The Story of Silent Night Read Free Page B

heavy boots of the churchgoers wending their way to the service at St. Nikola. Their cheery “Grüss Gotts ” as they met and joined up with one another rang through the stillness. The air was sharp and crystal clear and crackled in the nostrils. The stars seemed to hang from the sky and one of particular brightness, if you looked in just the right way, appeared to be shining as though attached to the top of the tallest pine near the church. Successive families as they passed would look up and then point it out to those who followed.
    Once more the bells pealed forth from the tall, whitewashed steeple. Within, hundreds of tapers and candles reflected from the gilded and silvered plates and chalices, the brightly painted figures of Saints and Virgins, softening the faces of the stiff, Gothic, wooden Madonnas and haloed figures, endowing them with gentle grace. Angels, cherubim and seraphim and all the Holy Ones of the Catholic Calendar of Saints were decorated with pine boughs and hollyberries.
    Ordinarily, Gruber would have been at the organ, softly playing in the congregation to the strains of old hymns. Now the worshippers were aware of the unusual silence as they entered and heard the shuffle of their own feet on the stone floor. But word had got around very quickly of the catastrophe and there was much buzz of conversation and wonderment as to what was to replace it. True, the choir might sing a cappella , but well—that wasn’t real Christmas Eve music.
    The people packed themselves close on the hard benches, the men in their sombre, lumpy best clothes, the women with gay aprons over their dark skirts, coloured shawls about their shoulders and bright scarves on their heads. The rough river men in the inland sailor’s garb of the times of red and blue, occupied the rear pews.
    The smoke of incense drifted upwards to the roof of the nave, the coughings and scrapings ceased as old Father Nostler, as solid and grim in his robes as the figures carved by peasants out of wood, began the conduct of the Mass. Where the organ should have played its part, the choir chanted from its loft, yet those in the church felt how much the music was missing. It was like meat without salt. Only a few noticed that the assistant priest, Joseph Mohr, was nowhere to be seen.
    Father Nostler read the appropriate Epistle to Titus, II and the lines from St. Luke, Chapter II, verses 1–14. From the pulpit the priest had spoken feelingly enough of the miracle of the birth that had taken place some eighteen hundred years ago, its meaning to mankind and the hopes that it had brought to all the miserable and enslaved of the world.
    When he finished, the slap made by the closing of the great Bible echoed through the silent church as though it had been a signal, as indeed it was. For this was the place where he had been told the children would appear and sing. However, he was not prepared for the surprise as Joseph Mohr, Franz Gruber and the twelve youngsters, the organist with his guitar slung from his shoulder, marched in from the vestry and ranged themselves before the altar.
    When the crusty old priest saw the manner in which all were decked out, his face was almost apoplectic and he raised his hand as though to bring proceedings to a halt. But it was too late, for Mohr had already stepped forward and was saying in effect: “You all know that through the accident to our organ, which happened only last night, we have been denied our usual music. However, Herr Gruber and I have prepared a little Christmas song which we hope will take its place.”
    There was a momentary rustle of astonishment and excitement. In the rear pews the river men grinned and nudged one another as though to say, “Good old Mohr! Trust him to come up with something.” Then as Gruber shifted his instrument into position, silence fell once more. He plucked the first chord from the strings of the guitar, and the tenor and baritone voices of the priest and the schoolteacher