The excitement was great on the fifth. Soon after dark we assembled in the hall, looking out through the large window into the driveway. Martina’s hand was clasped tightly in mine, her little figure half hidden behind my skirt. You could almost hear Johanna’s heart beating, and Hedwig’s obvious superiority was very poorly played.
Suddenly one could see the little flicker of candlelight through the bare bushes. A tall figure bearing a lantern and high staff turned into our driveway, followed at some distance by a little black fellow. The heavy double door opened wide, and in came the Holy Bishop, reverently greeted by young and old. The white beard which cascaded down below his waist showed his old age. Nobody could see that half an hour before, it had been plastered on Hans’ patient face with the help of the white of a raw egg. Saint Nikolaus wore his glasses, as elderly people sometimes do, far down on his nose. He had to, because his eyesight was so good that Resi’s spectacles almost blinded him. After he had sat down, he gave the Captain his lantern to hold, and then he produced from under his white cloak a large package with a big golden Cross. Through the white paper cover one could read faintly Encyclopedia, H. to HZ. In this magic book were written down all the many crimes, big and little, which had been committed by the children of this house. It was quite incredible how well informed Saint Nikolaus was: how Werner had played hooky three times instead of going to Greek class; Hedwig had pinched Martina; Rupert had smoked in secret; and Maria had practiced the violin much longer than the doctor allowed; Resi, the cook, had burned the Sunday cake once and then thrown it into the garbage can without telling; Pepi, the gardener, was sometimes slow in getting up in the morning. And Saint Nikolaus shook his finger and frowned at the sinners as they were called to his feet. They all felt very uncomfortable, and promised fervently to reform. The Holy Bishop rose and waved his hand towards the door; a big sack was pushed in, which Saint Nikolaus opened. There was a bag with fruit and candies for everybody except Resi, who got a large switch; and she even had to kiss the Bishop’s hand when he gave it to her. With a final admonition and his blessing, the holy man left the house.
“How many days still until Christmas?” was the excited question every morning. One morning, when the answer was “only seven,” we came down the stairs as usual, and found the double door leading into the big drawing room, which was usually wide open, closed. New excitement; that meant that the Holy Child with His angel assistants was working inside, preparing the room for Christmas. From then on, the children only tiptoed in the vicinity of those closed doors, and every conversation downstairs died down to a reverent whisper.
The whispering continued deep into the night, when the children were long asleep and the Captain, Baroness Matilda, and I were busy behind the secret door with the still-empty Christmas tree, opening parcels, writing Christmas cards, adjusting small wax candles to small candle-holders which could be clamped onto the green branches. Slowly but surely, the big room began to look like the toy department of a large store. Out of the many-shaped parcels emerged all the blessings of our modern toy industry: a dollhouse and doll kitchen, a small perambulator with a beautiful baby and, of course, the whole outfit-diapers, bottle, bathtub, etc.; picture books and games, an electric railroad, a BB gun, a Victrola with records, more books and more games, a new guitar, skates, skis—never in my life had I seen so many beautiful things in one spot. The trouble was that I could hardly keep my mind on my duty, which was to unpack and distribute, because it was so tempting to try out the new games, change the baby’s diapers, and investigate the many books. Anything the loving heart of a father could get for money was assembled around the tall, beautiful tree. I felt as though I were in fairyland myself. I was drunk with Christmas, counting the hours until I could slip again into the realm of the Christ Child and angels.
It was the twenty-third, and the little ones had sung all day long the traditional song, “Morgen Kinder Wird’s Was Geben.” They were unusually helpful, quiet and good, knowing that the house, and especially the nursery, was under constant observation by the angels coming and going to the Christmas room. Only Rupert and Agathe seemed to know a little more; from Maria down, the belief in the holy doings behind the wide doors was unshaken. Why—didn’t you find a silver hair on the staircase and a cookie with a red thread near the door?
