The Story of Silent Night Read online

  Paul Gallico relates in his own inimitable way the story of the best known Christmas carol in the world. It is a tale where truth is touched by legend and research is coloured by imagination, and it tells of a village priest and a school teacher in a tiny Austrian hamlet who, more than a hundred years ago, wrote the words and music which are sung today at Christmas in at least seventy different tongues.

  Since the publication of The Snow Goose early in World War II Paul Gallico has established himself as one of the best loved authors in the world. He has put into this Christmas story all the warmth and charm for which he is so justly famous.

  NOVELS BY

  PAUL GALLICO

  The Snow Goose

  The Lonely

  Jennie

  Trial by Terror

  The Small Miracle

  Snowflake

  The Foolish Immortals

  Love of Seven Dolls

  Ludmila

  Thomasina

  Flowers for Mrs Harris

  Mrs Harris Goes to New York

  Too Many Ghosts

  Scruffy

  Coronation

  Love, Let Me Not Hunger

  Three Stories

  The Hand of Mary Constable

  Mrs Harris, M.P.

  The Man who was Magic

  GENERAL

  The Steadfast Man: A Life of St. Patrick

  The Hurricane Story

  Confessions of a Storyteller

  The Silent Miaow

  The Story of Silent Night

  FOR CHILDREN

  The Day the Guinea-Pig Talked

  The Day Jean-Pierre Was Pignapped

  The Day Jean-Pierre Went Round the World

  William Heinemann Ltd

  LONDON MELBOURNE TORONTO

  CAPE TOWN AUCKLAND

  First published 1967

  © Paul Gallico 1967

  © A. G. Mathemata 1967

  Reprinted 1967, 1968

  ISBN: 0 434 28056 9

  SILENT NIGHT

  ilent night, holiest night,

  Darknesss flies, all is light,

  Shepherds hear the Angels sing:

  Hallelujah, hail the King,

  Jesus, the Saviour is here

  Jesus the Saviour is here!

  Silent night, holiest night,

  Guiding star, lend thy light,

  See the Eastern Magi bring,

  Gifts and homage to our King,

  Jesus, the Saviour is here!

  Jesus the Saviour is here:

  Silent night, holiest night,

  Wond’rous star, lend thy light,

  With the Angels let us sing,

  Hallelujah to the King.

  Jesus, our Saviour is here,

  Jesus, our Saviour is here!

  PROLOGUE

  his is a story where truth is already touched by legend and research is coloured by imagination. Can anyone say for certain who is destined to be famous? And why should there be a note in history of the son of a poor Austrian weaver or the bastard of a musketeer serving in Salzburg? Who could foresee in a young country priest and a humble schoolteacher-organist the stuff of romance and the seeds of genius?

  Yet one hundred and fifty years have not erased the memory of Joseph Mohr and Franz Gruber, respectively poet and composer of the Christmas hymn Silent Night. A number of facts have come to light concerning their origins, lives and deaths. Yet there are long periods of silence in the histories of both which invite speculation to fill in the chinks where research runs into the dead end of events now forgotten or distorted. However, imagination is aided by the fact that there are counterparts of these men living today in the same rustic backwaters where they flourished.

  If one knows something of the villages and country towns of Austria, one feels closer to them for there the yesterdays are not so far removed. Progress in Europe has spread irregularly, leaving here and there odd little pockets which have remained almost unaltered through several centuries. Such are the towns of Oberndorf and Hallein and the hamlet of Arnsdorf, all in the immediate neighbourhood of Salzburg. The tempo of life is little changed from the days a century and a half ago when Gruber and Mohr dwelt there. No one, least of all themselves, ever expected that they would leave an indelible and unforgettable mark upon the hearts of millions.

  Here is how I believe it to have come about.

  P. G.

  Monaco, April 1967

  “ ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

  Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . .”

  (Clement C. Moore)

  ut on the night of 23 December 1818, in the little Austrian town of Oberndorf near Salzburg on the banks of the frozen river Salzach, a mouse—so the story goes—did stir.

