Chapter II: Part 2

“The opening is probably postponed!” her father said convincingly. “That often happens with a new venture. Of course Jim went to Denver—that’s where he has all his connections.” Again he gave her that warm, reassuring smile. “Suppose you don’t get started for a week or two! So much the better. You’ll get a chance to discover Aspen, walking miles in this wonderful, bracing climate and have fun with us.”

“You’re a real cure for the blues, Father. Grandma once called you the incurable optimist.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound particularly complimentary!”

“But it was meant in the nicest way. Grandma said Minna was a worrier and that she was lucky to be married to a man like you.”

By nightfall, basic unpacking was finished and, with no time or opportunity to purchase food, they decided to go out for dinner. They walked aimlessly through several streets trying to discover one of the colorful restaurants Fran had mentioned—Little Nell, Golden Horn, Mario’s. From the latter, as they stood on the sidewalk, voices were heard singing operatic arias! That settled it. They went in.

Judy’s parents were enchanted not only by the atmosphere but even more by the waiters who sang as they served and again at interludes between courses. The food was new and exotic and Judy ate with rapt enjoyment, the problem of Mr. Crowley and the theater temporarily forgotten.

She glanced occasionally at her mother and father. They were incomprehensible! Their food grew cold as they talked to the waiters. Suppose they were studying opera at the Aspen Music School! Her father finally succumbed to the aroma of the good-smelling dinner but her mother, between listening and applauding, found no chance to eat.

“I like opera, Father,” Judy told him, savoring the last mouthful on her plate. “Remember how I adored ‘Pagliacci’ when I heard it at the Metropolitan Opera House with Grandma and Grandpa! There was scenery and costumes, and what a story! That was Opera!”

Her father laughed. “A lover of music doesn’t need trappings of scenery and costume to enjoy opera. Your mother would rather sing or listen to singing than eat.”

Judy shook her head. “After all,” she argued, “when you eat, you should enjoy eating, not have to listen—to applaud.”

“Minna,” John addressed his wife, “I think Judy has a point there. Please eat your dinner before it’s utterly spoiled.”

They returned from Mario’s relaxed and gay, Minna still humming some of the melodies. Opening the screen door, a letter fell on the porch. Judy picked it up, quickly glancing at the name of the sender.

“It’s a special delivery from Mr. Crowley, Father, for you.” Her face paled.

Mr. Lurie read it silently while his daughter watched the pained disappointment deepen on his face.

“Judy dear,” he hesitated for a moment then went on quickly as if wishing to have the unhappy business over as fast as possible. “It seems Fran was right. There will be no summer theater,” and he handed her the letter. She read, tears blurring the words. “The backers faded away.... I’m so sorry about your daughter. I know how these kids are, what a disappointment this must be. Tell her next year, cross my heart....”

Judy was desolate. It wasn’t just the disappointment at not having the opportunity to act: that was bad enough. But what would she do with herself in Aspen for a whole summer? The weeks ahead loomed empty and void.

Her parents tried to cheer her up. “There’s a whole new world for you to discover out here,” her father said. “A girl with your curiosity and interests needn’t have a dull moment.”

“And I’m sure there are young people your age in Aspen,” her mother added. “With a little effort, you won’t have any trouble finding companions.”

Judy didn’t argue with them. What was the use? They had tried their best. It wasn’t their fault that Mr. Crowley’s theater had fallen through. “I have to make the best of it,” she said, and added realistically, “Don’t make them miserable.” Then she further cautioned herself, “Assume a virtue, if you have it not.”

The next few days passed quickly, even for Judy. The house had to be made livable. “The kitchen is as old as Methuselah,” Mrs. Lurie said, “and has the conveniences of the Stone Age.” But once everything was done and food supplies stocked, Judy found her parents still “tearing around like mad,” a phrase she used in her recent letter to her grandparents.

There were faculty meetings, rehearsals to be arranged. John had to set up programs for his newly organized quartet, and Minna was in daily conference with Mme. Rousse and her pupils.

After four days of comparative quiet, the music students of the School began to arrive with clockwork regularity at two-hour intervals. Judy saw them sometimes, deadly serious as they rushed out after practice to some other task or perhaps to a date. They were intent and enthusiastic young people but to Judy they seemed hoary with age and responsibilities.

For want of anything better to do, she threw herself into organizing the household regime. Washing dishes and making beds were her department. Her father used the carpet-sweeper and mopped up the kitchen floor with giant strokes more suitable for a shuffleboard. There was laundry for Minna to iron whenever someone remembered to borrow a car and call for their bundle at the laundromat.

Judy never wondered how her mother managed to prepare their meals. Mrs. Lurie did that and many other things besides with an ease, a sleight of hand that was slightly deceptive. She worked hard to get everything done and yet find time for her arduous profession. She had set herself the task of singing in opera, a dream possible of realization here at Aspen, but she doggedly pursued her domestic tasks. For breakfast she whipped up some wonderful pancakes and for sheer quantity consumption, Judy held the family record. Lunch was tuna fish, an egg, or a salad, usually prepared by Judy for herself. Dinners meant hamburgers or chops broiled over their outside grille, with soup and vegetables frozen or out of a can, milk, and fresh fruit. Once a week she went all out to bake a chicken or something in a casserole, which she optimistically expected to see them through for days. It rarely did.

New friends and some old ones dropped in nearly every night, that is, when there were neither lectures nor concerts scheduled. It was a busy, full life for Judy’s parents.

But to Judy, the prospect of spending an entire summer doing simple household chores and wandering about sightseeing alone was far from cheering.

