The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  On this trip we saw some of the most dazzling phenomena of nature: the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, the Grand Canyon, the sand desert of California. There was little time to spend in each place, but every day our admiration for this country of wonders grew.

  Then we were in Los Angeles, the “suburb of Hollywood,” and we were disappointed. Somehow the world of the films had enveloped the whole area around Hollywood, and the atmosphere was one of artificiality and unnaturalness. We didn’t fit very well.

  Then we greeted the Pacific Ocean for the first time on our way up the coast, heading for Seattle. In Santa Barbara we spent a wonderful day with Lotte Lehmann. The Indian missions, the redwoods, Yosemite Valley and Sequoia National Park, Golden Gate Bridge, Carmel-by-the-Sea, more redwoods, finally the lagoons of Oregon, the peaks of the snowy mountains, and the beautiful bay of Seattle—it was all like a dream; the vastness of the country and its riches, its wild beauty and its proud spirit—America the beautiful!

  We had sung many concerts, but we were still hunting for the missing link.

  Then we wound our way back and finally came to Denver, Colorado. We had been forewarned that the society sponsoring our concert was very high-brow in a musical sense, and expected a very classical program. This they would get. We omitted the ballads and folk songs and gave our best in a most serious type of music. At the end of the performance I felt suddenly sympathetic with the few among our listeners who might not have been quite so high-brow as the others.

  On the way out to take a bow, I whispered to Father Wasner:

  “I’d like to sing a Jodler now.”

  As this was not on the program, it had to be announced. All announcing was an additional pain, accompanied by blushing each time.

  I stepped forward and said: “We shall sing as an encore now one of the mountain calls from the Austrian Alps, known as Jodler,” and we started.

  In yodeling one has to take a deep breath and then hold out for long phrases at a time. We were just in the middle of it when, oh horror! a fly started circling around my face. I watched it, cross-eyed, and got panicky. I knew very soon I would have to take a deep breath, and what if…A simple move of my hand would have chased it away, but that’s it. To move your hand leisurely on the stage whenever you want, and wherever you want, it is necessary not to be rigid with self-consciousness and sweating with stage fright. We took our deep breath, and it happened. In went the fly and, of course, down my “Sunday throat,” where it got stuck. I felt like choking. Again, a good cough would have helped. But to cough the right way on the stage is much, much harder than to sing the right way. I outdid myself in not coughing, but I couldn’t help turning purple. I happened to have the leading part in this Jodler, the melody; but that mountain call had to be finished without it, because I was struggling between life and death. My brave children tried not to pay any attention to their choking mother, and when they were finished, I was, too-with the fly. I felt terribly sorry for everyone, but mostly for the audience, who had been cheated of their encore. I forgot that I was on the stage and embarrassed and facing people. I only felt I had to apologize and make up.

  Out of this urge I stepped forward and said perfectly naturally in everyday language:

  “What never happened before, has happened now: I swallowed a fly.”

  I was perfectly amazed at the success of this simple statement. The people laughed and laughed and laughed. When they had recovered, I informed them that we wanted to sing another encore to make up for the spoiled one: this time an Austrian folk song, and I explained:

  “It describes how a young hunter climbs up in the rocks for hours, looking for, and finally finding and shooting, a…” I wanted to say Gemse, the only word for which I knew was “chamois” but somehow I got mixed up and said “chemise.”

  I was perfectly dumbfounded. Was that such a joke in America? I couldn’t see anything so funny, and looked questioningly at my children who—can you believe it?—were shaking with laughter, too. When, finally, the worst had passed, I started. For a whole line I was alone; the others were to fall in later; and while I was singing by myself in full, loud yodel tones, Rupert, the mischievous one, whispered to me what I had said. To remain serious now and go on singing was almost harder than not to choke with the fly. I could have skinned Rupert in front of the whole audience.

