The Story of Silent Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

and Fugue filled the building.
    And then suddenly, in the midst of a resounding phrase, Mauracher stopped, turned to Gruber and asked, “When was it you said your damage occurred?”
    “The morning of Christmas Eve.”
    “I thought that’s what I heard,” said the Tyrolean. “Whatever did you do for music, then?”
    This was the first time that anyone had inquired about the now forgotten Christmas Eve musical crisis.
    Gruber smiled in recollection. “Well, it was a little unusual. Do you remember Mohr, the chap who was here as assistant priest then? No, I don’t think you ever met him. He was something of a versifier and a musician, too. We both—ah—used to strum the guitar. Well, he wrote a little poem and I set it to music. We sang it with a children’s chorus. It was scored for two male voices—tenor and baritone, that is to say Mohr and myself, with guitar accompaniment. You should have seen the faces of the congregation when we entered the nave. But it seemed to go down well.” And now he smiled again, “At least the whole bizarre business was quickly forgotten.”
    Mauracher looked astonished. “What a combination! I never heard of such a thing. I should like to see that.”
    “Goodness!” Gruber laughed, “I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for it, or where Joseph put it, if it hasn’t been swept out already. Sagen Sie mal, Frau Schneider . . .” and here Gruber addressed a stout Putzfrau, the cleaning woman who was passing through with her bucket and mop, “Did Father Mohr leave any papers behind anywhere, other than those in the music cupboard? I know it isn’t there, because I only recatalogued our library recently.”
    Fat Frau Schneider reflected. The church was full of corners, crannies and chests. She suggested, “There would only be that old closet behind the vestry where he used to keep his clothes and his guitar.”
    “If you like,” Gruber offered, “I’ll have a look.” A moment later they heard him shout, “Ha!” as amidst old bits of paper, half-written scores and hymnbooks without covers, crumpled and dusty, he retrieved the manuscript of the poem and music.
    Returning, he handed it to the organ-mender who placed it on the music rack before him, pulled out the stop of the vox humana and tentatively fingered the melody, his lips moving as he read the words.
    “You see,” said Gruber, “it’s nothing.”
    “We-ell,” Mauracher replied, and showed his teeth through his bushy beard in a curious kind of smile, “Wait!” He eyed the score once more, then began opening stops until he had activated the whole noble range of the pipes. He threw back his massive head and with an accompaniment as though rendered by an orchestra of flutes, viols and trumpets, filled the church with the hymn until the beams of the roof shivered.
    He grinned at Gruber. “It has something, hasn’t it, old fellow?”
    Gruber laughed. “YOU have something, my dear master. You could make a five-finger exercise sound like a Handel Hallelujah.”
    Mauracher said, “You might let me have a copy.”
    Gruber only laughed again and said, “Take it with you, if you like. No one here will have any further use for it, since you have mended our organ so perfectly.”
    Mauracher nodded, stuffed the score inside his coat pocket, shouldered his bag of tools and patches and climbed onto the driver’s seat of his wagon. “If the Elders should decide upon a new organ,” he shouted as he drove off, “don’t forget us,” waved and Gruber watched him out of sight, and along with the only extant score of Silent Night, out of mind.

hen, some three months later, Mauracher returned to Fügen, the incident had dimmed, overshadowed by other events of his trip: an order for a great new organ to be built along the most modern lines, plus more news of the world outside of their valley, the political troubles brewing in the north, in Saxony and Brandenburg.
    He came upon the crumpled score once more among his