The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  A terrific noise interrupted my anxious thoughts. Wrapped in a cloud of dust and blue gasoline fumes, a big vehicle roared across the Residenzplatz and with a sharp and daring curve, stopped right in front of me. A man dismounted from the bus. I wanted to see if he was the driver, but my leather helmet fell over my eyes, and I could see only as far as his mouth, from which protruded a huge toothpick. Pushing the hat back a little, I saw a driver’s cap.

  “Is this the bus for Aigen?” I asked. The toothpick man nodded.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “At once.”

  For a moment he looked searchingly around to see whether there were any more passengers. I stepped in and sat down on the right front seat, my precious belongings close beside me. My satchel looked exactly like the bag of a horse-and-buggy doctor. The driver stepped back in, closed the door, and said: “Zwanzig Groschen,” (twenty cents). After a gentle push on the helmet I looked up at him and, while he was getting the change, I watched the toothpick. He could wave it up and down and sideways, move it from one corner of his mouth to the other, even while speaking or spitting, but he never lost it.

  The driver sat down at the wheel, pushed a button, and, squeaking and groaning, we started down the Residenzplatz, across the Mozartplatz, down towards the Salzach River, in such sharp and masterful curves that twice I landed on the other side of the bus. After only a few minutes we crossed the bridge over the Salzach River, the Karolinenbrücke, and almost immediately we were in the open country, passing by a few estates with large gardens and then meadows and fields. Several times we stopped abruptly to take farm people aboard. They all seemed to know each other, shouted greetings, yelled answers, because with all that roaring and rattling you had to raise your voice quite a bit even to say a word. Mr. Müller, as I heard the people greet our driver, had to answer many questions, give many explanations, laugh at jokes. Between cigarettes he spit artistically through a little hole in the left front window, but he never dropped the toothpick.

  After about twenty minutes’ drive, the bus stopped suddenly and, pointing the toothpick straight at me, Mr. Müller said, “Aigen.”

  I got out and was immediately clad in a smoke screen. After the bus had disappeared and I had pushed back my helmet, I could see only one house, which said “Inn.”

  “Do you know the Villa Trapp?” I asked a man who was smoking in the doorway of the inn. He didn’t say whether he did or not, but he came out on the dusty country road and, pointing with his pipe across the meadow to a group of large trees, he said:

  “There.”

  On the right side of the railroad tracks across the way the road was lined by a high iron fence, which seemed to encircle the park of an estate. On the other side, wide meadows stretched towards the foot of a pretty high mountain, which I knew was the Gaisberg. The narrow road seemed to lead straight to the foot of it. No, there was a turn. It had already been quite a long walk, and I had changed my things from one hand to the other several times. I tried to peep into the park, but the trees and bushes made a solid green wall. Perhaps these were the trees which I had seen from the bus stop. Then there must be a house, the house. And there it was. Suddenly the iron bars opened into a wide driveway, and beyond a large, green, oblong patch of lawn, through the yellow leaves of old horse-chestnut trees I could catch glimpses of a building. I stopped for a moment, pushed back that nuisance of a hat impatiently, and looked. Here now was the place! I was torn by conflicting feelings: there was still the sad note of the hurried farewell from the beloved sanctuary, there was a strong curiosity about the exotic home of a real navy captain, mixed with some awe of that captain himself, and a general uneasiness.

  “But you can’t stand here forever,” I told myself.

  As I stepped out from under the trees to the gravel driveway, I had a full view of the big gray mansion with a little tower on the right corner. Ivy covered this side of the house. My attention was immediately attracted by the windows on the first floor. They were exceptionally tall. I could see something red and white hanging from a wall inside. Two steps led up to a heavy, two-winged, arched, oaken door. The way it opened with a little squeak after I had rung the doorbell made me feel homey.

  “Is this the Villa Trapp?” I asked the good-looking man who stood in the doorway, dressed in a gray Austrian costume, only there were silver buttons instead of the familiar staghorn.

