The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  After the last good-night to the children, I went straight to my room. For a long time I sat on my bed in the dark, brooding about the Captain. That man was funny! He had a big house, a wonderful garden, and lots of money. Couldn’t he find a way to let his lovely children enjoy all this instead of jamming them into silly clothes which spoiled all good fun! The poor Baroness must have an awful job to watch out for all his orders.

  The great sympathy I had felt for the Captain after having heard his life story faded somewhat, and I changed the end of my night prayer into: “—and let the children be happy from now on.”

  Now it was November, and the trees had shed their last golden tear; the weather was often rough. Long periods of rain set in, the famous “Salzburger Schnurlregen,” which put an end to our walks.

  It was a rainy Saturday afternoon. Everyone had finished his homework. The older children came over to us in the big nursery, hanging around, wondering what to do. Werner’s eyes fell on the guitar, which was hanging on the wall near my bed.

  “Can you play that, Fräulein?” he asked.

  “Yes, I can,” and I went over to fetch the instrument. “Let’s sing something.”

  After a few chords I started a well-known folk tune. The children listened very attentively, but silently. I stopped.

  “Why don’t you sing with me?”

  “We don’t know that song.”

  “All right, let’s sing another one.”

  But they didn’t know that one, either, nor the third, nor the fourth.

  “What songs do you know, children?” I finally asked.

  “‘Silent Night,’” little Johanna stated truthfully.

  The others giggled, but I had started already: “Silent night, holy night.” A little shyly, a little thinly, we sang the first verse in unison.

  “Let’s do it again. This time you sing the first voice, and I shall sing the second.”

  So we did.

  “Who dares to sing the second voice now, so that I can sing the third?” I asked.

  Maria and Werner wanted to try. I was quite astonished how well it sounded. No one was bashful any more. With full voice we sang now all three verses of “Silent Night,” and it did sound lovely.

  Then I put my guitar down and said: “Now let’s think hard what other songs you remember.”

  After quite some time we had worked out a small list: a few Navy songs, some of them in Italian, which they had learned from their father, one hunting song, two funny songs in our native dialect, two or three church hymns, the first verses of the “Linden Tree,” “Heiden Roslein,” “Die Lorelei,” two more Christmas carols, and the national anthem. That was a rather meager collection, indeed. They didn’t know a single one of our wonderful, old folk songs.

  When I said: “Do you know this one?” and started a few chords of an old ballad, they all cried: “No, but please sing it.” And so I sang my favorite songs, one after the other. The little ones were huddled at my knees. The older ones had settled themselves on the table in order to watch me playing the guitar, when suddenly the door opened.

  “Did nobody hear the dinner bell ring? Oh, children, how awful, sitting on the table! What would Father say!”

  The next day was Sunday, and it was still raining outside. It had been arranged that the Baroness and I should take turns having Sundays off. This was my Sunday on. Baroness Matilda had left to visit some friends. The children were enthusiastic about learning new songs. They all seemed to be quite musical. It didn’t take long at all to teach them the old songs in simple settings. After supper the boys begged: “Let’s make a fire in the fireplace in the library. That’s so cozy.”

  That again was something new to me. With interest I watched the boys light the logs, which had been prepared by Hans. Very soon we all sat on the thick, soft carpet, looking into the flames, I in the middle with the guitar—and we sang our whole repertoire: eight old songs and six new ones.

  “But girls, girls! Ladies never do that. I told you your father does not want you to sit on the floor. Take those low stools.”

  The Baroness had obviously returned from her visit. There it was again: the restraining hand of their father.

  Bang! went the E string.

  “We have to stop now,” I said; “a string has broken.”

  IV An Austrian Christmas

  CHRISTMAS came nearer and nearer. Around the large table in the nursery we had long conferences about what to make for Father and Baroness Matilda, and for Grandmother, who lived in a castle near Vienna. I even suggested it would be nice if every child had a surprise for every sister and brother. That kept us very busy. The big, round table was covered with paper and paints, knitting wool, needles and thread. The boys’ room soon looked like a workshop, with the smell of glue fighting the smell of Werner’s white mice.

  While the hands were busy, the mouths didn’t keep still, either. We were learning Christmas carols, each evening a new one, out of the treasury I had acquired when, with a group of boys and girls from the Austrian Catholic Youth Movement, I had wandered through the Alps. We had stopped in hidden valleys or at lone mountain farms, listening to the people’s songs, which had been handed down for generations. There we had found the most beautiful Christmas songs. I knew dozens of them.

  One evening Baroness Matilda had left for home to stay overnight with her sick sister. The children and I decided to have a general rehearsal of all our new songs. Maria, who already played simple tunes on her violin, would try to play with us.

  We went down and obediently arranged ourselves on the big sofa which stood opposite the fireplace, and on a few comfortable chairs. But that way we were very far apart from each other and could not hear very well, so somehow or other it happened that we all landed again on the thick carpet. Agathe held my guitar. I had shown her how to accompany simple songs. With cheeks red from excitement, Maria played a descant, while we sang in three parts, “In Dulci Jubilo.” Suddenly somebody opened the door.

