Death of a Pope

Before the great bronze doors of the Vatican, Swiss Guards in medieval uniforms leaned upon their halberds. It was near dawn, and broad St. Peter's Square lay still and dark in the cool Roman night. But lights still burned in the windows of the Vatican palaces, to the right of the Square and its long Bernini colonnades. One light shone dimly. In the small second-story chamber which it illuminated, on a plain brass bed, a weary old man lay breathing heavily. A black-cowled monk, a silent doctor kept vigil.

The old man on the bed was His Holiness Pius XI, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Summus Pontifex, 261st Bishop of Rome, Servant of the Servants of God, Head of the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church for 17 years and four days. He was dying. Ill as well as aged (81), he had refused to take to his bed till three days before, stricken by cardiac asthma and kidney disturbances. A sturdy patient, he had told his physician that "the Pope must not stay in bed. The Pope must be Pope." Mindful of Leo XIII, who lay 20 days a-dying, he had said: "I will die sulla breccia"--in the breach.

The long corridors of the Vatican began to sound with the rustling of soutanes and priestly habits. The Holy Father was comatose, his pulse weakly fluttering. Dr. Filippo Rocchi became suddenly alarmed, aroused the Pope's Secret Chamberlains in a nearby room. Present in the modest chamber, in which the Pope could gaze upon a portrait of the longtime protectress of his health, St. Therese of Lisieux, gathered a hushed assemblage: lean, austere Eugenio Cardinal Pacelli, Papal Secretary of State, Camillo Cardinal Caccia-Dominioni, the Pope's protege and master of ceremonies, Count Franco Ratti, the Pope's nephew, Governor Camillo Serafini of Vatican City. The Pope's regular doctor, Dr. Aminta Milani, himself down with a high fever, left his sickbed to administer to the Pontiff a last, desperate injection of adrenalin.

The injection rallied Pius XI for the saS and solemn ministrations reserved, by centuries of tradition, for the last moments of a Pope. To Lorenzo Cardinal Lauri, Grand Penitentiary of the Holy Roman Church, Pius XI, propped up by pillows, whispered his confession, received absolution for his sins. Then attendants washed the Pope's face, hands and feet for their anointing in the last rite: extreme unction. The Monsignor Sacristan, Alfonso de Romanis, parish priest of the Vatican, sprinkled the still room and its grave company with holy water. "Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, 0 Lord, and I shall be cleansed. . . "

With holy oil Monsignor de Romanis touched the Pope's closed eyes. "By this holy unction and His most loving mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever thou hast sinned by sight." The dying man's ears, nose, mouth, hands, feet by holy unction were shrived. With the others' low voices joining in the responses, Monsignor de Romanis prayed: "Make safe Thy servant, my God, who trusts in Thee. Send him, 0 Lord, help from Thy holy place, and defend him out of Zion. . . ."

The dying man's breathing grew shallower. In deep emotion Cardinal Pacelli cried: "Holy Father, give us your blessing!"

In an agony of effort, while the others wept, the Pope summoned his strength to make this last, supreme gesture. He lifted his right hand, mumbled a blessing. Falteringly his hand signaled its last apostolic benediction, fell back on the bed. He mumbled something. To some it seemed that he said: "Jesus and Mary. . . . Peace to the world." Others thought they heard him say: "In our last rites . . . Sister Therese of the Infant Jesus . . . art near to us. God is merciful. May His will be done."

But all were agreed that earlier, the Pope's last articulate words had been: "I still have so many things to do."

Dawn was close at hand. In the bedroom, the company of Franciscan friars known as the Penitentiaries of St. Peter's began softly chanting the penitential psalms. Cardinal Pacelli approached the bed, gazed slowly down at the tired, emaciated body. Death, as it must to all men, had come to Pius XI. "The Pope," said Cardinal Pacelli, "is truly dead." With one accord all in the room began the sorrowful prayer, De Profundis. "Out of the depths, 0 Lord, have I cried unto Thee. . . ."

