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"Habemus Papam . . ." The Fisherman's Ring (showing St. Peter fishing from a boat), which had been worn by the dead Pope, had been broken. Torch-bearing guards searched the Apostolic Palace to see that no intruders were present. Then, as Camerlengo (prelate in charge of the Holy See between pontificates), Cardinal Pacelli personally locked the big bronze door. Next day, after the Mass of the Holy Ghost, he marched with 61 other cardinals into the conclave. On 62 throne chairs around the Sistine Chapel, facing Michelangelo's Last Judgment, sat the princes of the Church. One by one, the cardinals advanced to the altar, knelt in prayer, and then slid their ballots into a chalice.
Then a teller solemnly read the names on the ballots. The cardinals kept score on printed tally sheets. On the third ballot, the decision came. Cardinal Pacelli suddenly hid his deathly pale face in his hands. At the end of the roll, it was evident that only Pacelli had voted against Pacelli. Outside, before the wildly cheering crowd, a cardinal solemnly pronounced the ancient formula: "Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: habemus papam . . . [I announce to you a great joy: we have a Pope . . .]."
To Eugenio Pacelli, 63 that day, the event was anything but "a great joy." Later that day, the new Pope went to see an ailing cardinal, an old friend, who had been too ill to attend the voting. The old man raised himself up in his bed and began: "Your Holiness . . ." The Pope interrupted him sadly. "Not yet," he said. "For now, let it still be Francesco and Eugenio."
After his election, Pius XII received the first "obedience" of the College of Cardinals, each kissing his red leather slipper. During the ceremony, he was heard to murmur: "Miserere mei, Deus [Pity me, Lord]."
Prisoner in the Vatican. Like other Roman Catholics, the Pope confesses. He does so in a small confessional in his private chapel. His confessor is a German Jesuit. Afterward, as the two men emerge from the wooden booth, the confessor kneels to the penitent and kisses his ring.
This incident illustrates one great burden of the papacy: solitude. For no one can really guide or console the Pope. More than king or prisoner, he is alone.
Pius XII, now 77, works an 18-hour day, seven days a week. He rises at 6:15 every morning, opens his windows, prays, and takes a cold shower. He shaves with an electric razor. While he shaves, a goldfinch named Gretel—one of five small pet birds he keeps—perches on his arm as it moves with the razor.* Until he goes to sleep in his simple brass bed between 12 and 2 a.m., Gretel is his only entertainment. He rarely listens any more to the records from his fine collection (favorites: Bach, Brahms, Wagner), and he has given up poetry and the classics (favorite: Virgil) for the lives of the saints. During his hour's daily walk in the magnificent Vatican garden, he studies state papers.
His meals are sparse—spaghetti, vegetables or eggs, watered wine. He always eats alone, waited on by German-born Sister Pasqualina Lehnert, his housekeeper (sometimes jocularly known in Rome as La Papessa), or one of the four other nuns who are assigned to serve in the papal household.