This last evening was devoted to the decoration of the tree. It was at least fifteen feet tall. The Captain, standing on a ladder, took care of the top, while Baroness Matilda and I busied ourselves with the lower branches. There were cookies made of different doughs, Lebkuchen, and Spanischer Wind. Hard candies and chocolates had been wrapped in frilled tissue paper, figures and symbols made of Marzipan, gilded nuts and small apples and tangerines, all these were hung on red threads all over the tree. Then came a hundred and twenty wax candles, loads of tinsel dropping from the branches, and tinsel chains swinging loosely all around the tree. As a finishing touch the Captain fastened a large silver star to the very top. Then we all stepped back and admired the most beautiful Christmas tree I have ever seen in my life. The tables around the walls were so laden with presents that the white linen covers were completely hidden.
The next day was the big day, Holy Eve, as it is called in Austria. Snow had fallen overnight. We went to church with the older children. The church was filled as on Sunday. Everybody goes to confession on Holy Eve, so one had to wait in line. It was quite early and pitch-dark outside. There were no electric lights in the church, and, of course, it was not heated. The people had brought candles with them, fastened them to the pews, and, holding their hymn books with heavily-mittened hands close to the little flame, they could read the words of the ancient Advent song, which was softly accompanied by the organ and sung by the whole community: “Tauet Himmel den Gerechten.” In the flicker of candlelight one could see a neat little frosty cloud in front of every mouth. From under the choir loft, where the confessional stood, one could hear the shuffling of hobnailed boots and also, eventually, the rubbing of hands, the feeble attempts to keep warm when it was below zero outside with yard-long icicles growing from the church roof. But cold belonged to Christmas as heat to the haying days. This was as it should be, and nobody gave it a thought.
When Holy Mass was over, we went with the children to the side altar. There, in a little wood of spruce trees, was the whole town of Bethlehem spread out before our eyes. The shepherds were already out in the field with their flock. Mary and Joseph had arrived at the cave. They were kneeling beside the manger, which was still empty. Ox and ass, the sheep in the pasture, and the angels in the air seemed to hold their breath, waiting in holy expectation of the little Child to come. Mankind had waited patiently thousands of years for this moment. It couldn’t wait any longer; and this is the very feeling you bring home from church yourself in your own heart after a glance into the still-empty manger: you think you can’t wait any longer. That is the theme song for Holy Eve wherever children still believe in the coming of the Christ Child.
As everything comes to an end in life, so also the long hours of the afternoon passed. Holy Eve is a fast day, and so lunch was over quickly with only one dish, a thick soup. The children spent the day putting their rooms, wardrobes, and drawers in perfect order. In the afternoon we all dressed in our best and, for the last time, we all met under the Advent wreath, all four candles lit. The servants were called in, and once again we sang the old Advent hymn. Before the third verse was over, the silvery sound of a little bell was heard. This was it! The Holy Child had come. Led by the father of the house, the two youngest girls clinging to his hands, we all went down the curved stairway. After a few steps through the wide-open door, we all stopped in a semi-circle, gazing in speechless wonder at the Christmas tree, whose solemn beauty commanded the room. The Captain started, “Silent Night.” After we had sung all three verses, there was a moment of complete silence. A fine scent of fir, wax, and Lebkuchen lingered in the air. One could almost hear the flicker of the many little flames, and the large star on the to
p of the tree, moving in the warm candlelight, looked so real. The room was bathed in that mild, golden light which only one source can give—wax candles; but wax candles on Christmas, for on no other day of the year do they radiate such penetrating happiness and peace. It must be that through all the centuries the light on Christmas Eve borrows its shine from the Star of Bethlehem, which witnessed the first Christmas message of peace to men of good will.