  But—the incredible had happened. The missing link was found: the audience and we had been for some precious minutes one whole. The spell was broken. Now we had found the bridge. Very soon we could say truthfully to our audiences:

  “We don’t consider this a concert; but we rather feel as if we had taken out one wall of our big living room at home, and you are all our guests at a musical party.”

  Quite informally we explained interesting details of the numbers to be performed, and the people assured us afterwards that they had quite forgotten that they were in a concert hall.

  “You have made us feel so much at home.”

  Three cheers for the fly!

  XI Stowe in Vermont

  WE HAD to be back East in time for the Christmas concerts. And when Mr. Schang heard us again in Town Hall, he was all smiles.

  “Now you’ve got it—you’ve got it! I always knew you would,” he exclaimed. “It sounds like an altogether different attraction, and looks so, too,” he added very pointedly. He had finally convinced us that the artificial, glaring light of the stage required artificial means merely to make one look natural and not like a fainting ghost.

  “Some of your girls look sick, green as spinach. You don’t want the audience to be unquiet about their not feeling well, do you?”

  No, we didn’t, and so some of us with a less ruddy complexion submitted to the use of make-up in order to look natural. These Christmas concerts turned out to be a real success. Everybody was satisfied, and when the first season under Columbia Concerts’ management was over, we had reached the goal. They were not disappointed that they had taken us on their list of artists. We had not let anybody down. More and more requests for concerts came in, and the second tour was already planned for ninety-six, and the third, for over a hundred concerts.

  “…And all these things shall be added unto you.”

  Now we were living through the second part of the promise. All these things: friends, the ability and the opportunity to work. We were able to meet our debts at the appointed times.

  From September through April we were traveling constantly with only a short stop around Christmas.

  In the first touring year, for lack of the necessary money, we had had to go to the cheapest hotels we could find. The mere atmosphere around these places was depressing: the dirt, the filth, and the people frequenting them. You always felt like sneaking in and sneaking out. In the second year we couldn’t get ourselves to do that any more. We still hadn’t any money, but we had learned of the existence of cabins and tourist homes. Of course, these places were never large enough to take care of a big group, and so we had to split up every night, which made it difficult for the bus to deliver and collect us. Sometimes there were no eating places near—it was rather complicated, although more satisfactory than the low-grade hotels. This way of traveling stopped with Schang.

  He insisted: “You must eat and live decently if you want to do a good job on the stage,” and he was right. Those lunches for thirty-five cents at the diners on the roadside filled one’s stomach for the moment, but didn’t give any energy. That’s why we had been so absolutely exhausted after the first concert tour with eighteen concerts; much more so than after the one with over a hundred.

  Everything was fine, except for the one sad fact that for the greater part of the year we were separated from our little girls. They had meanwhile made great progress on their instruments, and one day the question arose: shouldn’t they be on the program now? Fine, wonderful. But what of school? Couldn’t we try to take a teacher along and have school in the bus and in the hotels? Well, there was nothing like trying. Tante Lene had a you
ng friend, Betsy, who was willing to try, and on the next coast-to-coast trip Betsy came along with Rosmarie and Lorli, and Tante Lene accepted a teaching position at Ravenhill, leaving Martha alone with Johannes in the house. Martha, who would have been the most logical one to come along with us, had to give up after the first cruel try because she was a victim of car-sickness to an extent which made you almost regret the invention of automobiles.

  Now the whole family, only the baby excepted, was together again—on wheels—and when we came back from this fifth American concert tour, we celebrated a great feast at home: we had paid the last cent of our debts, and we still had some money in the bank, after five short years.

  That meant that this summer we wouldn’t have to stay in Merion. When this sentence was pronounced aloud during lunch, the whole family broke out in cheers.