Ambrogio Damiano Achille Ratti was almost unknown to the Catholics of Italy, let alone Catholics elsewhere, when as a compromise candidate he was elected to the Chair of St. Peter in February 1922.

From, the quiet of the Vatican Library, of which he became Prefect in 1914, he had been sent as Apostolic Visitor (later Papal Nuncio) to war-torn Poland. He had been shepherd of Milan--near which he was born, of peasant stock--for less than a year. He had been appointed Cardinal-Archbishop by Benedict XV over the objections of those who held that Monsignor Ratti was no preacher.

Mountain Climber. Indeed, during the first 30-odd years of his priesthood, in which he was chaplain to a convent, teacher in a seminary, and Prefect of the Ambrosian Library in Milan, Achille Ratti had distinguished himself from the average Italian parroco or parish priest chiefly in being a skilled mountain climber.

But upon his enthronement, Pius XI revealed himself to a hopeful post-War world as a man of vigorous words and deeds, an often-stubborn taker of no man's advice, a good-humored breaker of precedents,* in every sense a great Pope given to the Catholic Church at a time when-she greatly needed one.

Tidier-up. "Everything this Pope touches he tidies up," remarked one old Vatican functionary when Pius XI moved into the Vatican with his modest entourage--including his valet Malvestiti/- to dress him, his mother's cook Linda to prepare his frugal meals. As tidier-up of his temporal dominion of the Vatican State, Pius XI was the first Pope to move out of the horse-&-buggy era. He drove over its ten miles of roads in any one of the half-dozen automobiles he had received as gifts. He was the first Pope since 1870 to emerge from the Vatican into Rome--even, it was whispered, tramping its side streets at night in a plain black soutane before he paid the city a public visit. He built (but never used) a railroad station, modernized the Vatican Library with the most up-to-date stacks and indexes, built a new Governor's Palace, a radio station (HVJ), was the first Pontiff ever to broadcast.

Caesar v. God. Pius XI was "the Pope of Missions." He was also a "Pope of Saints," canonizing during his reign some of the most popular saints of modern times: St. Therese, St. Bernadette of Lourdes, St. Giovanni Bosco (a social service worker who had once been his friend), England's St. Thomas More and St. John Fisher, North America's eight Martyrs. Yet the greatness of Pius XI derived less from his spiritual labors for the Kingdom of God than from his long, uncompromising battle against the pretensions of modern Caesars.

Among the 30 encyclicals which Pius XI gave to the world, one of the greatest was Quadragesima Anno, in which he upheld the rights of labor and set forth an ideal Catholic program condemning equally the extremes of unrestrained Capitalism and Communism. Nowhere did the Church attempt to translate this encyclical into political action. And everywhere Pius XI maintained a traditional policy of dealing politically with the States of the world--negotiating concordats wherever possible --upon any terms which recognized the validity of the Church's mission on earth. That policy led the Church into some dilemmas, could very well lead it, under a new Pope, into more. But with all its dangers the Church's policy remained, as wielded with prudence and steadfastness by Pius XI, the one international influence whose weight was on the side of peace and faith in God.

Interregnum. From the moment when Cardinal Pacelli declared the Pope truly dead, a new order, rigidly governed by ancient protocol, was in force in the Vatican. Cardinal Pacelli, now Camerlengo (Chamberlain) of the Holy Roman Church, was given the Ring of the Fisherman from the Pope's finger. Placed in a red silk bag, the ring was later broken, as symbol that there was an interregnum in the affairs of the Church. Aside from Cardinal Penitentiary Lauri, in charge of the Pope's funeral, and Camerlengo Pacelli, administrator of the Church and head of the approaching conclave of Cardinals, all papal offices and appointments technically lapsed after the death of Pius XI. All the Cardinals, even the Penitentiary and the Camerlengo, at once doffed the distinguishing mark of their rank, the short, capelike mantelletta, wearing simply the white mozzetta or small cape, the rest of their attire violet for mourning.