  He not only stirred, but he invaded the organ loft of the Church of St. Nikola with its onion tower, reminder of the days when the Turkish tide had washed up that far to the west. There, because he was a cold mouse and a hungry one, he perpetrated a deed and initiated a chain of events that was to resound to the farthest corners of the earth.

  t was the following morning, which had dawned crisp and clear, Christmas weather with the snow lodged a foot high on the sloping roofs of the houses, that an important gentleman in a blue frock coat, flowered waistcoat, white stock, beaver hat, and woollen muffler wound about his neck, crunched the five miles that separated the tiny hamlet of Arnsdorf from Oberndorf. By a side door he entered the Church of St. Nikola, took off his coat and sat down at the organ to run through the programme of hymns for the midnight Mass that evening.

  His name was Franz Gruber, a dark-haired man of about thirty-one, with a pleasant face and somewhat long nose, cleft chin and a touch of humour about his mouth. The world had never heard of him but in the small ponds of the two neighbouring communities he was a very large frog indeed. In Arnsdorf, which was hardly more than a wide place in the road, he was the schoolmaster and sexton and in Oberndorf-on-the-Salzach, the organist. By day he taught the children of Arnsdorf in the schoolhouse where he lived above the single classroom, and as sacristan of the church functioned at baptisms, weddings and funerals as well. On Sundays and holidays, when there were services, he went to Oberndorf to provide sacred music.

  He flicked his coat-tails, adjusted the organ bench and pulled out the stops. Then, with eyes closed and head thrown back in anticipation of the first thunderous chords he would evoke, he trod the bellows pedals and pressed the keys. But no music issued from the pipes, only a soft, breathy sigh. Something was very wrong.

  Before Gruber had time to investigate this unhappy phenomenon he heard a sound by the door and turned to see his friend Joseph Mohr, the young priest, himself a musician. Mohr was in Oberndorf on a temporary basis as assistant to Father Joseph Nostler, the permanent priest of St. Nikola, who was out at the time.

  Gruber said, “Grüss Gott, Joseph,” and then, “Heavens! What’s happened to the organ?”

  Mohr—he was then twenty-six, with merry eyes and a gay, boyish air which somehow did not seem to match the long and sombre soutane—raised his arms in a helpless gesture and said, “A catastrophe! Come along and I’ll show you. When old Nostler finds out he’ll blame that on me too.” The priest and his assistant did not get on.

  He led Gruber to the loft behind the gilded stand of pipes and pointed to the hole and the rip leading from it in the worn leather bellows. “I discovered it this morning after early Mass, when I sat down to play for myself a little. A mouse must have gnawed a hole during the night; look, there are the droppings. At the first pressure the whole thing gave way. Look how old and rotten it is—it should have been attended to long ago,” and then he added, “It’s hopeless.”

  Gr
uber inspected the damage with genuine anguish. “And the organ-mender won’t be coming up from the Zillertal until the snows have melted in the spring,” he cried.

  A Christmas Eve Mass without music was unthinkable. He fingered the split leather and said, “Here’s a fine fix! What’s to be done?”

  Rather timidly, as the two men walked back into the church to contemplate the now mute and useless organ, young Father Mohr said, “Well, I had an idea while waiting for you to come, I have written a little poem. Here . . .” and he produced a bit of paper from his soutane and then, coughing and correcting himself, “Well, actually not a poem, perhaps, but some words for a song and it seemed to me that if . . .”

  The schoolteacher, startled, said, “A poem?” and then smiling at his friend said, “That doesn’t surprise me. You were always more of a poet than a preacher and a singer, perhaps even more than a poet. Why you ever chose the cloth . . .”

  The shy and pleasant expression faded from Mohr’s face as he replied shortly and with grim asperity, “It was chosen for me.” And Gruber regretted his levity, remembering the strange story 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 he wished now to be alone with the words that Joseph Mohr had written, to give himself up to the spell that the poem in its innoccnce and simplicity had begun to weave about him. He clapped his hat hurriedly upon his head, wound his woollen muffler about his neck, said, “I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” and set off through the snow for his home in Arnsdorf.

  he characters of the two friends, Mohr and Gruber, could not have been more antithetical, and at the time of the incident of the Christmas Eve crisis, the priest appears as the more robust and dramatic figure of the pair. For he was a bastard born of a musketeer, Joseph Mohr, who simultaneously deserted his mistress Anna Schoiberin, a seamstress in Salzburg, and his army, and was never seen or heard from again.