  These past Philadelphia summers had been a real penance for us northerners. The combination of heat and moisture is something unknown to people from the Alps; the moisture was such that the wallpaper was loosened, and the shoes under the bed became mouldy overnight. At least, the boys said so, and they must know because they cleaned them every morning. Our heavy woolen costumes with close-fitting bodices, the heavy shoes and stockings had not been designed for this climate, but they were still all we possessed in the line of dresses. So far, that had never been a problem, as the money question came foremost. We were all still wearing what we had brought from Europe, but the things were starting to get threadbare. So one day we went shopping downtown in Philadelphia, and in a wholesale place we found material and patterns almost exactly like the ones at home, in cotton. Agathe, our seamstress, opened a workshop, everybody helped, and for about twenty dollars in all everyone got two light summer cottons. Every item had to be sewn at home. The dresses, the blouses, the aprons, even the men’s socks were knit at home. For our own red stockings fashion came to our rescue. All of a sudden it was the latest rage for all college girls to wear red or green stockings in exactly the same pattern we were used to. When low-heeled shoes also came into fashion, we were all right. It would have been difficult to make shoes at home, although Hedwig had already begun to try it.

  Usually around this time of the year in May our friends began to talk about their summer plans, whether they would go to the seashore or to the mountains, and by the middle of June they would all have said good-bye. For us country people it got harder and harder to live in a suburb, even in such a nice one as Merion, because of the asphalt. It was absolutely impossible to discover a dirt road anywhere within walking distance. We were so used to hiking, this having been our main recreation at home. We tried to get out on the highways for a hike. Due to the genuine kind-heartedness of the average American, every other car stopped and asked whether we didn’t want a lift. When we branched off from the highway on a side road and wanted to sit down somewhere for a picnic, a sign on a tree invariably said: “Private—Keep Out—No Trespassing.” After several attempts, we gave up hiking.

  Now a great thing happened. Mr. Schang had said right away in the beginning: “Don’t you think you would save money by making the tour in your own cars?” It had taken us two years to digest that suggestion, but now, all of a sudden, two large cars presented themselves for a very reasonable price: a seven-seater 1935 Lincoln Continental for $400 and a large Cadillac for $500. For twelve people with all the concert and private luggage we needed heavy cars. Here they were, and we took them. Little did we know the difference in cost of repairs between a Ford and a Cadillac, but we would learn that in the near future. At first we were drunk with the feeling of having advanced so high as to be car owners. Georg and the boys got drivers’ licenses, and the next tour would be easy.

  The Drinkers had invited us before to use a cabin of theirs in New Jersey in the woods on the Rancocas Creek. We had been there once, and it was a most delightful place, that spacious bungalow on the bank of the quiet river with the strong current and the low, black cedar waters. We felt like Tarzans in the jungle. But there was always the transportation problem. Now, however, with the cars, the whole universe was open to us, and at first, we accepted most gratefully the renewed invitation and settled for a couple of weeks on the Rancocas. There we found all the possibilities for exercise: hiking, swimming, canoeing, cutting wood.

  It was an ideal two weeks, but it almost meant the end of Johannes. Clad in a bright red play-suit he walked one day straight into the river, which was eight feet deep at that place, and sank immediately, remaining quietly at the bottom like a little red mushroom. Father Wasner, who had seen him, jumped in, coat, shoes, and all, and got the mushroom out, who laughed and thought it was a lot of fun. If it hadn’t been for the gaudy red, we wouldn’t ever have found him in the dark waters. From now on he had a bodyguard.

  Back in Merion, the question arose seriously: where did we want to spend the summer? Somewhere where it was cool, that was understood—but where? On the wall in the living room was a big map of the United States with little dots all over it, showing where we had given concerts. This map was now the center of interest, everybody having his own ideas and wanting to return to the spot he or she particularly preferred from all our trips. No one was astonished that Georg wanted to go to the seashore, to salt water. My special attraction had been New Mexico and the Pueblo Indians, and couldn’t we please get tents and camp in a Pueblo? Father Wasner preferred his love-at-first-sight, Kentucky. The boys were lured by the Rocky Mountains for some climbing—everybody had his very own ideas and fought for them.

