The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  Next to the chaise longue, on the little ebony table, stood a silver tray. Baroness Matilda took from it a crystal carafe, removed the silver stopper, and poured golden wine into two crystal glasses. Then she put an odd-shaped ceramic dish on my lap, filled with the Austrian pastries, Mozart Kugeln and Vanilla Kipferln, and said: “Help yourself.”

  Then, raising her glass, she continued with a warm undertone in her voice: “Welcome, welcome, and may you never have a successor!”

  It took me a moment to realize that this meant she wished me to stay until the children were grown up and would not need a teacher any more. Now, wasn’t that nice, and I started to warm up—ruffles or no ruffles.

  I had never been spoiled with cookies or candies in my life; and those delicacies on my lap simply loosened my tongue, and I poured out questions to my heart’s delight. Patiently and smilingly the Baroness answered the hundred and one whys and wherefores, until I said, finally: “There is one thing that I understand least of all. Why does the Captain not look happy with those precious children, this wonderful home of his, and everything that money can buy?”

  The smile vanished from the face of my companion, and she repeated: “Everything money can buy—that is very little. Oh, the poor man has lost so much!”

  Baroness Matilda looked forlornly into the golden glow of the lamp. I felt rather embarrassed now; perhaps I should not have asked questions about the master. Perhaps now I should take my leave and go to bed, and I fidgeted uneasily in my chair. Baroness Matilda seemed to awaken from deep thought. She turned to me again and said in a friendly manner:

  “No, you don’t have to go yet, my dear child. I may just as well tell you the whole story. The Captain is not always easy to understand, and this may prove a key for you in future happenings.”

  And then I listened to a very odd story. Captain von Trapp had been born and brought up on the seashore, as his father had also been in the Navy. At the age of eighteen he had earned his first decoration fighting in the Boxer Rebellion in China. He was one of the first to sense the importance of the submarine in warfare. He applied for transfer to Fiume, where the newly invented torpedoes were being built for all Europe. This transfer decided his whole life. He was given command of one of the first submarines the Austrian Navy put into service.

  The young lady who christened this submarine was the granddaughter of the inventor of the torpedo and owner of the torpedo plant, Robert Whitehead. When the submarine was christened, the heart of its commander was captured. Hers was the fairy-tale combination of rare beauty, charm of character, and fabulous wealth. Before long they were married. In Pola, the Austrian Navy Yard, they built a costly villa overlooking the blue sea, and they were very happy.

  The outbreak of World War I brought a sudden end to this fairy tale. All civilians had to leave Pola. The young wife went with their two little babies to stay at her mother’s estate in the Austrian Alps, and the Captain’s interesting hobby turned suddenly into a bloody profession.

  He soon found out that those first submarines had not yet passed the stage of experimentation. Exhaust gases swept through the boat causing the crew to be poisoned. The periscope could not be raised or lowered, but the whole boat had to be moved with the periscope. However, Captain von Trapp truly did miracles with the poor material he had. He haunted the shores of the Adriatic Sea, he crippled convoys and very soon he had cleared the home waters of enemy ships. Soon his breast was covered with medals, headed by the rarest decoration Austria can give, the cross of Empress Maria Theresia; and I learned that this highest award an Austrian officer could receive in time of war had been founded by the Empress as an award for an act of personal bravery performed on one’s own initiative at one’s own risk, sometimes even against orders. That meant if the act were successful, one was given the Maria Theresien Cross and automatically raised to the baronetcy. But if it should happen to fail, one was faced with a court-martial.

  He became a legendary figure among the gallant heroes of the Army and Navy as the war went on. His family had grown to five children now. His friends prophesied that at the end of the war he would certainly be made Lord Admiral. His whole nation was proud of him. He was not only popular, but really beloved.—But then it all turned out so differently. Austria was defeated and stripped of her entire seacoast. The proud Imperial Navy was no more. In the prime of life near the peak of his fame the Captain was brushed aside in the whirlwind. Now he was a captain without a ship, which in his special case meant almost a body without a heart.