  “Papa, Papa,” cried the children and stormed towards the tall figure standing in the doorway. Now there! and we were sitting on the floor. I rose slowly, picked up the guitar from the floor and put it on the sofa. Meanwhile the Baron had kissed all the children and, with Martina on his arm, he came over to me to say hello.

  “I am sorry, Captain,” I said.

  “What are you sorry for?” and then, with a knowing undertone, “Oh, I understand, this should have been a surprise for Christmas. But don’t you worry, a surprise it is—children, I can’t believe it. It sounded simply wonderful! Let’s have some more. No, don’t turn on the light. Let’s sit right down here. Come on.”

  And he settled himself comfortably on the floor, pressing his back against one of the heavy seats, pulling the little girls down to his knee.

  “You have learned a new song. What is it? Do it again.”

  “A new song?” the children echoed. “Just one?”

  “What do you mean?” said the father. And then, astonished, “Fräulein, are you looking for something?”

  I was still standing. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  “N-no,” and I sat down on the sofa.

  “Oh, no, come over here to us, right down on the carpet. Don’t you think this is more gemütlich?”

  I had never doubted that. So I joined the group and we continued singing, and it turned out to be a very nice evening.

  Time and again the Captain interrupted: “But children, children, isn’t that wonderful!”

  His enthusiasm was so genuine it was contagious. He praised Maria and Agathe highly for their playing, and all of a sudden, he reached out for the violin himself, and began to play a soft descant to one of our old ballads. Then we sang all twenty-two verses. The guitar played two more chords after the voices had ended, but the violin kept on playing very softly. Nobody moved. Suddenly the Captain stopped and, as if awakening, put the instrument down.

  “I didn’t think I would ever play again!” he said with a deep sigh. Then
he put new logs on the fire, which had burned low, and asked: “Now, children, tell me what is the news? How is school? How are you, little one?” And tenderly he pulled Maria’s head towards his shoulder. A noisy chatter started now. After the children had told about school, they wanted to know all about the hunting trip. The little girls discovered that Father’s pockets were full of rabbit tails, out of which one could make a fur coat for a Teddy bear! Too, too bad that it was eight o’clock and high time to go to bed!

  It was the Saturday before the first Sunday in Advent. During lunch I said to Maria: “Where do you usually put up the Advent wreath?”

  “Put up what?”

  I was aghast. “Don’t you have an Advent wreath every year?”

  “No, we never did. What is it?”

  “It is a large wreath made of fir greens, holding four candles, one for each of the four Sundays of Advent. People put it up in their living rooms. It reminds them of the coming of Christmas. They light the candles and sing Advent songs.”

  “Oh, how nice! Couldn’t we have one this year? Papa, please buy a large Advent wreath for us.”

  “Oh, you don’t buy Advent wreaths. We could easily make one ourselves,” I interrupted, and then explained to the Captain that we would need about two basketful of fir twigs and perhaps one of those wagon wheels from an old buggy I had seen in the tool shed.

  “What else?”

  “A spool of thread, four wax candles, and eight yards of silk ribbon.” The Captain offered to fetch those from town. Everybody was excited getting the Advent wreath ready in time. The gardener was ordered to bring the fir twigs and the boys ran out to fetch the wagon wheel and clean it before it was brought into the nursery.

  Then we went to work. The children picked the fir twigs out of the basket and passed them on to me, and I wound them around the wheel, fastening them with thread. It took quite some time because it was to be a large wreath. Four long spikes had to be put through the wheel at equal distances to be used as candle holders. When we had just finished and were starting to clean up the mess we had made on the floor, the Captain came back from town. Now the candles were put on the spikes, the ribbon was cut into four equal parts, which were fastened to the wreath so that it could be suspended from the ceiling. Our first Advent wreath was finished.

  “What can I do for you now?” the Captain said. I was a little uncertain.

  “It should be hung from the ceiling in the middle of the living room, but as this house doesn’t have a living room, couldn’t we have it here in the nursery right above the big round table?”

  Armed with hammer and nails, the Captain climbed up on the table. We all held the wreath, and he fastened it to the ceiling. Suddenly he stopped between two hammer strokes and, looking down on me, he frowned.

  “What do you mean, this house has no living room?”

  “No,” I said, “it doesn’t.”

  “How about the big drawing room, the little drawing room, the library, and the music room?”

  “No,” I insisted, “that is not the same. Father, Mother, and children really have to live in the same room—work, read, play, and write in it. Then it is a living room.”

  The Captain finished and came down. We all stepped back and admired the beautiful big wreath with the four candles. It gave the whole room a festive look and a festive smell, too.

  “What are we going to do with it next?” asked Agathe.

  “Well, tonight the family will gather under the Advent wreath, your father will read the Gospel of the first Sunday in Advent. Then he will light one candle, and the whole family will sing Advent songs and Christmas carols. Next week he will light two candles, the next, three, and then all four.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “Oh, that is just an old folk custom—one of the many.”

