Part 12

“Then you are glad you came with us?” her mother asked again.

“Of course,” Judy answered quickly, thankful for the interlude in the drudgery of packing and the chance for a talk with her mother. “It was fun,” she went on, her arms hugging her knees, “to be included in everything, or nearly everything you and Father did. I love Aspen and things here are exciting. You just breathe and music seeps in, like some pleasant, contagious disease! I think I’ll go back to my piano—” There was an imperceptible pause. “Now especially, that—”

“I’m so delighted,” her mother broke in, too pleased at this admission to notice her daughter’s emphasis on the “Now especially,” or the revealing smile that accompanied it.

“Father will be as happy as I am—Go on, dear.”

“What more can I tell you? It was because of you and Father that I came to know Lynne and Allen and I love them dearly. They’ve been so wonderful to me. But, Mother,” she paused and said shyly, “don’t you think that—er—er—Karl had something to do with my maturing, as you call it?”

“Karl?” Her mother raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It was very pleasant to have him around.” Noticing her daughter’s reproachful glance, she went on briskly, “He’s a fine boy, hard-working and very talented.”

Judy nodded vigorously, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

“Yes, he’s wonderful, isn’t he? If only you knew him as well as I do! But surely there’s something unusual ... something special you must have noticed—”

“Unusual?” Mrs. Lurie who rarely smoked, lighted a cigarette to gain time before replying. Her face clouded as though she resented Karl’s being introduced into a conversation that concerned only themselves.

“Yes,” she said at last in a quiet, judicious voice, “remarkably dependable. I think you can feel proud, considering how young you are, that Karl has chosen to make you his friend.”

Judy’s face darkened. She resented the calm, dispassionate voice of her mother, her ignorant appraisal of how much Karl meant to her.

She answered heatedly, “Friend! Suppose I was to tell you that I love Karl!”

Minna put down her cigarette. “You’ll be in and out of what you call love a dozen times before you’re much older,” she spoke calmly, but was now thoroughly roused. “What can you know about love or speak of love at your age?” she added more sharply.

“Why not?” Judy asked bristling. “Grandpa was in love with Grandma when he was eighteen and she was only fifteen and they’ve been happy all their—”

“Things were different in those days,” her mother interrupted. “Women had no careers or rarely did. Because your grandmother married so young, she never went beyond her freshman year at college. You certainly want to go to college!”

“Did I ever say I wasn’t going to college? I intend to go, although I’ve heard you say dozens of times that Grandma is better read and better informed than most college graduates you knew. And what about Abe Lincoln?” she hurried on. “What schooling did he have and everyone knows that his speeches are considered—”

“Look, Judy, what are we arguing about?” Mrs. Lurie said wearily. “I’m only saying that you are too young to think of Karl or anyone else seriously. You’re only fifteen!”

“I’m practically sixteen—or will be in a few months.”

“Come, dear, let’s forget the argument. How about a cup of tea?” Mrs. Lurie said, anxious to restore the good feeling between them.

Judy glumly assented. Mrs. Lurie went to the stove and put on the kettle. “I guess people will be coming in droves tonight,” she said pleasantly. “Oh!” she interrupted herself, “I just remembered. Karl phoned last night when you were at the drugstore. I completely forgot to tell you.”

Judy muttered to herself, “Forgot to tell me and I was unable to sleep a wink last night, worrying.”

“Did he leave any message?” she asked tensely.

“Yes, he did. I think I remember his exact words.” Unconsciously Mrs. Lurie mimicked the halting words of the boy. “There will be a moon tomorrow night. I’d like to take Judy for a walk so that we can say good-bye to Aspen together.” She laughed good-naturedly. “It was so deliciously young!”

With an angry cry the girl faced her mother, “You’re heartless! What’s more, you haven’t a shred of feeling—no soul!”

Minna felt outraged. She turned her puzzled gaze upon her daughter. “What did I say to bring that on?” Her lips tightened. “Since you get so wrought up about trifles, so emotional over nothing, I think it will be just as well if you said good-bye to Karl right at home. After all, the moon will be just as visible from our porch.”

“You mean to say that I can’t go out with Karl tonight? Our last night together!”

“That’s exactly what I do mean.”