  “Yes, M’m.”

  “I am the new teacher. Are you the Captain?”

  Not a muscle moved in the tanned face.

  “No, M’m, I am Hans, the butler.”

  “How do you do, Hans,” and I stretched out my hand to greet him.

  He shook it a bit hastily, I thought, and didn’t seem quite at ease. He took my satchel and ushered me through a double glass door into a sumptuous hall, which extended the full height of the house, bade me sit down, and disappeared quietly before I could say another word. I was somewhat disappointed. In the small mountain village of Tirol where I came from and where everybody knew everybody else, we were never in such haste. I should have liked to talk a little while to the friendly-looking man and ask a good many questions before I had to face the first sea captain of my life. But perhaps this was the way butlers had to be. I had never met one before in my life. There weren’t any in our mountains, nor in the boarding school in Vienna, nor at Nonnberg, either. They only occurred in novels and movies, like sea captains.

  There I sat on a richly-carved, dark chair, which reminded me somewhat of the choir stalls in the Abbey. Curiously I looked around for the lion and tiger skins and the strange weapons, but only a few ancient pieces of furniture stood in the large hall, and two dark oil paintings hung on the wall. Through the large windows I had admired from the outside, the full sun shone on an exquisite staircase, which wound upwards in an elegant curve. The red and white hanging from the wall turned out to be the largest flag I had ever seen in my life. It was at least thirty feet long, red—white—red, with a huge crest in the middle.

  Suddenly I heard quick footsteps behind me, and a full, resonant voice exclaimed: “I see you are looking at my flag.”

  There he was—the Captain!

  The tall, impeccably-groomed gentleman standing before me was certainly a far cry from the old sea wolf of my imagination. The air of complete self-assurance and somewhat lordly bearing would have frightened me, had it not been for his warm and hearty handshake.

  “I am glad you have come, Fräulein…”

  I filled in, “Maria.”

  He took me in from top to toe with a quick glance. All of a sudden I became very conscious of my funny dress, and sure enough, there I was diving under my helmet again. But the Captain’s eyes rested on my shoes.

  We were still standing in the hall when he said: “I want you to meet the children first of all.”

  Out of his pocket he took an odd-shaped, ornamented brass whistle, on which he piped a series of complicated trills.

  I must have looked highly amazed, because he said, a little apologetically: “You see, it takes so long to call so many children by name, that I’ve given them each a different whistle.”

  Of course, I now expected to hear a loud banging of doors and a chorus of giggles and shouts, the scampering of feet of youngsters jumping down the steps and sliding down the banister. Instead, led by a sober-faced young girl in her early teens, an almost solemn little procession descended step by step in well-mannered silence—four girls and two boys, all dressed in blue sailor suits. For an instant we stared at each other in utter amazement. I had never seen such perfect little ladies and gentlemen, and they had never seen such a helmet.

  “Here is our new teacher, Fräulein Maria.”

  “Grüss Gott, Fräulein Maria,” six voices echoed in unison. Six perfect bows followed.

  That wasn’t real. That couldn’t be true. I had to shove back that ridiculous hat again. This push, however, was the last. Down came the ugly brown thing, rolled on the shiny parquet floor, and landed at th
e tiny feet of a very pretty, plump little girl of about five. A delighted giggle cut through the severe silence. The ice was broken. We all laughed.

  “This is Johanna,” her father introduced the little giggler, “and here is our baby, Martina.”

  What a delicate child, I thought. Reservedly she held both hands behind her back and glanced at me silently and critically.

  “Hedwig is already a big school girl,” and the father pointed to the third of the younger ones. All three had their hair cut in low bangs, whereas the fourth girl, whom the Captain introduced as, “My oldest daughter, Agathe,” wore a large white hair ribbon atop her shoulder-length curls. I felt a strong liking for that young child with the unusually grave countenance and the shy little smile. I wished with all my heart we might become good friends.

  There was no time, however, at this moment to try, as their father was continuing: “And here are the boys, Rupert, the oldest of them all, and Werner.”

