Free The Story of Silent Night by Paul Gallico Page A

of the boyhood of this somewhat misfit, itinerant priest whom Fate seemed to send hither and thither to fill any temporary vacancies but never acquiring a parish of his own.
    “And besides,” Mohr added, still angry, “it isn’t that kind of a song.”
    “Of course not,” Gruber soothed his friend, and apologized further, “I meant nothing more than that your talents are numerous.”
    But both were aware of what lay behind Mohr’s reference to “that kind of a song”. It was just that it was well known that he enjoyed raising his fine tenor voice with the river men in the wood-panelled Bauernstube of the inn. Oberndorf was a port on the navigable river Salzsach, in those days an important commercial thoroughfare. When it was Bockbier time or the Heurige, the strong, heady new wine flowed, the sailors foregathered in the tavern at night, zithers twanged, bawdy songs were sung.
    As a matter of fact Father Nostler, a sour and crabbed man, had already put in a complaint to the Archbishop’s Consistory in Salzburg about his assistant. In his letter he drew a picture of Mohr going about like a wild student with long tobacco pipe and pouch, evidencing a preference for music and musical entertainment rather than his breviary and consorting with low sailors who sang ditties that could not be considered uplifting. This was not the type of man to look after the spiritual needs of the congregation and he asked to have him transferred. Fortunately an investigation by the Dean of the Cathedral established that for all of his gaiety and love of life and people, Mohr carried out his duties, was particularly conscientious about bringing comfort to the sick and was liked by most of the community. So for the moment no action was taken on Father Nostler’s charges.
    “But about this poem, then,” Gruber continued, “or whatever you wish to call it,” and he paused with a look of enquiry.
    Mohr, his anger now fled, said almost apologetically, “Well, I only thought that since there is not a note to be had from the organ and you are almost a virtuoso on the guitar, I wondered if you might not be able to arrange something—let’s say in two parts for your voice and mine, perhaps a chorus for the children, with guitar accompaniment. If it were simple they could learn it quickly and we might have it ready for tonight.”
    Gruber was again surprised. “Guitar in the church? On Christmas Eve?” he queried, and already envisioned the expressions of shock and disapproval on the faces of the congregation and more fuel to Nostler’s fire. And yet he had thought when he had been confronted with the organ damage, “Needs must when the devil drives.” So he said, “Perhaps one might. Let me see what you have written.”
    Gruber took the paper and read the first stanza, and ever more rapidly carried along, those that followed. And as he did so a queer chill ran down his spine. It was indeed not that kind of a song. On the contrary. It seemed to lay its hand upon his heart and speak to him gently, simply and movingly and he looked up in utter astonishment at his friend who stood there with the diffident air of one totally unaware that he had produced anything extraordinary.
    Gruber was both stirred and puzzled by the words. Whence had they come? From where within this gay, light-hearted, seemingly irresponsible young man who always seemed to have either a joke or a song on his lips and never a serious thought? What was there about them that was so strangely compelling?
“Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”
    The very first two lines immediately seemed to exercise an hypnotic effect upon him and already he found himself listening to the faint sounds of music waiting to be born. He was both confused and excited.
    He stammered, “Y-yes, I understand. The guitar accompaniment kept simple and the children could sing the last line of each stanza in four part chorus. Let me take it home and see what I can do.” For