Each morning her mother left the house, visibly disturbed. “Judy dear, I’m planning to take you to the pool a few afternoons during the week. We’re dying to go ourselves. It’s already past nine. We’ve got to rush. Good-bye, darling.” The door closed. A moment later her mother’s head reappeared at the door.

“Forget anything, Mother?”

“No, dear. I just wanted to tell you that once our schedules are definitely arranged, we won’t be so hectically busy.” There was the impatient honking of a horn from the car picking them up. Her mother hurriedly left.

Another week passed, and there was no change in the absorbing activity in the lives of Minna and John Lurie. There were many famous people in Aspen, artists, musicians, composers, and to Judy it seemed her parents had to meet them all!

Even during dinner in the evening, they were involved in their own interests, often trying to draw Judy into their conversation. Separated during much of the day by their individual activities, they talked with enthusiasm of discovering this one or that one. But Judy was bursting to tell them of her discoveries: the Chairlift where she spent many hours each day, eating her lunch or writing letters. Sometimes she sketched the tourists as they jumped on the moving chairs of the Lift and disappeared among the lofty mountains.

“Yes,” her mother said absently, “we know the Chairlift. We pass it every day.”

“Some day we’ll go up and see that famous sundeck thirteen thousand feet high,” her father casually promised and went on talking of other matters.

“Now this Mr. William Primrose. I’ve spoken of him before, Judy. He’s the greatest viola player in the world!” Her father’s eyes shone with the adulation he felt for this great artist. “He’s to be the soloist at several of the Festival concerts. You’ll be with us, Judy—something you’ll remember all your life!”

Nor was her mother to be outdone. “Judy, you’ll never know how wonderful the clarinet can be until you hear Reginald Kell! When he plays, his tone more nearly resembles the human voice than anything in the world—so delicate, so pure! He’s the greatest, the most celebrated clarinetist!”

They tried to interest her in Darius Milhaud, the greatest living composer of modern music.

“Everyone you and Father mention seems to be the greatest,” Judy had interrupted, a wicked gleam in her eye. She remembered the many reproofs she had received for using just such superlatives.

“But they just happen to be,” her father said, brushing her remark aside. “Darius Milhaud,” he began but stopped, noticing the blank look on Judy’s face.

“You must have heard his music at concerts or on the radio!” her mother interjected.

As Judy shook her head, her father went on patiently.

“He’s a very great composer of modern music, a Frenchman, and teaches conducting and composition to advanced students. It’s a great honor to have such a man on our faculty!”

He looked at his daughter hopefully. She seemed interested at last.

“What I tried to tell you before you interrupted me, this great man is coming to our house next week. He is permitting my quartet and me to play his newest composition in manuscript form. He’s coming with his wife, a former actress, a fine artist in her own right.”

For a week they talked of nothing else. Whom among their friends should they invite? Who would call for the composer and his wife, since it was well known he walked little? What should they serve after the music? The house must shine and, indeed, late in the night John polished floors and furniture until they gleamed.

When the great evening came, the little parlor was crowded with friends long before the honored guests arrived.

As Darius Milhaud walked into the room accompanied by his charming wife, everyone rose. Milhaud walked slowly; his heavy body was crippled by arthritis and he leaned heavily on the arm of his wife.

He greeted Minna and John Lurie warmly and with a few pleasant words to the guests put everyone at ease—that is, everyone except Judy, who stared uncomfortably at the composer’s face, so white and unhealthy-looking.

After some general talk, Milhaud gave the signal and the music began. The composition took nearly an hour and to Judy, accustomed to the more melodic harmonies of an older school, the music was extremely trying. She was convinced that the quartet, including her father, was playing wrong notes! Otherwise how to account for such terrible sounds? She squirmed wretchedly on the small couch, wedged in by former students of Milhaud who, judging by the expression on their faces, were literally in heaven! For a few blissful moments Judy found herself dozing, only to be rudely wakened by a dissonance that shattered her.

But she found compensation at last! She watched the composer. She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. How beautiful they were as he moved them gently, guiding the players. She no longer tried to listen to music she neither liked nor understood. She glanced at Mrs. Milhaud and was deeply touched. There was something in her face, her eyes, her whole being, fastened upon her husband. As the hour advanced and the room grew chilly, she unobtrusively rose and put a plaid shawl upon her husband’s knees. Seeing them so, husband and wife, Judy somehow thought of her grandparents.

The piece was finished. Everyone clapped and shouted “Bravo!” “It was grand!” “A memorable performance!” “Sure to be an astounding success!”

But the Luries did not have to entertain a celebrity to have music in their home. Friends came to spend a social evening, but invariably brought with them their musical instruments—bass fiddle, cello, violin, clarinet—and stacked them on a bed or on chairs. Everyone cheerfully pushed the parlor furniture about, carried the music stands from the closet under the hall stairs, switched lamps from there to here for better lighting. There was talk, gossip of the great ones, a little politics and world affairs, but mostly music.

Judy went to her room shortly after the first pleasant greetings were over. Sometimes she fell asleep in spite of the music played fortissimo right under her room.

She could always tell when it was eleven o’clock, by the clatter of the teacups. Her mother was serving coffee and cake. Why are musicians always so hungry, she wondered, even as she bit greedily into a large slice of cake her mother had thoughtfully brought her.

She opened her diary. Among its pages lay the letter from Mr. Crowley. She read it again, then briefly wrote in her diary.