“I intend to go and you can’t stop me!” Judy’s face was flushed, the tears falling unheeded. She rushed from the room, “I hate your dominating ways!”

Mrs. Lurie’s anguished eyes followed her daughter. “No, she couldn’t mean that—she couldn’t—what’s become of the little girl I adore so?” she asked herself miserably as she paced the floor. “She looks upon me as an enemy! Until a year ago she was so easily managed! So content with her grandparents—It wasn’t our tours! They’re never long. Besides, I’m entitled to live my own life,” she told herself defensively. “I have my career!” She sat down dejectedly, her head in her hands. “It is my fault. I haven’t tried enough. I must find a way to reach her—but I must protect her against her foolish, extravagant ideas of romance—” She went back to the stove, mechanically turned out the light, stood there staring bleakly into the empty cups.

Tempers cannot remain at fever pitch all day. Judy was sorry, ashamed of her outburst. If her mother had only understood how much Karl meant to her! To forbid a last walk together—she would appeal to her father. No, that was useless. She knew her parents always supported each other—family discipline!

Mrs. Lurie too had second thoughts. Why had she been so stern, so unfeeling? Could one experience love at fifteen? or sixteen? If she had met John at that age, would she have felt as Judy did about Karl? These thoughts harassed her all day whenever she paused in her work.

That evening Karl came dressed in his city clothes. Judy watched him as he talked with her father. He’s so handsome! She watched his face light up with a smile, then become serious. The ill-fitting suit couldn’t hide his strong, broad shoulders. Clothes don’t make the man!

Her father beckoned to her. As she joined them, he said, “Karl has some very exciting news—”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell Judy myself,” Karl gently interrupted. “We’re going for a walk—”

“I’m not so sure about the walk,” Judy said uncertainly.

At her father’s look of surprise, she said with an attempt at lightness, “According to Mother, I’m supposed to be doing penance tonight. I’m not to move off the porch while Karl gives me a lecture on astronomy.”

Her father smiled. “Sounds pretty dull. Doing penance for what?”

“Something I said. I was furious about—never mind!” She glanced at Karl, not wishing to go on.

“Let’s go over to speak to Mother. There she is next to the punch bowl.” He piloted them to where Minna was serving refreshments.

“Minna,” he began, as he drew his wife to the comer where Judy and Karl waited, “I understand you’ve forbidden the time-honored custom of two youngsters taking a walk by moonlight.” He smiled, “Any crimes committed of which I am ignorant?”

“No crimes, unless impertinence, defiance—” She stopped and looked at her daughter’s eyes, pleading. Was Judy solely to blame for the scene? As her mother, wasn’t she being a little ridiculous? The girl had asked for sympathy and understanding and all she had given her was logic and cold reasoning! The wisdom and tenderness of her own parents during her adolescence flashed through her mind. Why wasn’t she like them? Instead she was following the pattern of Grandmother Fannie, Judy’s great-grandmother! She recognized herself with a start—she had always admired the grim strength of that remarkable old lady and yet with what delight she had heard her mother tell how she had been brought to terms!

“What was it you asked me, John?” Minna asked, recalled to the present.

“The youngsters want to take a walk. Any valid objection?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said lamely.

She turned to her daughter. “I guess I was just putting myself in your great-grandmother’s shoes. She had very definite ideas about—life. Sometime I’ll tell you about her. But,” she added with a smile, “I don’t measure up to her, nor do I really wish to.”

Judy looked at her mother. “Thanks awfully. You know I didn’t mean any of—”

“I know, dear,” her mother spoke gently. She turned to Karl. “Only don’t stay out late. Remember, we leave very early tomorrow morning.”

18 A DREAM IS CRYSTALLIZED

“Cute, aren’t they?” The woman smiled indulgently at the man standing beside her, as she watched Judy and Karl make their way through the maze of guests.

The man nodded. “I’ve seen them together many times—those who’ve forgotten call it ‘puppy love.’ It’s a beautiful time! Wedekind calls it ‘Spring’s Awakening.’” The man looked thoughtful. “It can be desperately serious too. I’ve never forgotten my first—”

The boy and girl couldn’t help hearing the whispered words and tried to look as if they hadn’t heard.