  “One of the many—do you have more in store for us?”

  I had to laugh. “Maybe a few.”

  “All right then,” and the Captain grasped the remaining nails and the hammer. “Let’s meet tonight after supper under the Advent wreath in our new living room.”

  That was meant for me, I knew. Whether it was only teasing or whether he took my remark about the living room for criticism, I could not make out. This very thing had troubled me all these weeks: that the family as such met only at meal-times. Otherwise, the children were not even supposed to be together. The boys were supposed to keep to their room, the older girls to theirs, and they were told by Baroness Matilda time and again that they had no business in the nursery with their little sisters. When the older children had begun to visit us recently, knocking politely on the nursery door and asking a little shyly, “May we come in?” I had been tempted to say, “Now stop that nonsense. Aren’t you all one family?”

  But that was none of my business. It was just one more of many unwritten laws. I simply didn’t understand how it could possibly be good to keep the children of one family divided into three parties which, of course, fought each other. I had tried to find out from Baroness Matilda. She wasn’t really able to explain it, either. I only learned that this was the custom in most of the aristocratic houses, to have a governess for the older children, a nursemaid for the younger ones, and maybe a tutor for the boys. Unfortunately, it happened many times that those governesses were jealous of each other. They even taught their respective pupils to play tricks on the others.

  Personally, I was depressed about the whole business. I had been told that my field was the nursery, that I had nothing to do with Rupert, Werner, Agathe, and Maria, except for Maria’s school lessons. If I had behaved correctly, I should have sent the older children away instead of starting to teach them to sing together. Now, again, had I had to say that about the living room? I felt rather ill at ease when I thought of Baroness Matilda. For nothing in the world did I want to hurt her. How would she feel about this new living room idea, about the children being together? But I consoled myself; she was the one who always referred to the Captain, saying that things must be done the way he wished. After all, he had pronounced the nursery our new living room, not I. But this would be the last time I ever attended to something which was not my own business, I resolved strongly and solemnly.

  After supper that night we and the Baroness Matilda, who had returned from her sister’s, gathered together in the new living room. The Captain read the Gospel and lit the candle. We were all sitting around the table on which a tall, thick, red candle was burning. This was a surprise from me to the children. I had brought it from Nonnberg on my last visit there.

  “It is the Advent candle,” I had explained to them. “It is a symbol of Christ, Whom we call the Light of the World. That should burn every evening until Christmas—just another folk custom,” I said in the direction of the Captain. When I heard even Baroness Matilda’s soft voice joining our little choir, all the tension left me, and I started to enjoy fully the beautiful wreath, the sound of the children’s clear voices, and the Captain’s violin playing.

  Santa Claus does not come to the children of Austria. Nobody comes down the chimney to fill your stocking; it isn’t so easy as that. All the small and big children of Austria have to write a letter addressed to the Christ Child on the first Sunday in Advent. He is believed to come down from heaven, Himself personally, on Christmas Eve, accompanied by angels and bring the Christmas tree and the wonderful things under it. This letter is a very important one, for in it you make known all your most secret wishes, and at the end you have to make a personal promise. Then you put it on the window sill before going to bed, and next morning your first look will be to see whether your letter has gone. Good children’s letters always disappear during the first night. Some children, however, have to wait two or three days, and if this should be the case with you, you really get quite anxious. It does help a lot in making you eat your spinach and put your clothes tidily over a chair at night.

  After the last carol, still sitting around the table, we started to write our Christmas letters. Afte
r a short thought I wrote down:

  “Dear Christ Child: It would make my life so much easier if You would bring each child here in the house a pair of nailed boots, a Wetterfleck, and a pair of wool mittens. I myself do not need anything, as I shall go back to Nonnberg soon anyway.”

  The excitement of the first Sunday in Advent had hardly died down when the sixth of December came around, one of the most momentous days for all houses where little children lived. On the vigil of this day Saint Nikolaus comes down to earth to visit all the little ones.

  Saint Nikolaus was a saintly bishop of the fourth century, and being always very kind and helpful to children and young people, God granted that every year on his feastday he might come down to the children. He comes dressed in his Bishop’s vestments, with a mitre on his head and his Bishop’s staff in his hand. He is followed, however, by the Krampus, an ugly, black little devil with a long, red tongue, a pair of horns, and a long tail. When Saint Nikolaus enters a house, he finds the whole family assembled, waiting for him, and the parents greet him devoutly. Then he asks the children questions from their catechism. He has them repeat a prayer or sing a song. He seems to know everything, all the dark spots of the past year, as you can see from his admonishing words. All the good children are given a sack with apples and nuts, prunes and figs, and the most delicious, heavenly sweets. Bad children, however, must promise very hard to change their life. Otherwise, the Krampus will take them along, and he is grunting already and rattling his heavy chain. But the Holy Bishop won’t ever let him touch a child. He believes the tearful eyes and stammered promises, but it may happen that, instead of a sweet bag, you get a switch. That will be put up in a conspicuous place and will look very symbolic of a child’s behavior.