Then the Captain turned around, and going from one person to the other, he wished everybody a blessed Christmas. The spell was broken. Soon the house resounded with “Blessed Christmas,” everybody wishing it to everybody. Then everyone was led to his place by the Captain. For a while one heard only the rustling of wrapping paper, and little more or less suppressed cries and exclamations. I was very busy helping Martina attend to the baby when the Captain came and wanted to show me to my own place. There were several parcels wrapped in white tissue paper, and one very large box with the inscription: “For Fräulein Maria for Distribution.” Surrounded by the children, I unpacked it, and out came eight pairs of woolen mittens, eight beautiful, soft, gray Wetter-flecks, and eight pairs of heavy boots. This was a great surprise, and with a guilty heart, I hardly dared look at Baroness Matilda. But tonight was Christmas, and, shaking a finger at me, she only laughed. That wasn’t the end of my surprises, though. When all my parcels were unpacked, there lay on my table two beautiful new dresses and a nice-looking little hat. What a grateful sigh of relief went up to the Holy Child for so much consideration.
After dinner, which had been very early, the Captain asked for some Christmas music. I had been waiting for just that. My Christmas present to the family was a Crêche, put up under the Christmas tree. Now I got the big, red candle, and we all grouped around it on the floor. After we had sung our songs, I took Agathe’s new guitar and, for the first time, I sang my own favorite Christmas song, “The Virgin’s Lullaby.”
A few hours later I knelt in my place in the old church at Nonnberg; I had come home for Midnight Mass. But it was curiously different from my other homecomings. It was very difficult to keep my thoughts collected. Pictures of huge Christmas trees and happy children’s faces continued to busy my mind. There was one picture, especially, which I could not shake off, try as I would:
When I was about to leave the house for Midnight Mass, the Captain had come out of his room and, taking my hand in both of his, had said: “I always feared Christmas more than any other day. But this year you have made it very beautiful for us. Thank you.” There was a warm light in the beautiful, dark eyes which, for the first time since I had known him, did not look pained and restless. That had made me very happy, but now the picture kept coming back and disturbing me in my prayer.
Turning to the Holy Child, I said fervently: “I thank You so much for sending me there. Please help me to draw them all closer to You.”
At this moment the community rose and, with a jubilant voice, the young priest down at the altar intoned the age-old Christmas message: “Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis.”
V “God’s Will Hath No Why”
THE following weeks were very happy ones. Real winter had set in, and the hobnailed boots, mittens, and ski pants were in daily use. We didn’t understand how we ever could have gotten along without them.
To the great joy of the children, their father canceled a number of invitations and stayed home with them, taking to skiing again and obviously enjoying it.
With the beginning of March the snow turned more watery, and that was exactly the right kind of material you needed to erect a large fortress with turrets and towers, big enough for five persons to huddle inside, and even light a fire.
Then on a beautiful sunny day in March their father announced during lunch while glancing through his mail: “Well, children, Aunt Yvonne is coming.”
A moment of complete silence followed. Then Maria said: “Why, Father, do we still need her?”
Quite astonished, the Captain said: “What do you mean?”
“You said you want to marry her because we have no one to look after us; but that has changed now, hasn’t it?”
After a short, warm smile in my direction the child looked eagerly at the father. At this moment Baroness Matilda, who apparently had felt rather ill at ease during the last minutes, ventured the question: “When exactly can we expect the Princess?”
“Tomorrow on the noon train, and let’s put her in the big room with the balcony.”
Princess Yvonne—how exciting! Now I should see the future mother of my darling children. In my young romantic imagination I saw a figure out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales; young and slender, blue-eyed, blonde-haired—well, I didn’t really expect her to wear a crown, but something near a halo I certainly did expect. Oh, I could picture her already, how she would glide into the room with soft, fairy steps, a dreamy look in her deep blue eyes—hands like the petals of a lily, oceans of affection and love emanating from her towards the poor, motherless little ones and their lonely father—Princess Yvonne. The mere name put me in a festive mood, and on the knees of my heart I was worshipping her already.