They stood on the porch a moment. The sky was heavy with stars brightened by the crescent moon. It was so wonderful to be together away from the prying eyes of others. They walked arm in arm down the silent street, absorbed in their thoughts.

Judy wondered about her mother; her recent turnabout, her surrender. We love each other. Why do we hurt each other so often? She glanced at Karl. His face was serious. Had it anything to do with the news he wished to tell her?

When they reached the Chairlift, Karl’s face brightened. “Let’s sit here. This is where we ate our first sandwich together.” He smiled. “Remember?”

They sat close, their arms and hands interlocked.

“It’s too bad you have to leave so soon—”

“I know. I just hope Grandfather’s illness isn’t serious. It frightens me!”

“It can’t be so bad, otherwise your grandmother would have telegraphed.”

“I guess you’re right. He was never sick a day until that attack four years ago. A walk with him or a talk was an adventure.” She stopped, embarrassed. “You must be tired hearing me speak of him so much.”

“You know very well that isn’t so. Actually since I’ve known you and have heard you talk about grandparents, aunts and cousins, I’ve had a longing to be part of a big, interesting family.”

Judy nodded. “It is fun when the clan gets together. Grandmother’s house can expand like an accordion. My cousins and I usually beg to sleep overnight. Couches miraculously open into double beds, cots are hauled from the attic. It’s bedlam, really, but we love it. On Thanksgiving Day two turkeys are necessary to feed the hungry mob. The Seder, the Passover Feast, is unforgettable—dignified and joyous. The story of the Passover, the Exodus from Egypt is especially interesting today—the songs are fun and such food—until you could burst!” She smiled at Karl.

“You’ve been to a Seder, haven’t you?”

“Not for a long time. Not since—My mother is sad at such times.”

“Next year you and your mother will come to us,” Judy said with warmth. “We’d love it. After all, a table that seats twenty-five can just as easily have two more.”

After a moment she said, “A big family’s pretty wonderful but when you come down to it, it’s your own parents that matter. You have to live with them!” She smiled, “and they with us! I’ve discovered in the last year or two that parents don’t understand their children, at least in the growing-up stage. I’m not speaking just for myself. Girls at school have talked to me and they admit there’s a sort of undeclared war between them and their parents.”

“What do kids that age have to complain about? I think you exaggerate. Small tensions exist everywhere. Parents are only human.”

“I don’t exaggerate, Karl. Believe me, there’s always something to argue about! If it isn’t clothes, and their taste is awful, then it’s money! You’re either a spendthrift or a miser. If you happen to hate math, they think you should make a special effort and deliver A grades. Your reading is either childish or far beyond your years. They disapprove of your best friend and look aghast when at the age of fourteen you wish to go to a party to which boys are invited!” Judy shook her head solemnly. “I tell you, either they interfere and make your life miserable or ignore you altogether!”

Karl laughed. “You can’t be serious. Your father is terrific and so is your mother. You don’t know how lucky you are to have such parents.”

“Yes, I do,” Judy said, on the defensive at once. “I love them. I’m proud of them, but I don’t understand them. I used to think that Father was always making fun of me. But now I’m beginning to enjoy his brand of humor. This summer at Aspen has really made a big difference. He and I are pals. But Mother is different. It could be funny if it weren’t so irritating. She treats me like a subject in one of those child-study books she used to read.” Judy shook her head. “She hasn’t the faintest idea what goes on in my head, or of my feelings. At least so it appears sometimes—”

For the first time Karl looked sympathetic. “I guess that’s true of all mothers. I’m in that sort of jam myself.”

“You?” Judy said incredulously. “You’ve said your mother lives only for you!”

“Yes, that’s just the trouble,” Karl said gloomily. “It all started since Mr. Werther came into our lives. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your father knows, from what Uncle Yahn told him the night we were at your house and what I’ve told him since.”

“I remember overhearing some things your uncle said—and that your mother met Mr. Werther through some—”

Karl nodded. “Mr. Werther calls it fate ... my mother, the hand of God.”

“Tell me the rest,” Judy urged.

“Mr. Werther asked many questions about me. Need I tell you that she plunged into the subject with enthusiasm! She showed him my photograph, the prizes I had won—” He shrugged his shoulders. “In short, she gave it as her unbiased opinion that I was a budding genius! Being pressed for more details, she admitted we were poor and with few friends.”