“I went to the Theater Barn yesterday, just to see it! It was just as I dreamed it would be, except the heavy padlock on the door and the sign ‘For Rent.’ Poor Mr. Crowley!”

And it seemed to Judy that she had no sooner fallen sound asleep when she was awakened by the crash of chords. The early-bird piano student had arrived for morning practice.

5
A RUDE YET PLEASANT AWAKENING

By the end of the second week Judy knew every street in Aspen. She had stumbled over the uneven slabs of stone that passed for sidewalks while gazing absently into shop windows displaying curious articles imported from all over the world.

She had even ventured beyond the confines of the town itself and paid her own visit to the Tent, before her official attendance at a concert. How inadequate had been Fran’s “Very pretty!” It was stunning. The sunshine filtering through the open flap bathed the colored sides of the tent and supports in luscious gold.

Not more than a few hundred yards from the Tent was a queer-looking building of octagonal design. Approaching it, she asked one of the bystanders, “What do they do in there?”

“Lectures,” was the terse reply. “It’s the Seminar Building. But don’t try to listen in on them,” he said, apparently amused at the expression on Judy’s keen and inquisitive face.

“I see you’ve got a sketch pad,” he went on. “If you are interested in art, you’ll find the walls lined with paintings—American subjects—very fine.” and with a nod, he was gone.

She went in and remained, examining the paintings long after the students and visitors left.

One day she got up enough courage to go into the Jerome Hotel. Assuming an air of confidence, which she was far from feeling, she followed some ladies entering the lobby and doggedly kept at their heels until they reached the pool.

How blue it looked under the dazzling sun! As fresh and cool as the forests on Aspen Mountain not far in the distance! Guests sat on the lawn beside the pool, their sunburnt bodies shaded by bright, colored umbrellas. They were laughing, talking, eating.... Shouts from the pool. She felt so alone. It was not the first time she recalled her grandmother’s words.

Monday morning came. Would this be another week of half-kept promises?

At breakfast her mother said brightly, “Judy, I have some news for you. I just heard about a camp and I met the girl who runs it. She’s charming and I took such a fancy to her.”

“A camp? Here in Aspen?” Judy asked, interested, but a little cautious. “What kind of a camp?”

“It’s a day camp. The hours are from eight-thirty to one o’clock, and it’s just been a Godsend to the mothers and the children. It’s called the Festival Day Camp.”

Judy’s face was a study. Her mother couldn’t possibly mean those little tots in the station wagon she had frequently passed on the road—the youngsters noisily piping their camp song, “We’re the Festival Day Camp, F-E-S-T-I-V-A-L.”

“How old are the children?”

Mrs. Lurie’s enthusiasm was slightly chilled by the ominous look on her daughter’s face. “Some are quite young, but,” she added hurriedly, “Mrs. Freiborg’s daughter is ten, possibly eleven. I understand they do interesting, creative things.” Mrs. Lurie found it difficult to go on. “It could be fun,” she finished on a note that sounded more like a dirge than a happy conviction.

“What would I be doing at such a camp!” Judy asked scathingly. “Please don’t worry about me, Mother. I am all right as I am.”

“Let’s discuss it later,” her mother pleaded. “This afternoon Mrs. Freiborg is definitely going to pick us up on her way to the pool.”

“Stop scowling, Judy,” her father said, displeased at Judy’s attitude. “Lynne, who runs it, is beautiful and extremely capable. Young as she is, she’s had years of experience. You won’t be just a camper, you’ll get to know Lynne. Her husband is one of the youngest men in our orchestra. They’re a delightful young couple. Mother has practically said you would go. We’re happy to spend the money.” He patted Judy’s shoulder affectionately. “At least you won’t be wandering around Aspen like a lost sheep.”

“But, Father, how can you expect me to go to a camp with such infants?”

“Suppose they are younger than you?” her father asked, trying to see Judy’s point of view. “What of it? While they carry on their activities, you can be doing other things on your own. Differences in age don’t matter as much as you think. We have youngsters and graybeards in our classes. Give it a try.” At the door he paused, “You get out of anything what you put into it.”

Still smarting under the unaccustomed pressure her parents were trying to exert, Judy started making her lunch. In her resentment she forgot the hours, the days of loneliness. She wrapped her sandwich and put it in her bag with pad, pencils, crayons, and change purse. With that awful camp looming on the not too distant horizon, she was determined to have a really good time today. Something exciting! But what? She couldn’t climb mountains by herself. Besides, all the trails were miles away. For a moment she considered Fran and as quickly dismissed him. He was busy all day riding the bus. All he ever did was to wave his hand and smile as he passed her.

With the collapse of her plans to act, other means of retrieving the summer from “total loss” occasionally occurred to her. A job. Audrey, in a letter, described hers with such loving detail as quite to overshadow the meager news about her erstwhile boy friend.

A job? Judy tried, but her disappointing attempts always followed the same pattern.

“Have you any experience?” “None?” “Sorry.” or “We have all the help we need. You must apply early in Aspen, long before the season.”

Judy surrendered. Actually she was enjoying this unexpected leisure. Lonesome sometimes? Yes, but free, free to wander about....

Entering the shop of Berko Studio, she exhausted the patience of the elderly salesman before she selected her two views of Aspen and the mountains nearby. How much there was to see in this wonderful world of the Rockies! A thought flashed through her mind. Why not come back with an article for the _The Plow_, her high school paper? The October issue was always lavishly devoted to a Vacation Series.

“My Summer in Aspen.” She shook her head. What had she done that was interesting? Precisely nothing—yet.