  In accordance with the customs of the times, the boy born of this union on 11 December 1792, was allowed his father’s name but his start in life was neither auspicious nor enviable.

  To begin with there were problems connected with the baptism. No one could be found willing to stand sponsor for this unfortunate by-blow, the third in the life of a poverty-stricken woman. Eventually one Franz Joseph Wohlmuth offered himself for this rite but was compelled to send a substitute to the font, for he himself was forever barred from crossing the threshhold of the church by his gruesome profession. Franz Joseph Wohlmuth was the official hangman and executioner of Salzburg.

  As is often the case with illegitimates, the child was talented, intelligent and attractive. As a boy of eight or nine, he had a stroke of luck—probably the only one of his entire life. His voice and charm brought him to the attention of Johann Hiernle, an important priest in charge of the Cathedral choir. Hiernle took him under his wing, opened his house to him, became his foster-father and undertook his education.

  Mohr developed a fine tenor voice. He was taught to play the violin and organ, and thus was rescued from what otherwise would have been an existence of abject squalor and drudgery. But there was also a price to pay. He was unable to command his own destiny, since he owed his good fortune to Father Hiernle who had him marked for the Church. For two years he attended the Seminary at Salzburg, again thanks to his foster-father, for bastards were not ordinarily admitted to this school, and on the 21 August 1815, the boy whose heart all through his student years was filled with the joy of life, gaiety and fun was ordained a priest. He was a most unlikely one. Also he had a further handicap. Never strong, he had weak lungs and lacked the stamina to handle a church on his own.

  This was the man whose trifling little verses written to cope with an emergency Franz Gruber now clutched in his fingers as he hurried homewards and like deaf Beethoven, tried to listen to the harmonies already clamouring within him.

  Gruber’s beginning had been of undistinguished placidity when contrasted with the origin of his friend. He was born on 25 November 1787, the third son of a weaver of Hochburg, close by the Bavarian-Austrian border. They were poor; their cottage tumbledown. Like Mohr, Gruber was talented musically and this leaning divided his family. His father considered it a waste of time for a boy who was to become a weaver; his mother, more sympathetic, abetted him in secret lessons given by one of
those wonderful characters which every Austrian village in those days seemed to have—organist-choirmaster-schoolteacher, Andreas Peter Lichner.

  The boy progressed famously but without hope of any future other than the weaver’s chair. The elder Gruber had no use for music.

  And then, as they so often do in this story, Fate and Chance took a hand. When Franz Gruber was twelve years old, Peter Lichner fell ill and there was no one to play the organ in the church on Sunday. No one, that is, except Franzl, who sat at the console, his feet barely reaching the pedals and to the astonishment of all, played the High Mass. Bursting with pride at the praise showered upon his son, father Gruber not only withdrew his objections but delved into the family sock and invested five Gulden in an old spinet so that the boy could practice.

  Further, he was sent to Burghausen for two years to study with Georg Hartdobler.

  In 1806, already an accomplished musician, he attended technical school and a year later secured the position of teacher at the village school of tiny Arnsdorf. In this humble post he remained for twenty-one years.

  Even Gruber’s first marriage lacked the romance on which epic narrative may be built, for it was more a succession than a saga. He wed the widow of his predecessor, acquiring simultaneously a wife, several offspring, and the late husband’s job as sexton and choirmaster. When she died he married another Arnsdorf girl, and later, once more widowed, married a third time.

  It was in 1816 that he secured the additional post of organist in St. Nikola’s Church in the neighbouring town of Oberndorf. And there he made the acquaintance of the ebullient young priest, Joseph Mohr.

  Music in the 18th and 19th centuries in Europe was an almost universal diversion. It could be indulged in by great and lowly alike. Amateurs gathered together in the villages, towns and cities in string trios, quartets, sextets. If one could not afford to own an instrument one could always sing and devotees blended their voices in four part motets, cantatas, madrigals, carols or folksongs.