  Rupert seemed to have his father’s somewhat aloof bearing. Werner was a little fellow with eyes like dark velvet, whom I wanted to take into my arms and hug right there and then.

  “Which one is my pupil?” I asked the Captain.

  A shadow came into his smiling eyes when he answered: “You haven’t met your pupil. I will show you up.”

  With a nod he dismissed the children.

  While I followed him up the staircase, he explained.

  “This child has been a problem to us for years on account of her poor health. Ever since she had scarlet fever, her heart has remained weak. Now she has had grippe, and doesn’t seem able to recover. Poor little one.”

  At the second floor landing the Captain opened a door, and we climbed another flight of stairs, this time narrow and winding, to the third floor and our destination, a large, sunny room opening out on a balcony. Propped up on a mountain of pillows in an ancient, oversized, carved-wood bed, sat a little girl.

  “This is Maria, Fräulein,” the Captain said and, bending over the yellowish little face with the dark rings under the large black eyes, continued in a tender undertone, “I am sure you two will get on really well together, little one. You even have the same name.”

  A faint smile lit the small face, and a little voice answered, “Yes, Father,” and, “I am very glad to meet you, Fräulein Maria.”

  “Now Fräulein must go to her room,” the Captain explained, “but she will be back to see you soon.”

  As we descended the staircase together, he turned suddenly and asked: “Well, how do you like the children?”

  The question took me unawares.

  “They have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen,” I stammered, “but they all look so pale and serious.”

  I hated myself for saying this, which their father could very well take for unduly quick criticism, so I hastened to add: “But they are all very well behaved.”

  “Not always,” said the Captain with a little twinkle.

  Then suddenly serious—he had evidently heard more than I had intended to say—he added in a lower voice while we were continuing down the stairs:

  “You see, you are the twenty-sixth in a long line of nurses, governesses, and teachers we have had to look after them since their poor mother died four years ago. That will explain many things to you. The last teacher stayed with us only two months, but I have the feeling it will be different this time.”

  “Yes,” I smiled, “nine months.”

  Then he opened the tall, white door for me, and with the words, “The bell will ring for dinner soon,” and a slight bow, he took his leave.

  It was a large, sunny room with a big bay window. An oriental rug covered most of the floor. Heavy antique furniture and costly wallpaper gave it an aristocratic air. The white bed in the niche was covered with pale blue silk; the table in the middle, under the carved chandelier, with heavy brocade. In Nonnberg we had no rugs, no silk, no brocade; but on the walls hung centuries-old paintings and wood carvings of Our Lord and Our Lady and all the dear Saints. At every door one found a holy water font made of pewter or silver or ceramic by artistic hands. Nothing of this kind could I find in my new room. At the foot of the bed stood a simple stool on which lay my shabby, worn satchel and the unfortunate little hat; the guitar leaned against the bed. They felt like strangers here, and so did I. I sat down on the stool, took them into my lap, and for a moment I was quite forlorn and lonely when a rich, strange sound made me jump up: the dinner bell.

  A little later we all met again in the elegant dining room. At the head of the table was the Captain. The children sat along both sides. The other lower end was taken by a middle-aged lady. I sat at her left, the baby at her right. I learned that she was Baroness Matilda, the Hausdame, a lady of noble background who presided over the whole household. She had a kind, friendly way about her. Her whole bearing breathed refinement and reminded me of lavender.

  This hour in the dining room just added a few more questions to the many that already crowded my mind: Those many different silver and crystal dishes—what were they for? Why did Hans, the butler, wear gloves—indoors—all of a sudden? What was the matter with his left hand that he held it so tightly to his back? (Perhaps there was a hole in the other glove.) Why did the Baroness ring that little bell? Why didn’t she call him when he was only standing right behind the door? And so on, and so on.

  Right after dinner I was told that I was free for the evening to do my unpacking and get settled.