“Aspen Past and Present.” Decidedly better, she thought. But it had its drawbacks. You must have an encyclopedia or some means to acquire information. She meditated. She had finished every book she owned. The library! She slung her bag over her shoulder, thankful that Aspen had one!

She reached the library in a half-hour’s brisk walk and found to her surprise it was an insignificant corner of a large red brick structure, “The Aspen Bank.” Thinking she must be mistaken, she circled the block only to discover the bank building had still another entrance with an inconspicuous sign, “Wheeler Opera House, 1881.” She stood there puzzled. Could this be the opera house where world-famous singers and actors had appeared in the old mining days? Why, only the other night her father had brought home some colored photographs. Together they had fairly drooled over the plush and gold interior, more than four hundred gilt chairs in the orchestra, stage boxes upholstered in red plush. Her mother had remarked with chilling candor, “It’s nothing like it used to be. It was twice burnt down and twice restored.... We’re going there on Thursday night. The Juillard Quartet is giving a Lecture—Recital. You’ll see it then.”

“It’ll be a wonderful evening,” her father promised, “and I’ll take you on a personally conducted tour of the House.”

Judy retraced her steps. The Opera House could wait.

A single room lined with books—that was the library! A placard prominently placed on the wall cautioned “Silence.” The only person in the room besides herself was the librarian, sitting at her desk and looking rather forbidding in her horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

Judy searched the shelves. Still under the spell of the old mining days, she selected _Aspen and the Silver Kings_. It was a large, heavy book, its text liberally interwoven with pictures. She sat down at a table to examine it more leisurely. Mule teams with heavy wagons carrying the silver ore over Independence Pass, a road thirteen thousand feet high. A trip over this scenic wonder was, even to the passengers in Kit Carson’s stage coach, a fearsome thing. A hut near one of the mine shafts. Five men playing cards. A snow slide and the five were buried under twenty-five feet of snow.

She turned the pages. The coming of the first railroad, a queer-looking train pulled by two engines, smoke belching from its odd-looking funnels; people rushed down to the depot with flags, yelling themselves hoarse. It was a great day. Ore could now be moved by train!

Judy cheerfully skipped the pages. She still hoped for something more personal, maybe romantic. It was the human element she anxiously sought.

She read on. Under the intriguing title, “Horace Tabor, the man who preferred love and Baby Doe to his silver empire,” Judy recognized romance. This was the sort of pioneer life that appealed to her!

She looked at Tabor’s picture, a tall, well-built man with fine features and a long silky mustache. While not exactly a Don Juan, he was devotedly loved by two women, both of them interesting characters.

Augusta, his wife, came with Horace Tabor from Maine. In Leadville they opened a general store and in a short time Horace became postmaster and then mayor of the seventy shanties that comprised Leadville at that time. Augusta, even as the mayor’s wife, took in boarders to help with the family budget. Tabor generously staked the miners to food, picks, shovels, dynamite, anything they needed to get on with their prospecting. Augusta objected to his easy-going ways. Money was hard to make and they often quarreled.

But Tabor in staking the miners got a share in whatever they found. The mines began to pay off and Tabor became rich. From “Little Pittsburgh” alone he made five hundred thousand dollars in fifteen months. He bought other mines. He was civic-minded, gave Leadville the Opera House and a Grand Opera House to Denver, was spoken of as the future United States Senator. But the Tabors were unhappy and their quarrels increased.

At the age of forty-seven he met the beautiful blonde, Mrs. Harvey Doe, known as Baby Doe. It was love at first sight! Tabor begged Augusta to give him a divorce. She refused. He offered her mines, properties. “Never,” she repeated. After five years of wrangling in court, she gave him the divorce and accepted the mines. “Some day,” she told the newspapers, “Tabor will return to me when that blonde hussy grows tired of him.”

Judy wondered what became of Baby Doe. No doubt, somewhere among the pages of the book something more would be told.

She went over to the desk. “I’d like to take this book home.” The librarian looked at the title and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you think this is a little technical?” she smiled indulgently. “We have a copy of _Lorna Doone_, _Jane Eyre_.”

“Thank you,” Judy smiled, “but I read those.”

“Dickens?” The librarian suggested helpfully.

“This book’s history, isn’t it?” Judy said, holding the book possessively. “I like history and since I’m staying in Aspen, I think I ought to look into—”

“Very well,” the librarian said kindly. “How shall I make out the card? There’s a deposit of one dollar, which will be returned to you when you leave Aspen.”

“A dollar!” Judy exclaimed. To give up so much money even if only temporarily—she emptied the contents of her bag on the librarian’s desk, although she knew all the time that it contained only twenty-five cents.

“May I take the book for a quarter and bring the rest of it tomorrow?”

“No, dear. You come tomorrow and in the meantime I’ll put the book aside for you, although,” she added with a smile, “no one has taken it from the shelf in years.” Her smile was so friendly, Judy wondered how she could have thought her grim and forbidding.

Judy stood there in a quandary. It was much too early to go anywhere for her lunch and she no longer wished to remain in the library. The Wheeler Opera House again obtruded itself upon her thoughts. It was just around the block. Since she was here—

“Miss...” Judy began. “Wilkes,” the librarian finished for her.

“Miss Wilkes,” Judy began again, “would it be all right for me to go into the Opera House now? That is, is one permitted to just go in to look around?”

“Yes, of course. The entrance is at the extreme end of the bank building. There’s a sign, ‘Wheeler Opera House.’”

“Yes, I saw the sign.”

“The Opera House is at the very top of the building. It’s a steep climb and the door may be locked, but you can try.”