Karl went on. “Mr. Werther is rich. He’s married, but has no family. Music is still his passion and is bound up in his love and remembrance of my father. He offered almost at once to become my patron. You know what that means, Judy?”

“I guess so. A sort of benefactor?”

“Well, yes, a patron is a lover of arts who has money and wishes to encourage some struggling musician or artist. It’s not a new idea. In medieval times it was the Church that commissioned paintings, allowed the artist to flourish. Sometimes it was the government or a nobleman who provided this encouragement. Today Foundations do the same.

“Anyhow,” Karl went on. “Mr. Werther became fired with this idea. My mother was quite carried away by his generosity. Both agreed I should be consulted. My mother wrote all this in her letters. She was careful to add that after all the offer was made on impulse. He wished to speak to his wife and that we must not count on it too much. I was interested but I gave it little serious thought. It was something for the distant future, if at all.”

Judy’s face was downcast. Karl asked, “Do you really want to hear all this?”

“Of course. Please don’t stop every minute.”

Thus prodded, Karl continued. “Last week Mr. Werther came again, this time with his wife. He had made all the necessary inquiries and had a definite program. He goes to Europe every year on business. Next year, after I graduate in June, he expects me to go with him. No more talk of consulting me. The plan is ready. I go to Europe, study in Paris and so on—”

“And does your mother now object?” Judy asked, suddenly hopeful of an unexpected ally.

“Far from it! Judging from her letters, the sooner, the better!”

Judy’s face was now as gloomy as Karl’s.

Fumbling for words, Karl tried to explain this change in his mother. Loyal as he was, he could not conceal his resentment. “She doesn’t care that I’m to be uprooted again or separated from those I care so much about—” He looked yearningly at Judy. “It’s only my career that matters to her now!”

“But wasn’t that always uppermost with her?” Judy asked, trying to be fair.

“Not the way it is now. Happiness was a goal as well as one’s ambition. We worked hard but we both loved what we were doing—for each other. She’s changed, I tell you. She’s possessed by this—glitter of my success.” He sat there thinking.

“When I wrote to her about the wonderful friends I made in Aspen, your parents, you, Fran and Marian, she wrote with such happiness, grateful that I had such warm friends. But after Mr. Werther came with his golden promises, her letters became enigmas. New words, new phrases—‘single-mindedness of purpose, friends must not be allowed to take time from hours needed for study or practice,’ a whole philosophy on how to become the great and successful musician!”

Judy’s heart ached for Karl. With amazing intuition she understood that his anger was less directed at his mother than at himself and the choice he must make.

“I don’t want to be pushed,” he said finally. “I have my own ideas. Maybe I could get a scholarship and go on as I have, take my chances. I admit that at first I thought it a pleasant thing to have Mr. Werther obligingly in the wings, like a good fairy, until I gave the signal. Now it is he and my mother who give the signals.”

Judy felt crushed. Her beautiful dream of love and romance was disintegrating into thin air. How could she combat the forces against her? Karl’s mother, her own, Mr. Werther—and Karl? Was he so sure of himself? Wasn’t he glad at first? What really mattered was Karl’s future! It was hard to look at the question objectively, as if it were someone else, not one about whom she cared.

Karl took a letter from his pocket. “Maybe I haven’t done justice to my mother or her reasons,” he said, with a tinge of self-reproach in his voice. “She’d gladly keep on working all her life. It’s only my good she wishes.

“This came yesterday. Will you hold this flashlight so I can see.” He turned the pages. “I’ll read part of it to you.

“‘... Karl, my son, there are hundreds of talented boys who may or may not be as gifted as you. Everyone cannot get scholarships. There just aren’t enough. To be able to study with the best teachers, to do this without worries about money or part-time jobs—the freedom from such responsibilities often makes the difference between a mediocre player and a great one. And later one must be heard. Where is the money to come from in order to play before the right audiences? Write to Mr. Werther that you accept his generous offer.

“‘Put away your childish thoughts. Running up and down mountains! Friends are not so important. That can come later when you have the time for it.