How slowly the time dragged during the lessons of the next morning! Finally, the gong sounded for lunch, and in solemn expectation I entered the big drawing room, where the exalted guest must be. Oh, had she missed the train? Because the lady who entered now together with the Captain from the library couldn’t possibly—but lo and behold, the girls were curtseying, and “Hello, Aunt Yvonne,” and “How do you do, Aunt Yvonne?”
Then I heard the Captain’s voice: “Yvonne, may I introduce—” and I looked down into cool, but not unfriendly eyes.
“Well, well—the wonder girl of whom I have heard so much,” and we shook hands. And this was my first meeting with a real princess in the flesh.
During lunch the children chatted about the happenings of the last weeks. Finally, Hedwig broke out: “And you know, Auntie, what I like most of all my Christmas presents, that’s my ski pants. Now I can do anything outdoors the boys do,” and the little face glowed with pure enthusiasm.
With lifted eyebrows the Princess answered, genuinely surprised: “But, my dear, a decent young lady doesn’t wear pants.”
Seven young heads turned to me, looking for support; but when I realized that what I was about to say might not fit into the picture of a decent young lady, either, my open mouth closed soundlessly and, deeply blushing, I busied myself with my food.
There were no lessons this afternoon, everybody being busy with the regal guest. Sitting at my desk, I tried to keep my thoughts on tomorrow’s school work, telling myself over and over again, “This is none of your business—none of your business at all,” when someone knocked at my door, and—look, it was the Princess! A little bewildered, I bade her come in and sit down. She looked at me for a moment, not at all unkindly.
“My dear child, I have to talk to you.” Expectant silence, and then the blow fell: “Do you realize that the Captain is in love with you?”
As if bitten by a rattlesnake, I started up. “But—Princess—!”
Quietly and quite unemotionally she retorted: “But he told me so himself.”
With weak knees I sank down on my chair. So far, no one had been in love with me, nor had I ever been in love. This extraordinary happening I had met only in books, in the pages of Goethe, Schiller, and Shakespeare, where being in love usually ended in murder and blood; and now that that terrific thing should happen to me, and—and—but if he himself had told her so, there was nothing to argue about.
I tried to compose myself and say, as matter-of-factly as possible, the only thing I could think of: “Then I am leaving this afternoon for my convent. Will you kindly look for another teacher for Maria?”
Now it was her turn to look startled.
“But why, for heaven’s sake? That’s no reason to run away. It’s all straightened out with the Captain. Of course, he isn’t really in love, not much, I mean. He just likes you because you h
ave been so congenial with the children—maybe a little bit too much on the wild side, but this I will easily straighten out later.”
But nothing she said impressed me any more. I was scared stiff.
“But how does everything go on from now on?” I wanted to know.
“Why—exactly as before. In a few weeks the Captain and I will be engaged, and you will stay with the children until after our marriage. On our wedding day you must give a nice little party for them here.”
I swallowed dryly. “Won’t they be at the wedding?”
“Oh, certainly not,” she laughed lightly. “Just think, what a commotion!” and she shook her head, amused. Then she went on. “The wedding will be in the summer, and when we return from our honeymoon, it will be time for school again. I have noticed that although the children have improved physically, they look quite rustic now—their manners have suffered badly. The Baron agrees with me that the best place for the girls will be the Sacré Coeur, and for the boys, the Jesuit College in Kalksburg. There they will be among youth of their own standing, and soon they will stop being little roughnecks.”
“But why in the world do you marry, then, if you send the children away from home?” I asked in utter consternation.
Up went the eyebrows again.
“My goodness, did you think I was marrying the children? What a queer little youngster you are!”
What I had just heard was much worse than the recognition of the fact that fairy-tale books are not like mail-order catalogues for princesses. I knew instinctively that I couldn’t stay; I wouldn’t fit any more. So I repeated stiffly: “I have made up my mind. I shall pack and leave immediately.”
Now the Princess was really worried, and after another unsuccessful attempt to make me change my mind, left me rather hurriedly. With trembling fingers, I started to empty my drawers.
The Story of the Trapp Family Singers Page 5