Garbed by the Penitentiaries in white soutane, red cape and hood, the body of Pius XI was raised upon a velvet and gold catafalque, carried in a slow cortege to the Sistine Chapel. There, dwarfed by the surging figures of Michelangelo's vast Last Judgment, the Pope lay in state while dignitaries of the Church, diplomats. Crown Prince Umberto (for the Italian royal family) and Count Galeazzo Ciano (for Mussolini) paid homage. Next day the Pope's body was carried into St. Peter's, where the weeping populace, which had been thronging St. Peter's Square, began filing past his bier. There began the novemdiali, nine days of papal funeral rites, on the fourth day of which the Pope was to be immured in a triple coffin of cypress, lead and elm. His resting place, near the tomb of the Fisherman in the crypt of St. Peter's, Pius XI chose long ago, declaring: ''I also will find sweet repose in this place some day."

Deans. The College of Cardinals last week had 62 members, of whom 40 were in Rome--either because they live and work there or because they, along with most of Italy's bishops, had gone there for what was to have been a world-wide celebration: the 17th anniversary of the Pope's coronation. For these Cardinals there was much to do. Their first corporate act was to meet for consultation on a multitude of matters with Cardinal Camerlengo Pacelli and the three Cardinals who now constituted his cabinet. These three were the deans, eldest in point of service, of the three orders-of Cardinals which make up the College. Sitting in a row sheltered by the same baldachin (canopy), the Camerlengo and the three deans assumed many of the qualities of a reigning Pope, were entitled to the same genuflections which a Catholic would make to the Pontiff.

One dean, however, was not in Rome last week. He was William Henry Cardinal O'Connell, Archbishop of Boston. Twice Cardinal O'Connell has missed a papal election by not getting to Rome soon enough. The second time, in 1922, he missed it by no more than an hour, expostulated to such effect that one of Pius XI's first acts was to extend the minimum period between the Pope's death and the opening of the conclave to 15 days. Last week it looked as if Cardinal O'Connell, 79 and ailing, wintering in Nassau, might miss his third conclave. At news of the Pope's death he booked passage north on an airplane, then caceled it for his health's sake, embarked for Manhattan on a ship.

Uncertain whether he would reach Rome before the doors to the conclave are locked (probably between February 25 and March 1), Cardinal O'Connell this week was to sail for Italy. His colleagues, George Cardinal Mundelein of Chicago and Denis Cardinal Dougherty of Philadelphia, departed last week on the S.S. Rex.

Papabile. In the corridors of the Vatican, as over Roman dinner tables, there was much talk last week of who among the Cardinals was papabile (in line for the papacy), who were the most able papeggianti (promoters of candidacies). Some thought there was a better chance for a non-Italian Pope than at any time since the last one (in 1522). To them, these seemed papabile: Auguste Cardinal Hlond, Primate of Poland, Joseph Cardinal Schulte of Cologne (both strongly anti-Communist), Pierre Cardinal Gerlier of Lyon, and bearded Eugene Cardinal Tisserant, Wartime French staff officer and for 30 years Vatican librarian.

Conservative observers, however, looked for the election of an Italian archbishop, not too old, such as Milan's Cardinal Schuster, Venice's Patriarch-Cardinal Piazza, Turin's Cardinal Fossati--or even Cardinal Camerlengo Pacelli, despite the fact that Secretaries of State have in recent years seldom been considered papabile.

Soon after death came to Pius XI last week, the great eleven-ton Campanone, largest of St. Peter's bells, was set to its deep, sad tolling. This week, as a triple coffin was lowered to the crypt of St. Peter's, not only the Campanone and the bells of Rome's mourning churches but a tolling from hundreds of cathedrals, from thousands of parish churches the world over, sounded the grief of the widowed Church and millions of her children over the loss of the kindly little man whom, they devoutly and humbly believed, the workings of the Holy Spirit had given them 17 years before.

*Precedent was broken even at the Pope's death, perhaps by his order. Cardinal Pacelli omitted the age-old ceremonial of tapping the Pontiff's forehead with a silver mallet, while calling him by name, to make sure he was dead. /-Meaning: badly dressed.

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