  Only his wife, the queen of his heart and his faithful companion made life still endurable for him. Two more babies arrived after the war. Then an epidemic of scarlet fever took his young wife. Half of his life had died with the Navy. Of the remaining half, most seemed to be buried with her.

  “The shining hero of Austria’s youth became a silent man with an empty look in his eyes,” the Baroness went on. “He moved his seven children from the familiar scenes of his happiness to this newly purchased estate, which is not haunted with memories. He became restless. He tried to go back to sea again. He started the Vega Shipping Company. After that he went into the lumber business, which he soon gave up to try to do something with ships on the Danube. He traveled, he went on long hunting trips. He again tried different businesses, but nothing thrives if done with an aching heart.”

  “But how about the children?” I could not help asking.

  “That is really the saddest part of the story,” the Baroness answered in a depressed voice. “He loves the children more than anything else in the world. He provides everything for them that he can get for money. He supplied a whole staff of servants, a governess for the older one, another governess for the little girls, a nursemaid for the baby, a private teacher for Maria. That is what we had before you came. It was a pity! The governesses fought each other and had to be changed frequently. All these people were brought in to take the place of the one. Somehow, he is a little shy with the children. They seem to remind him too much of their mother. He never stays long at home. He drops in unexpectedly, showers them with presents and surprises, becomes restless very soon again, and leaves for another trip. His relatives have persuaded him now to think about one person to replace this whole staff—a new mother for his seven little ones.”

  And with these words the Baroness rose:

  “We expect his engagement to Princess Yvonne to be announced at any time.”

  From the bottom of a heart which was stirred up by pity and sympathy I added to my night prayers shortly afterward:

  “Dear Lord, send him a good wife who will be a good mother to his dear children, and let him be happy from now on.”

  III “The Baron Doesn’t Want It….”

  AS THE weeks passed by, I grew more accustomed to my work. There was a certain routine to be followed every day. The Baroness liked to rest in the mornings. I was in charge of all the children, had to wake them up, take care of their breakfast, and see the older ones off to school. That was quite a chore because there was so much to think of. The children had to wear leather hats, leggings, and leather gloves. On rainy days rubbers and umbrellas were added, I had managed in an incredibly short time to mix up things. One morning I could find only left gloves and right leggings, and it always took a long time to get hold of the respective mates.

  Desperate, I looked for help.

  “Couldn’t we get some sturdy hobnailed boots,” I approached Baroness Matilda, quite exhausted from hunting for some rubbers.

  “Two left leather gloves got lost,” I had to admit. “Wouldn’t woolen mittens be less costly and more practical for the children? And you know, Baroness, a Wetterfleck for each one would really be a bargain.”

  “A what?”

  “But, Baroness, everybody wears a Wetterfleck nowadays,” I laughed at her blank look. “You know, those woolen capes with a hood. Then we would be rid of those dreadful umbrellas.”

  The Baroness listened politely.

  “I always though
t an umbrella a great comfort,” she said finally. “Maybe it would be handier for the children the other way—But you know,” and she sighed resignedly, “the Captain just wants it this way.”

  When the older children had left for school, I began classes with Maria and Johanna. The latter had started out bravely to walk the two miles to school with the others. There were no school buses in Austria. Little Johanna was quite exhausted from her long walk every day, and so it was decided that I could teach her at home for the first grade.

  It was sheer joy to teach the children, different though they were. Maria was very delicate. On account of her heart condition she had to be kept completely quiet. She was not supposed to run or climb, nor play any wild games.

  How hard it is for a child always to stand aside when other children play and have lots of fun! But Maria was an exception. She never showed any disappointment. She was always friendly. Only once in a while I saw an expression on her face which showed extreme longing, almost hunger, in the beautiful dark eyes, while she watched her sisters and brothers at noisy play. The first time I saw that look in her eyes I resolved to do everything in my power to make up somehow for the many sacrifices which were asked of the child.