“‘The few years ahead may be lonely, for me certainly, but I do not hesitate, nor must you—’”

Judy’s hand shook as she held the light. “Your mother is brave!” she said feelingly, for the first time forgetful of her own unhappiness.

Karl folded the letter, put the flashlight back in his pocket.

“I must write to Mr. Werther. But what? He’s waiting to hear from me. He doesn’t know me. He’s never heard me play. Suppose I don’t live up to his expectations—and all that money wasted!” He touched Judy’s hair, no longer the thick pony tail, but hanging soft and luxuriant on her neck.

“Here I am bothering you with my troubles and uncertainties.” He shook his head. “Although you’re a kid as years go, you’ve lived all your life with musicians. You must have heard some of their problems discussed. Tell me, how does all this strike you?”

“I’m thinking, thinking hard, Karl.” She stared in front of her. She must be honest. Suppose this chance had come to another boy, not to Karl, not to the boy she loved. What would she say? She was remembering her mother and father speaking. Why had this friend not taken the position in the orchestra he had wanted so much? Was it because he didn’t feel good enough? No, it was money! He just couldn’t afford to wait the six months or more before the position came through. His family needed money. He took a job with a musical show instead.

“These men,” her father had said, “never get back to the playing they’ve been trained for and really love.”

But Karl with Mr. Werther’s help can get to the top! She pressed her hands together as if seeking some inner strength. “It’s a wonderful opportunity, Karl!” She was surprised at her voice, its fire and enthusiasm. “You shouldn’t hesitate. Such a chance may never come again!”

The flame in her eyes kindled his. “That’s what your father said to me tonight.”

He took her hands in his, pressing them until they hurt. “I feel as if a stone has been lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t know how much I wanted you to say just that.”

“And you’ll leave in June?” Her voice was small. Her heart, now that it had spoken, felt like lead.

And Karl, in his unexpected feeling of relief, noticed nothing of the effort it had cost Judy to speak so honestly. “We have months before us—fall, winter, spring! And after I leave, long letters to and from each other across the ocean. This is not the end for us, Judy, only the beginning of something wonderful—”

Judy shivered. Karl took off his coat and placed it on her shoulders. His arm tightened, holding her close to him.

“Autumn comes early in the mountains.”

His head was close to hers. “I can’t put into words what you’ve meant to me. I’ve found the sweetest, the most wonderful girl in the world. You’ll wait for me, Judy—You must! You’ll be going to college—” Their lips met.

A burst of harsh laughter made them draw hastily apart. Two boys, not much older than Karl, came from their hiding place and stood before them jeering.

“You call that a kiss? Need any help? Give her a good squeeze—that’s what the kid’s asking for!” They laughed uproariously. There were more jests, unpleasant—the boys came closer.

Judy tried to hide her face on Karl’s shoulder but he got up and advanced toward them.

“Beat it,” he said sternly, “and be quick about it.”

“Look, Romeo’s looking for a fight!”

“Aw, come on,” the other said, “let’s leave the smoochers alone!”

They ambled off, looking back every few steps to laugh, to whistle, until they were out of sight.

“Thank heaven, they’re gone,” Judy whispered. “I was frightened.”

“The movies must be over,” Karl said absently, as he sat down and put his arm protectingly around Judy. “Last year, I went with Uncle Yahn to Hanover, to help him on some business matter. Late in the afternoon we went to a movie. The place was crowded with college students. At every love scene there were catcalls—they pelted the screen with peanuts. I couldn’t understand why they did it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nor do I understand them,” and he motioned to the two figures disappearing down the street.

“Don’t think about them,” Judy whispered. She wanted to hear again the words so lovingly spoken, words so full of promise for their future. But the tender mood was gone. Karl stood up.

“Come, Judy, it’s time for us to go.”

They walked back slowly, their bodies pressed close, wishing they could walk on and on. They forgot the inevitable separation, the drive and ambition of the most devoted of mothers. A sweetness enveloped them, a confidence in their future they could neither understand nor explain.

Karl stood before Judy’s home as if he couldn’t bear to break away. “I’ll telephone to you as soon as I return to New York.”

“Mother and I will be staying at my grandparents’ for a week, maybe two. I gave you their address and telephone number, didn’t I?”