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It is this great but often obscured fact, as well as his particular personality, that helped make Pius XII a new kind of Pope, a spiritual power outside his own Church and, incidentally, a figure whom people from all over the world want to meet.
They come on all the roads that lead to Rome, the devout alongside the curious. What do they find?
An Audience with the Pope. The atmosphere recalls a dentist's waiting room, but it is more solemn. A dozen people in the room are seated uncomfortably on high-backed chairs. They speak in whispers or not at all. Men have the trapped look of those who want to smoke but cannot, women keep poking at their hats. An usher scurries back & forth, checking a list, his coattails flying. From the brocaded walls, well-dusted gilt cherubs look coldly at the visitors who have come to Castel Gandolfo to see the Pope.
A papal chamberlain in flowing robe appears, carrying a huge brown leather book, his face as stern as the recording angel's. A second member of the chamberlain's staff poses the visitors about the room. The chamberlains seem almost as nervous as the callers. Footsteps echo on marble, and all face the tall white door. A false alarm: it is a group of African seminarians who have just seen the Pope in his study, and all of them are smiling broadly. Then, suddenly, without announcement, the Pope is in the room.
He walks briskly to the first caller, a tall, white-haired Irish-American. Looking at his book, the chamberlain whispers: "American." The man kneels, kisses the ring of the fourth finger of the Pope's right hand—a long, thin hand that grips the visitor's with remarkable force and gently draws him up from his knees. "Ah, you are an American," says the Pope, in heavily accented but clear English. "We want to welcome you to Rome. We want to bless you and all your family and wish you happiness."
The Pope's manner is almost shy. He speaks haltingly, as if he were thinking out every word beforehand. The tall man says: "Your Holiness, I have been waiting for this moment all my life. I will never forget this." A few more questions from the Pope: "Where are you from . . .?" "What is your work . . .?" Then he moves on.
Bits of muted conversation fill the room. A well-dressed young woman: "Your Holiness, I am Italian-American. But I don't speak any Italian . . ."
An Italian woman, in tears, almost swooning as he approaches, tells the Pope something in an urgent whisper. He pats her shoulder comfortingly. She fervently kisses his hand.
A slight, earnest man in his 40s: "I am head of the Catholic Boys' Clubs in . . ." The Pope, beaming: "Very important work, very important."
To a French Canadian: "Mon fils, nous sommes heureux de vous voir . . ."
To a pudgy American journalist, who has some difficulty getting off the floor: "We bless your work . . ."
Each visitor gets a small medal with the Pope's picture. Then Pius XII stands in the center of the room, and for the first time since he came in, he seems dramatic. He spreads his arms in a way that no actor could imitate, a gesture that suggests real effort, as if it were literally seeking to include everyone. Looking upward, he murmurs a Latin blessing.