  First, I tried to make school as fascinating as possible. She was intelligent and grasped everything immediately. There were twelve main subjects of study: religion, grammar, composition, literature, history, geography, physics, botany, French, geometry, algebra, and Latin. Besides these we had drawing, needlework, and music theory. She was especially gifted in mathematics, science, and music theory, but we simply flew through all the other books as well. In six weeks we had completed all the work for the first regular school semester. I was almost troubled about so much enthusiasm and thoroughness. Often I came to her room and wanted to interrupt her in school work, saying: “That is plenty now for today, Maria. Let’s play a game of backgammon.”

  Then she usually lifted a hot little face up to me, and, with eager eyes, said: “Oh, this is so much more fun, Fräulein Maria,” pointing to an algebra problem or some intricate design in geometry.

  As long as she was happy, I thought, I simply didn’t have the heart to add any more don’ts.

  Maria was definitely not a communicative child. She kept everything to herself, but one day she confided: “I don’t really mind so much if I cannot run around with the others, but what I do mind is that I have had to give up my piano lessons.”

  I remembered that I had found in the music room two mahogany violin cases.

  “Oh, how nice! Who plays the violin?” I had exclaimed to the Baroness.

  “Nobody now.”

  I had understood.

  But with Maria now in mind I went to the Baroness and asked: “Could I take one of the violins up to Maria? She could have it in her room and practice only a little every day.”

  I was not refused. I was even allowed to look for a teacher who was to come twice a week for lessons. The quiet child beamed with happiness, and the frail little fingers proved to be very clever on the violin.

  Johanna was different. I never had to stop her in school work. Oh, no, quite the contrary! The little lady had a good mind for studying, but she just loved a comfortable life. After the first half hour of sitting up straight, she usually tried to climb on my lap, “because I can hear you better.” She was incredibly inventive in distracting my attention. Her weapons were tiny, almost invisible wounds on face and fingers, which hurt so terribly that we simply could not go on writing big m’s and n’s or counting by twos. Once in a while I really had to be strict and frown. For nothing in the world did she want to hurt anybody, though. Big tears rolled down her cheeks immediately, and climbing up into my lap, she pressed her arms tightly around my neck and sobbed heartbrokenly: “I will be go-o-o-od!”

  She was so affectionate! After the first lesson I had given her, she came over to my chair and said, standing on tiptoe: “I want to tell you something.”

  When I bent down, she whispered in my ear: “I like you an awful lot,” and then kissed me loudly on the mouth.

  The plump little girl with the white skin, pink cheeks, and black hair was so very pretty that people used to turn around in the street and stare. She had the most expressive large, dark eyes, and dimples in both cheeks when she smiled; and she smiled always. This little “Snow White” was a real sun ray.

  Baby Martina, however, was entirely different from both my pupils. She did not seem affectionate at all. She didn’t want to be kissed or hugged. When I wanted to take her on my lap, she stiffened. She rarely smiled. I wondered about that serious little youngster. She was fascinated by the lessons, though. For hours she would stand next to Johanna, with her hands behind her back, watching with her large, dark eyes everything I said or did. The minute I turned to her, however, and addressed her, she dove under the table and stayed there quiet as a mouse for the rest of the lesson. At the same time, she was not shy or bashful, as I had thought at first. If she wanted something, she was outspoken. She seemed to me cool and rather matter-of-fact, until I saw her tenderly hugging a Teddy bear which was her inseparable companion. I knew quite clearly, though, that a child’s confidence is like a walled castle for which one must have the key. It wouldn’t do any good to try to break the lock and force entrance. As I had not been invited yet, I knew I had to wait patiently outside. Maybe the key would be handed to me some day.

  School in town started at eight o’clock and lasted until twelve. Of course, there were no school cafeterias, and the children were sent home for their noonday meal. Four times a week they were expected back at two o’clock for some more lessons until four or five. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were free.