Judy felt grateful to the librarian who had assisted her in this happy solution. She could spend an hour “exploring,” her favorite expression for any walk or errand in Aspen. She reached the entrance of the Opera House and ran up the wooden steps that led into the hall. It was dingy, not in the least what she had expected. An enormous, an apparently never-ending flight of stairs appeared ahead of her. Worse than anything was the deafening sound of musical instruments coming at her like waves from every part of the building, like a giant orchestra forever tuning up. As she stood there irresolute a pianist could be heard, the music coming from under the staircase. For a little while it drowned out the din of the other players.

A light now dawned on Judy. This was where the students practiced! She recalled her father speaking of them as the lucky ones who didn’t have to go to private homes such as theirs. He surely must have been joking! Bank, library, practice rooms, and Opera House, all in one old brick building! Her eyes measured the staircase. She began to climb and increased her speed to get there quickly. By the time she reached the landing, she was out of breath. More doors leading to more practice rooms. If anything, the cacophony had increased.

Another staircase stretched ahead, seemingly to go to the roof. She slowly ascended. The sounds of the instruments grew muffled, then almost ceased. On the landing there was only one door, marked “Entrance.” She gently turned the knob, pushed the massive door, and stepped within. There was a prolonged whine as the door closed behind her. She stood there, blinking at the glare of white lights on the stage. Four musicians were sitting before their music stands and were playing with such absorption that her mouselike entrance went unnoticed. A quartet—she recognized the instruments.

She looked about her diffidently. A glow from the windows in the balcony shed a soft light over the auditorium. She saw the walls, papered in deep red embossed with gold medallions. But there were no gold and plush boxes, nor hundreds of gilded chairs!

She couldn’t remain standing there like a statue. If she sat down in one of the orchestra seats, she might be seen. The balcony would be best; besides, from that point of vantage she could see everything better. She moved quietly along the wall, tip-toed up the circular stairs, and gently lowered a seat. The hinge snapped and the seat fell with a bang. The quartet was playing softly, which made matters worse, and only when it began its brilliant finale did she slide into the seat. She looked about her. It was easy to picture the one-time audience, all satin and brocade, glittering with diamonds and jewels. She was jolted out of her pleasant fancies when one of the musicians stepped forward to address the empty auditorium.

“In order to give the student body and our guests some greater insight into the music of Bartok, each member of the quartet will play a solo passage and follow it with his interpretation. In this way, we feel that those unfamiliar with the work of Bartok will learn to understand its profound meaning and—”

The voice of each of the successive players was pleasant. They explained long and difficult passages, preceded by equally long and difficult excerpts from the music. Judy sighed. And this is what her father had promised would be a wonderful evening! She sat there, her lips compressed. If this is what the Juillard Quartet was going to play Thursday night, wild horses wouldn’t drag her here again!

Her eyes ached from the harsh lights on stage. One could hear as well with eyes shut. Her father often did. The musicians’ faces, their voices and their music faded, then melted into an exciting vision....

She recognized immediately the figure of Horace Tabor. His thick, silky mustache was unmistakable. And that was Augusta, his wife, as she upbraided him as she swept the stage, her long, black skirt swishing about her, her eyes flashing, her hair like a tower on her head.

“Is that how you repay me for the many years of hard work, traipsing all the way from Maine to Colorado? And now that you are rich, you think you can desert me for that baby-faced blonde, Baby Doe?” Her voice quivered with anger and disdain.

“Be reasonable, Augusta,” Tabor’s voice was firm, yet sad.

“Reasonable! I will never give you a divorce. Never!”

“But, Augusta, you forget. I have my divorce!”

“One that I will never recognize!” she wildly interrupted.

“Baby Doe is now my wife. I love her!”

And there clinging to Tabor was Baby Doe, her soft curves pressed close to him, her head crowned with golden curls resting on his breast.

“She, that creature, will be your ruin!” Augusta said and pointed her finger derisively. “You’ll never become Senator tied to her! You’ll never be anything! You’re finished!”

“Augusta,” Tabor spoke with sorrowful dignity. “I have made you rich. I’ve given you mines. You want more money, very well! Only I will have Baby Doe....” And he clasped the silent clinging figure closer to him.

Augusta rose to her full height, like an angry prophetess of old. “She’s after your money, your fortune. And when that is gone, she’ll leave you! Some day when you are ragged and poverty-stricken, you will wake up. Wake up!”

Judy felt someone shaking her arm. “Wake up!” the voice repeated. She opened her eyes with difficulty. A boy was bending over her.

“The rehearsal’s over. The quartet will be leaving in a few minutes and lock up.”

Judy looked at him, her mind still hovering between the past and the present. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name’s Karl. I’m a violin student. I’ve been listening to the rehearsal. Please come along. I don’t want to get locked in here.”

“I just closed my eyes for a minute,” Judy said as she followed him down the balcony steps.

“It was a long minute, closer to thirty,” he laughed. “I saw—or rather heard you—as you lowered that seat—sort of crash landing.”

“I know. I was petrified when it fell. A broken spring, I guess.”

They neared the entrance door. The music stands were folded and the players were talking and laughing among themselves. Judy and Karl left unnoticed and ran swiftly down the two long flights of stairs.

“They’ve stopped practicing!” Judy said, surprised at the silence in the halls.

“Of course, lunch time. Most of the students eat at the houses, you know, the dorms where they live.”

“You too?”

Karl shook his head. “I came weeks before the Music Festival started. I live with my uncle.”

They stood for a moment. The sun felt warm and pleasant after the mustiness of the Opera House. They looked at each other curiously.