  Well, the unpacking didn’t take more than five minutes. The toothbrush and the few pieces of underwear, the brown velvet dress, looking hopelessly like a sack, and the dozen books were quickly disposed of. The satchel and the little hat wandered into the darkest corner of the huge wardrobe. The New Testament and the Rule of Saint Benedict, together with a little Cross, were placed on my night table.

  Then I went over to the window. In the red light of the setting sun there stretched a large park with meadows and groups of big trees and meadows again. And a little farther I saw, sharply drawn against the pale evening sky, the profile of my beloved mountain, the Untersberg, the same way we had seen it every day from Nonnberg. And there were all the others, too: Tennengebirge, Hagengebirge, Staufen, Watzmann.

  I felt a little better already. When you are a child of the mountains yourself, you really belong to them. You need them. They become the faithful guardians of your life. If you cannot dwell on their lofty heights all your life, if you are in trouble, you want at least to look at them. The man who wrote three thousand years ago: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help,”* knew this, too. And even Our Lord, when He was weary and tired out and wanted to be alone with His Father, ascended a mountain.

  Happily, like a little school girl, I made myself a calendar which showed two hundred and fifty days, the exact number I should have to endure in this house. The first day was crossed out, and the last thought which went through my mind at the end of this important day was: After all—I don’t belong here; I am just loaned.

  II Glories of the Past

  THE next few days I lived in a continual state of bewilderment. Nothing—nothing at all—was familiar to me in this house. First, I had to get used to the different people. There was the Baron and there were his seven children. There was Baroness Matilda, and then came the staff of servants, headed by Hans, the butler. In the kitchen reigned Resi, the round, good-natured chief cook. Once in her early years she had cooked on an English steamer. She had been in Australia and India, and sometimes in the evening she would tell the little kitchen maid, Mariandl, gruesome stories about pirates and cannibals. It happened usually on such occasions that the two housemaids, Poldi and Lisi, and Pepi, the gardener, gathered in the kitchen, too. And even Hans preferred to clean the silver in the kitchen because “there was better light.” Resi’s stories were just too good to be missed.

  Only Franz never showed up in the kitchen. He didn’t need to listen to Resi’s wild stories. He had been the Captain’s orderly
while on active duty in the Navy, and he could have told stories himself about submarines and torpedoes, but he thought his stories too good for the kitchen. He lived with his family in the big house, too. As the Captain did not need an orderly any more, Franz was in charge of the farm. Being a farmer’s boy, he had adjusted himself better to the change of his way of living than his master. Every now and then, however, one could see the Captain and his former orderly smoking a pipe together in the evening after the chores were done, talking about the glorious times in the Navy.

  Besides the large family and the servants, which amounted already to twenty persons, there was the spacious old house to get used to. So many rooms, hallways, corridors, bay windows, balconies—and in the rooms, so many quaint things I had never met before.

  On the third day after my arrival the Baron left for a hunting trip to Hungary. The same evening Baroness Matilda said to me during supper: “When all the children are in bed, wouldn’t you like to come over to my room?”

  I accepted gladly, and started immediately to list in my mind the most important questions about the children, the house, and last, but not least, the Captain himself.

  “Come in and make yourself at home,” Baroness Matilda’s high-pitched, soft voice called in answer to my knock on her door. I went in, but I could not make myself at home right away. There was too much of something in this room; what was it? An instant later I knew it was ruffles. The white lace curtains at the windows fell in wide, ruffled curves. The bed had what seemed to be a petticoat of long muslin ruffles all around. The dressing table with the large silver mirror and the many tiny bottles and flasks was also clad in white muslin with big ruffles. The chaise longue, which reached diagonally into the big room, had a rich display of silken ruffles. And even the silken cushion on which the Baroness had been resting displayed a yellowish halo of ruffles around her head. My rather masculine mountain-climber’s heart shrank back from so much femininity. I must have stopped involuntarily in the doorway, for, “Won’t you sit down, dear?” said the friendly lady with the wide black velvet ribbon about her throat.