  Then one day a letter arrived from a Mr. R. from Stowe in Vermont, saying he had heard we were looking for a summer place. He had a tourist house equipped for twenty people, and was sure we would like it there. The price was reasonable, just exactly what we could afford, and the plans for the seashore, Kentucky, and New Mexico were postponed for some other year.

  Our two big cars were packed, the house closed for the summer without any regret, and we went up north into that State which had been introduced to us by our driver as not worth while looking out the window for, as they only raised gravestones.

  The farther north we came, the more the countryside reminded us of Austria. Finally we drove into Stowe, passed through the village with the friendly white church and its beautifully pointed steeple, out towards Mount Mansfield, as the tourist home called “The Stowe-Away” was in that direction. From the moment we entered, everything seemed to be waiting for us: the score of pleasant, sunny rooms, the lawn around the house, little cabin in the rear, and the view—the view! For years we had looked onto a surburban road with limousines passing by, or into other people’s windows; and now it was like home; mountains and space and sky, meadows, fields, and trees.

  Across the road was a wide brook with swimming holes, and all around were woods and pastures, the most ideal hiking country. Now we could walk again. We walked the three miles into the village when we needed anything; we walked up Mount Mansfield many times and through Smuggler’s Notch and down to Bingham Falls and over to Mosglen Falls, around Round Top, and into Stowe Hollow.

  It was a most wonderful summer.

  The longer we stayed, the more we liked it, and the more difficult it was to think that one day we would have to pack the cars again and drive back into city life.

  One day a friend came visiting on his way from a lecture trip in Canada back to the States. He also had been a refugee, but he had been longer in the country than we and knew more of its ways. We told him what a nightmare it was to go back into the city.

  “But why don’t you buy something and stay in Vermont?” he asked.

  “Just because we don’t have the money,” we answered.

  “But you don’t need money if you want to buy a farm.” He seemed amused at so much naiveté. “All you do is make a down payment, and then pay by and by.”

  From this moment on, our life was changed.

  Once more we had a short meeting, the last one on that subject. Should we buy store clothes or a farm?

&
nbsp; “But why buy store clothes now?” asked everyone rather impatiently. “People are used to us the way we are—nobody seems to mind—America is a free country—and how much would it cost anyhow?”

  When we found out that walking shoes, street shoes, evening shoes, nylon stockings, underwear, six summer dresses, four winter dresses, an afternoon tea dress, evening gown, suit, skirt with several blouses and pullovers, summer coat, winter coat, hats to match, handbag and umbrella would run up to five hundred dollars apiece, which meant four thousand dollars for us all—that settled the question. That much money we didn’t have anyway, and it would be a shame to waste it on clothing.

  So we decided to buy a farm in Vermont.

  I read once that bees can smell flowers in bloom even across hills and dales; male butterflies find out about a female of their own kind over sixty and seventy miles; news in the jungle gets around at a fantastic speed over vast regions. Something similar must be the case with real estate people. We hadn’t told a soul outside the family, but catalogues started to come in, cars stopped in front of the house with agents who had heard we wanted to buy a farm in Vermont. The peaceful days when we played croquet on the lawn and lounged in the shade of the trees, sipping our coffee leisurely, those days were now gone for good. The fever had seized the family, and our sole occupation came to be looking at the property of other people who, for one reason or the other, wanted to get rid of it.

  So far, we had learned English and American, which, as I had found out, were two distinctly different languages; but now we discovered that there existed another idiom, the one used by real estate people. “Good—very good—excellent” mean one thing to you and another thing to a real estate agent. After visiting the twentieth farm, we had learned by experience. If the buildings on the place are called “in excellent condition,” then it is worth while looking at them. If they are “in very good repair,” you don’t risk much when you go through the house. But if they are only “good,” you’d better stay home. They might not be there since the last storm. Then there is the inevitable “rushing trout brook.” If you are lucky, you find a thin trickle between the stones; but mostly you aren’t even that lucky. You just look at the stones and they are dry. A highly astonished Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones will assure you that the last time he was here it was a roaring brook, and its present looks must have to do with the pasture conditions.