“Well,” the boy smiled, about to leave.

“Karl,” Judy said hesitantly. She didn’t want him to go, not just yet. He was nice—didn’t treat her like a child.

“Karl,” she said with a little more confidence, “where are you going to eat your lunch?”

“Anywhere,” and he shrugged his shoulders as he tapped the pocket of his coat bulging with a yellow bag.

“I have my lunch along too. The Chairlift is where I nearly always go. There are benches and one can buy something to drink right there.”

“O.K.,” Karl said. “It’s one of my favorite spots too.” They started walking.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Judy.”

“Judy,” he repeated. “I once knew a girl who was called Judith.”

“You did? What was she like?”

“It was a long time ago when I lived with a family abroad,” he said quietly and quickly changed the subject.

“How did you like Bartok? Or didn’t you hear any of it?” he said with a good-natured smile.

“Of course I did!” Remembering how little of it she had really heard, she went on carefully choosing her words. “I found it difficult to understand—to—”

“You’re right,” he interrupted, much to Judy’s relief. “I’ve heard it now five times and each time I discover something new in it. It’s great music. Like Milhaud and the other moderns, you’ve got to hear them again and again. I came especially to hear Bartok’s piece because I’m studying it. I can’t wait to hear it again on Thursday night.”

“Oh, yes, Thursday night.”

“Expect to be there?” Karl asked.

“Naturally,” Judy answered. “My parents count on my going.”

Her recent resolution flashed through her mind. “Wild horses wouldn’t drag me here again!” But it was different now. Now there was Karl!

6
KARL

They walked on, Judy matching with ease Karl’s long stride. One block, then another. She gave him a quick sidelong glance. He was much taller than she was. His appearance was all that she could have wished. His eyes—well, she had noticed them from the first, blue and dreamy. Even his chin came in for some scrutiny. Her grandmother had often summed up a person. He’s got a weak chin, vacillating, will never amount to anything—or he’s got a strong chin, shows character. Karl’s, she thankfully noted, was of the strong variety. So absorbed was she in her appraisal of Karl that she was scarcely aware of the silence between them.

When he began to whistle, a sad, plaintive melody, she realized at once that she must say something. Silence could be devastating! How often she and her friends discussed this very problem! What to say to a boy you hardly know, especially when dancing, when it takes all your ingenuity to keep your mind on those intricate steps, or when walking, as at the present moment. She must say something—anything, if only something brilliant or clever came to mind.

“Er—Does your uncle live around here?” she asked brightly.

“No,” Karl said, leaving off his whistling. “If we were walking in the opposite direction, I could have shown you his place on Main Street. He has an apartment over his business. Maybe you’ve seen it? It’s called the Swiss Shop.”

“Yes, I think I have, if it’s the one with the window full of carved peasant figures, gnomes and cuckoo clocks!”

“Yes, that’s it!” Karl interrupted. “I arranged that window display myself,” he added with a touch of pride.

“Really?” Judy tactfully refrained from saying how ugly she had thought it. “I’ve passed it many times. Does the name Swiss Shop mean that your uncle imports these things from Switzerland?”

“Yes, and lots of other articles besides; jewelry and scarves, sweaters for skiers and mountain climbers. Of course, cuckoo clocks are his real hobby.”

“I can’t imagine who would want to buy a cuckoo clock,” Judy ventured to say.

“No, neither could I, at first, but they do. Tourists, lots of them, especially from Texas—they’re our best customers. Personally, I think they’re a nuisance, a mechanical bird popping at you every hour. It can be quite annoying when you practice.”

The jinx of silence was broken for the moment. Judy knew she had to keep the talk flowing. The subject of clocks could be pursued.

“The kind of clocks I like best,” she said, “are the antique ones from our American Colonial days. My grandmother collects them. She has one on every mantel, over every fireplace in her house! They’re really beautiful, usually of mahogany, with delicate pointed spires, like a church steeple. Of course, none of them work. When you really wish to know the time, you have to dash into the kitchen to look at the electric clock fastened to the wall.”

“Well, what’s the good of them—just ornaments?”

“Grandma says they can be made to work if she ever got around to finding a really dependable clockmaker,” Judy finished, rather crestfallen. The subject of clocks was definitely exhausted.

It was while they stood at a crossing, waiting for some cars to pass, that Karl, as if struck by some original idea, said, “How do you like Aspen?”

Judy frowned, summoned up all her dramatic fervor, and in deep, reproachful tones declaimed, “Et tu, Brute!”

Karl turned to her, a puzzled smile on his face, then he laughed outright. “Why do you spout ‘Julius Caesar’? What do you mean?”

“Because that’s all anyone has asked me ever since I came to Aspen! Nor do they ever bother to listen to an answer.”

“So, I’m in their class!” Karl gave her a quick look. “You’re a queer duck!”

His pleasant and forthright manner, above all his acceptance of her as a companion, put her at ease. The ice was broken. They reached the Chairlift, found a bench, and ate their sandwiches. Judy shared her malted milk and consumed most of Karl’s chocolate bar. The empty chairs of the lift went monotonously skyward, unnoticed by the girl and boy.

Judy, now uninhibited by any barrier of self-consciousness, pursued her usual method of satisfying what she termed her inquiring mind. She asked questions and Karl spoke freely.

She learned he would be eighteen in October and would enter his last year at Music and Art High School in New York. That he had private instruction in violin and in theory and practiced three hours a day, week ends longer.

“What will you do after graduation?” the young inquisitor went on.