  The manor was surrounded by a large garden, beautifully designed. Close to the house were borders of dahlias, chrysanthemums, asters, and many flowers and shrubs I had never seen before. Gravel paths divided the well-kept lawn into large patches leading over to meadows, shaded by small groups of singularly beautiful, large trees—elm, maple, and pine. On one side the estate was enclosed by a patch of woodland. On the other, hidden behind a tall screen of arbor vitae, were the garage, the cow barn, and the greenhouse with the vegetable garden, from which a path lined with currant and gooseberry bushes led up to a large orchard.

  Baroness Matilda and all the children showed me over the whole estate on their first free afternoon. When we passed by a large bed of tall yellow flowers, Rupert said proudly: “This is echte amerikanische Goldrute (genuine American golden-rod). Papa says it is quite expensive, and we are not supposed to pick it. Pepi, our gardener, takes special care of it with a special kind of manure mixture.”

  I admired wholeheartedly this noble guest from America, whose golden blossoms attracted all the bees of the neighborhood.

  When we came back from our round trip, Werner took my hand and said: “Let me show you my favorite.”

  We went over to the north side of the house. There stood a group of trees, evergreens, which looked neither like fir nor spruce. The needles were softer and smoother. The branches swayed gracefully in the wind.

  “Papa says these are foreigners, too—Canadian hemlock,” the proud boy announced. “They are very rare, but I will let you have a little piece.”

  And the little cavalier presented me with a tiny twig about an inch long.

  I was quite overwhelmed by it all, and could not help exclaiming: “What a paradise for children!”

  Agathe, who was walking right in front of me, turned around and asked, quite astonished, “Why?”

  “Well,” I said, “just think of the many wonderful things one could do in such a wide garden, the many games one could play, and…”

  “Oh, that’s what you think,” interrupted Agathe, and her young voice sounded very wise. “But you see, if you want to play ball, for instance, the ball always runs off the gravel path into the meadow. If you have to get it out of the damp grass, you get wet feet and catch cold. Or if you try to play in the woods over there, there is so muc
h underbrush, your hair gets caught, your dress gets torn, and you get scolded. So you really can’t play in the garden much. We usually take walks.”

  More than amazed, I stopped right in front of the house, and was just about to explain that I was not of the same opinion, when Baroness Matilda interrupted hastily: “Agathe is quite right,” and gently pushed me to the door.

  To my heartbreak I learned during the next weeks that it was true: you can’t play in the most beautiful garden if you have always to take care of sailor suits and nice shoes on weekdays, silken dresses and white socks on Sundays. You couldn’t expect a white sailor blouse to look the same after you had climbed that spruce over there in the corner. But do you have to wear a white sailor blouse when you want to climb trees? I thought to myself. And now I had it!

  Quite excitedly I stormed over to the Baroness’ room, not even waiting for the Herein after my knocking, to pour out my newest idea.

  “Oh, Baroness Matilda, couldn’t we buy play suits and sandals for all the girls? They wouldn’t have to watch their dresses in the garden and would have a really good time. Before supper, of course, we would change into sailor suits again. And couldn’t we please have a volley ball and a net for the girls, and a bat for the boys, and a spear and a disc, too?” So far, I had looked around the house in vain for these items, which were inseparable from my memories of gay pastimes during college years. Baroness Matilda must have attended another school, though, as her face did not light up at the mere sound of these words. She said politely:

  “It all sounds very interesting, indeed, Fräulein Maria; but you see, I would not dare to order any of those—‘play suits,’ you said?—without asking the children’s father first. You know, the Baron wants the children always to look clean and tidy; and those games you mention—I have never even heard their names. When I was a young girl, we used to amuse ourselves by playing croquet. The children could play that on the big lawn when the weather is dry; otherwise, we stick to our healthful walks through the gardens.”