.
The same goes for rumours about conclaves being influenced, or stashes of documents in Eastern European archives revealing the “truth” about assassination attempts against John Paul II. And, frankly, in an age of VatiLeaks or dubious dealings at the Vatican bank, a word like “dossier”, with all its menacing overtones, can be hard to resist.
A question, though. Why does it attach so readily to events within the Catholic Church? There is sometimes a cultural assumption that Rome has always been particularly gifted when it comes to secrecy: every bit as likely to go in for dossiers as the intelligence agencies of superpowers or the movers and shakers behind the latest twist in the tale of Donald Trump.
Is this reputation justified? It can be stated with certainty that the Church has deployed espionage during its long history; it has attempted to influence political events in far-flung climes; and since it helped to invent modern diplomacy it stands to reason that it also helped to create the rules of diplomatic engagement and to find ways around them.
But what else was a Church to do, especially back in the days when it was a mighty political player as well as a spiritual lodestone? If the Medici or the Tudors are sending agents to spy on you, then you’d be wise to return the favour. If the Gestapo are muckraking against you, then why not seek intelligence from German bishops that might help the Allies?
A fair conclusion would be that, historically, the papacy has been no more addicted to gathering information than any other influential power, that most of the less edifying episodes are already well known, and that you can dismiss most of the tall tales that infect the blogosphere. For every genuine covert agent or overly curious nuncio there were many other poor victims who had to endure entirely spurious accusations. At this chilly time of year, for instance, spare a thought for Simone Matkovitch. In the depths of the Hungarian winter of 1635, the governor of Buda slung Matkovitch and two fellow priests into an icy cell, bound them with shackles, and made them watch some of their fellow Catholics being tortured. Despite being beaten, Matkovitch refused to admit that he was a papal spy, largely because he wasn’t. He was just a humble parish priest from Mohács.
As for the dossiers, well, I’m sure the Church has produced lots of them through the centuries, but let’s not mistake efficiency for mischief. When medieval or early modern people grumbled about the Inquisition they rarely focused on the nature of the punishments or procedures: these were no more offensive than those deployed in secular justice. No, it was the top-notch record-keeping that truly stung. If you’d behaved heretically in Bologna, fled the scene and rekindled your antics in Naples, the local inquisitors could contact their colleagues in the north and learn all about your past misdeeds. Call that a secret dossier if you will but, in the context of the time, it seems no more reprehensible than keeping tabs on crowned heads who wished Rome ill or employing locals to surreptitiously report back on the state of a city’s defences when you were planning a crusade.
The Catholic Church no doubt has its secrets and in recent times, just as in any other era, it has revealed its factions and its flaws. The line between necessary confidentiality and ignoring urgent problems can too easily be blurred, and it is never nice to think of priests and bishops relishing information that might stymie their rivals. This, alas, is inevitable with any institution run by human beings, but we really shouldn’t portray the Church as a mire of stealth and conspiracy.
People are sometimes disappointed when you tell them that the Secret Archives of the Vatican, the springboard for many wild speculations, aren’t particularly secretive. The Secretum of the title might better be understood as “private” or “personal”, and for a very long time any academic with suitable credentials has been able to gain access.
The worst you can really say about the place is that some of the catalogues are lousy and that the daily ordering limits are absurd. There are files aplenty and if, elsewhere in Rome, there’s a cupboard full of dossiers that few people are ever likely to see, then I dare say the same holds true of Washington or Moscow.
Jonathan Wright is an honorary fellow in the department of theology and religion at Durham University
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