“I don’t know—I can’t say. College, perhaps? It’s a hope, but a dim one. If I’m to pursue music as a career—things are a bit mixed up just at present.” He paused, as if weighing the matter.

“You see,” he said in a serious voice, “I owe it to my father to become a fine musician, if possible a great one. That’s my mother’s dream. It’s mine also.”

Judy shook her head. It all sounded very dull and depressing.

“Then all your life is just school, music lessons, and practicing. You never have any time for any fun—for sports, for nothing except work!”

“No, perhaps not,” Karl said cheerfully. “But it all depends on what you want to do—to accomplish.” He went on. “But I don’t lack for exercise, if that’s what you mean. I have a bicycle and a newspaper route. I get plenty of fresh air. I even have a pupil. Maybe I’ll get another,” he said hopefully. “The money will be very useful.”

“Money!” For the first time Judy was critical of her new, much-prized friend. Idealists didn’t worry about money. “Is that all that matters? Money?”

“Yes, money is important,” Karl said emphatically. “My mother works at a music shop. She spends two hours and more each day traveling on the subway. When she gets home at night, tired as she is, there’s dinner to prepare, things to do in the house, people to see—a few friends. Concerts, of course. Someone I should hear—always my interests guide her. So it’s up to me to do well in my studies, in my music, and earn a little money to justify her sacrifice. She doesn’t call it sacrifice. She loves what she’s doing and is buoyed up by her ambition, her certainty of my success.” Karl had spoken with considerable heat, but now he added quietly, “So you see how important are the few dollars I earn, to pay part of the cost of my lessons.”

“You didn’t understand me, Karl,” Judy said humbly. “Money is important to us too. But what I meant is that there are other things that don’t cost anything and are important too.” She spoke diffidently, trying to formulate thoughts she had never seriously considered but accepted as the air she breathed.

“There are books—and friends—and art.” Still struggling to express herself, she raised an arm to the mountains. “And nature!”

Karl nodded his head in agreement. “Of course, I like all those things. Who wouldn’t? I love to read, although the only time I have is usually late at night when I should be asleep. As for friends, I would be untruthful if I didn’t admit I miss having close friends, even one. At first, even though I could speak a little English, I was considered a foreigner.”

At Judy’s exclamation, “That’s so narrow-minded!” Karl calmly said, “That all passed in a year or two. I’m friendly with boys in my class and I know a few of the girls. But they’re just as busy as I am, in different ways, perhaps. There are some in the class, of course, who don’t take their future careers seriously and they look down upon those of us who do. They manage to have a good time, sports, girls, movies, everything!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have to go my own way. Someone has said that to be lonely makes one strong. I’m not so sure. One misses an awful lot.”

For once Judy was at a loss for words. She was touched by Karl’s simple, unaffected words. To think that she had complained of being lonely! Her mother and father led busy lives, but she knew she was never far from their thoughts. They filled the house with gayety. Yes, they worked, her mother and father.

“What about your father, Karl? Doesn’t he....”

“I thought you understood,” Karl interrupted her sharply. “He’s been dead for eight years. He died four months after he was liberated from a concentration camp.”

“Oh!” was all Judy could say.

The floodgates of memory were loosened.

“He was a great violinist.” The boy’s face was transfigured by a passionate devotion. “He had made a great name for himself. My mother told me of his triumphs. And he could have escaped in time as he advised others to do, but he refused to leave until he succeeded in getting my mother and me out of Austria. Then it was too late. He was picked up with others and sent to the Polish border—”

“But you say he was freed, taken from that—that camp—”

“Yes, for three, perhaps it was four wonderful months we were together. But he was a shadow, thin, emaciated, sick. But his spirit was exalted. Something I couldn’t understand, being the child I was. But I felt his excitement, that poured itself out in his love for me. I could feel his eyes bore into me as he talked. His faith was something unbelievable. In spite of all he had gone through, he believed in the goodness of people, the mercy of God. While he was in there, in daily expectation of—you know—he wrote a piece of music—for himself and for the others waiting to die. He sang that piece to me. He played it over and over. ‘Some day,’ he said, ‘it will be the theme of a larger work for the land of our hope—Israel!’ He was only thirty-five when he died.”

“I didn’t mean to bring back all those terrible memories. I’m sorry, Karl,” Judy’s voice trembled.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about any more. What happened to my father was the fate of six million others! Just because they were Jews and other brave ones who dared to risk their own lives to help them!”

He turned to Judy as if to brush away these thoughts. “Even my mother could not dwell on her miseries. When Uncle Yahn asked us to come to America, we were glad. I was even happy.”

He got up, then sat down again. “I never talk about that which has happened. One cannot forget. The present is to be lived—the future lies before us. I believe as my father did that a better world is at hand.” He paused. “I have told you more than I’ve told anyone in the seven years we’ve lived in America. So, enough about me!” He seemed determined to change the subject.

“What are you studying in Aspen, Judy? What instrument do you play?”

“Instrument?” Judy repeated. She found it difficult to make the transition from his tragic story to her own self.

“I’m not a music student. I’m just here because of my parents. I did study the piano for years, but I didn’t enjoy the drudgery of practice.”

Then seeing the disappointment on Karl’s face, she went on, “I love music and I like to play for my own pleasure. But, you see, there’s enough music in our house and some to spare! Father’s a violist and Mother’s a singer. I thought I would round out the picture and try something else.”

“Such as what?” Karl asked smiling, but persistent.

“If you promise not to laugh at me, the fact is I can’t make up my mind! Sometimes I want above everything to become a writer. I love everything about books, biographies, history, poetry, plays and novels, of course. My teacher at school has been very encouraging.” She paused, her brow furrowed in thought. Some instinct warned her not to speak of her more recent passion for acting. “But for the last two years,” she went on, “I’m mad about painting! Last summer and on all vacations I sketch with my grandfather. He says I have talent. Maybe he only says that to make me keep on painting. I asked him for his advice, which shall it be? Do you know what he answered?”

Karl was interested. “What?”

“‘You’ve got a big appetite. Go ahead, do both! There’s no law to prevent an author from illustrating his own stories!’”

Judy shook her head. “You see, darling as he is, he doesn’t take me seriously either.”

Karl laughed. “I like that grandfather of yours. He just wants you to make up your own mind. You still have lots of time to decide. But it’s a long, hard road. A true artist lives only for his art.”

“That’s just the trouble with it. There’s so much I want to see and do, not just be a person dedicated to art! Take my mother and father. They live for their art!” Judy grimaced, “Some day when father’s old, forty-five or fifty, perhaps he’ll get recognition! Everyone says Mother has a wonderful voice. She has engagements all year. But is that enough? No! She has to study languages, acting, and her singing. Lately her manager suggested she take up dancing! Did you ever hear of anything so crazy, at her age!”

“Some fine singers go into operettas and musicals.”

“But she hasn’t time as it is, ever to enjoy herself! At least Father once or twice a year takes off a week end and goes on a ski trip or a mountain climb. But Mother, no! She’s either too tired or must rehearse or the house has been neglected and she wants the chance to catch up on it, or her—well, it’s always something! Even here at Aspen, which she tells everyone is simply idyllic, she works and worries.”

“Worries about you?”

“Me? Of course not! She’s worrying about the concert at which she’s to be the soloist. I couldn’t bear such a life!”

Karl was deep in thought, analyzing, as was his nature, all that Judy so impetuously revealed. “I don’t think you really understand your mother, Judy,” he said. “She possesses that inner fire that drives her on. She’s probably far happier than you think. I’m willing to say, without knowing her, that excepting her family, singing is the biggest thing in her life.” Judy seemed unimpressed. “What are your parents’ names?” he asked.

“Lurie. My father’s John and my mother, Minna.”

“Your father is John Lurie? I’ve heard him play. The students worship him. He’s a wonderful violist! He’ll be a second Primrose, someday.”

“Tell that to Father and he’ll love you. Primrose is his hero,” Judy said airily.

Karl looked at Judy and shook his head. “With such parents, to throw away the chance of being a musician!”

“If everybody did exactly what their parents did, there’d never be any progress or change in the world. Shoemakers would continue to be shoemakers, plumbers would go on plumbing.”

Karl burst out laughing. “Say, little philosopher, how old did you say you were? Sixteen?”

For a moment Judy thought of correcting this slight error. I’m going to be sixteen, but she quickly concluded, one needn’t be too exact! She smoothed her new plaid skirt, looked at it with satisfaction. How lucky that she put it on this morning before her mother had a chance to shorten it. It certainly added distinction—even dignity.

The church bell rang and Karl looked hastily at his watch. One-thirty! “I have to get along.” He got up and threw his coat over his shoulder. “Must be at the _Aspen Times_ by two.”

“_Aspen Times?_” Judy inquired eagerly, her eyes large with curiosity.

“No, I’m not the music critic,” he said. “I have an easy, pleasant little job there twice a week. Today I distribute posters to hotels, stores, the inns, and nail some on telegraph poles. A boy I know, Fran, is taking me around on the bus.”

“Fran who drives Little Percent?”

“Yes, you know him?”

“Mmmm. Mother says he drives like a madman. He brought us from the Glenwood station to Aspen and he certainly gave us an earful, Aspen—past, present and future.”

Karl was amused. “He knows Aspen all right. Of course, he should, living here all his life.”

“He missed his vocation. He should be driving a large sightseeing bus, a megaphone to his mouth—”

“Nonsense,” Karl said. “I like Fran. He calls himself dumb, but he isn’t. He’s awfully kind and—”

“Oh, you mean he’s got a good heart?” Judy interrupted.

“I mean he’s a good guy generally. You should see him ski! He’s wonderful. He took me on. I hadn’t been on skis since I was nine years old. Before I knew it, he had me doing jumps. A late April day, the snow was perfect, like powder—”

“I’m only joking. I know he’s all right. Remind him for me that I still haven’t climbed any mountains.”

“O.K. I’ll give him the message. By the way, Judy, do you usually eat your lunch here?”

“Yes, I do,” was Judy’s all too prompt answer.

“Then, if I don’t see you at the concert Thursday night, I can find you here sometimes.”

“Not see me at the concert?” she swiftly considered. To listen to Bartok with Karl would be pleasant. Without him....

“Why don’t you come to dinner with us Thursday night?” she said. “Then we can all go together.” She smiled, not a little pleased at her brilliant inspiration.

“I don’t like to barge in on your parents. They don’t know me—”

“That doesn’t matter. Mother adores me to have company. You see, we never fuss.”

“Well, if Uncle Yahn doesn’t feel deserted, it’s a deal. I’d love to know two such artists as John and Minna Lurie!”

When he was long out of sight, Judy recalled she didn’t even know his name or his uncle’s. She thought how she would inform her mother. “I’ve asked Karl whose uncle owns the Swiss Shop to have dinner with us.” “Karl who?” her mother was sure to ask. “Oh, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Judy’s solution to any vexing problem.